They reached the back patio, under a roof upheld by a veritable forest of Doric columns. It was crowded, and they stood aside to let others go inside first.
“As for my ulterior motive, I have reason to believe”—Lord Francis flashed her a grin, his voice just a shade too low to be heard beyond the drum of the rain—“that you are going to be a leader among women. The premier hostess of our generation. And in twenty years, when you are sending out your highly coveted cards”—he raised his eyebrows, cutting off Celia’s denial—“I want a seat at your table.”
Celia was stunned into silence, and Lord Francis doffed his hat, executed a low bow, and escorted her back inside.
Chapter Seven
A Particularly Difficult Question for Our Hero
Peter took thenarrow stairs two at a time. He was glad he didn’t have a desk job, stuffed in one of these rooms down one of these corridors like olives in a bottle. His new boss was called William Dempsey. One, two, three, fourth door on the left.
“Good morning,” Peter said, removing his hat with a bow. He wanted to stay on the good side of his boss, since it would be better to have some extra jobs coming in while he was raising Elinor. Evidently, girls were expensive.
“Peter Alcott, live and in the flesh! Delighted to meet you, sir!” The man was bigger and rougher than Peter expected, looming over the desk with a smile that seemed like he had practiced in the mirror. Weathered complexion, hairpiece that didn’t quite match the tufts over his ears, muddled accent like he had come from the south but lived all over. Perhaps he was one of those underworld types brought in after the election troubles. His chaotic desk made Peter’s skin crawl.
Peter advanced slowly, easy smile in place, examining. Something familiar.
“I was right pleased to see your folder among my reports. Heard great things about you. Siddown, siddown, let’s chat. I saw your last note on Pipperly. Almost done with the case?”
That was taking things a little fast. Peter settled on the guest chair, still smiling. “I’ve uncovered some important information, but it will take longer to resolve the original accusations.”
“How long?” The boss moved papers from one sloppy stack to another. His hands were thick and meaty, stubs for two of his fingers.
Peter glanced away. After France, he was used to flesh injuries, but something jogged his memory and he was trying to call up the image. “Another month, perhaps.”
“A month, just for that? Just hand in the report, say he’s smuggling and treason looks likely. The courts will take it from there.”
“That’s our job.” Peter spoke slowly, measuring the best way to retain control of this situation. Peter clearly knew more about this work than a bully-boy hired to keep the bad element in line. “We see if treason has anything to do with it, and keep innocent men from ruining their families in court. I’ll turn in the report when it’s complete.” He’d stop sending intermediary messages, too, lest this boss leap to conclusions.
“Right, then. You keep me posted.” The boss shrugged his husky shoulders and opened a battered paperboard file. “I’ve been looking for yer next assignment. Since that’s me job and all. You speak French, Italian, some Spanish and Dutch? So I—”
“I do.” Peter crossed one ankle over his other knee. “But I’m looking for domestic work at this point. London, preferably.”
The man’s face loosened in shock. “But the traveling jobs pay better.”
“They do.”
“Much better.”
“I am perfectly aware, having done them. But I don’t want those jobs any longer.”
“Hey, hey!” The boss grinned wider. His version of a friendly smile was distinctly bizarre. “We’re on the same side here, eh? Working together.”
Which was to say, his boss earned a percentage of Peter’s reward money.
“Of course. On the side of King George, long may he live.” Peter raised his eyebrows and smiled.
“King George. ’Xactly.” The man nodded, his heavy brows lowering.
And Peter saw it. “You’re Jackdaw!”
“Well!” The man was startled, but not upset. “Ye know me from my prior career, then?”
“I wouldn’t say that I know you well enough to, say, introduce you to my mother at a ball. But we might have met.”
Jackdaw flushed at the glancing insult.
“But we’re working together, isn’t that right?” Peter stood, smiling again. “Very good. You’ll manage the paperwork, just the way I like it.” He still wanted this job, needed money coming in and something to keep him busy. “I can assist in another investigation this spring. I’ll need a month off mid-summer. And then, London jobs, right, my friend? Here and there. Four or five a year.”
