Page 60 of Better Off Wed

“I recognized Captain Addison as one of the officers who serves under General Scott’s command, yes. But as a rule, I know very little about the general’s work. He is scrupulous about maintaining a separation between this house and the Horse Guards. And even if he were not, it would nevertheless ill become a man in my position to speak of his employer’s affairs.”

She was painfully aware of the irony: she, who had just exhorted her aunt’s servants to say nothing to anyone, desperately needed the general’s butler to tattle.

“Certainly not,” she agreed. Ordinarily, charm would have been her weapon of choice to disarm the man, but she could not muster it. She felt deflated, defeated. Then, in the depths of her cluttered thoughts, something rattled loose. An inconsistency in Highsmith’s words. “If General Scott is so careful not to bring his work home with him, how did you happen to recognize Captain Addison?”

“Well…” Highsmith pressed his lips together, clearly unused to being questioned. “The day before he left for Brighton, the general ordered Captain Addison to call here. Most unusual.” Yet the butler had been quick to go along with Jeremy’s story the other night, she noted, almost as if he was more used to spies showing up on the general’s doorstep than he let on. “I was the one who showed him in.”

“Ordered to call?” she echoed. “And how was the general’s order delivered?”

Highsmith stiffened, almost imperceptibly. “I do not know.”

“No messages left from this house?”

“Only to the general’s tobacconist.” He named a shop in a part of town near Whitehall, on a less than reputable street, one she knew to be replete with gaming hells and pleasure clubs. Fitz had once mentioned strolling down it—little suspecting that Lady Sterling would be familiar with the area.

Fitz had mentioned it…

It could of course be nothing more than a coincidence. Perhaps the general, who was so meticulous about the organization of his study, was similarly particular about who blended his tobacco.

But she doubted it.

“Thank you, Mr. Highsmith.” A shallow curtsy was the best she could manage. “I will not take up any more of your time. If you could just”—she fished into her reticule and withdrew a calling card—“see that General Scott gets that when he returns.”

The redoubtable butler took the card, glanced at it, then read it. His eyes bulged, moving from her to the card and back again. “Of course.” He bowed. “My lady.”

Chapter 17

Elbows on the table, Jeremy dropped his head into his hands and grabbed two fistfuls of his hair, hoping that the prickle of pain along his scalp might improve his focus.

Not that he had been exactly comfortable before that. The Underground—working and living quarters for some of the top domestic intelligence officers in Scott’s service, hidden beneath a tobacconist’s shop in an unprepossessing area of town—was always cold and damp. The furniture in the windowless workroom consisted entirely of straight-backed wooden chairs and slab tables. His bed, not that he’d seen much of it, was a sagging rope cot in a cell hardly large enough to contain it.

No one, including Jeremy, complained. The work was the important thing, and he had at his disposal all the materials he needed to complete it: pens and paper, books in a dozen languages, a magnifying glass that could distinguish a fleck of ink from a fly speck. Someone had quickly found him a copy of The French Pastry-Cook, as battered as a beloved cookbook should be, according to Dinah’s description. In two days, he had managed to generate a substantial list of subtle changes from the original to Thornton’s version and begun to work out how they might function as a cypher, though they hadn’t yet any text to decode. The letter he’d stolen from Thornton’s desktop either wasn’t otherwise encrypted or used some other key.

Thankfully, his mind had been too occupied to think of other things…or people. And when he allowed himself to collapse on his bed for an hour or two, he made certain he was too tired to dream. His plan was working swimmingly until he turned to analyzing The Noble Game of Chess.

The character by character, line by line, page by page comparison of an unaltered book with the notes he had taken on Thornton’s copy was tedious work. He could not afford to let his thoughts wander. Yet on every page lay the memory of a chessboard, a touch, a kiss. It was impossible not to see Laura’s twinkling eyes and hear her mischievous laugh every time he came across the notations for king or queen. Impossible not to wonder how she fared and whether she was thinking of him too.

Unclenching his fists, he tried to pass off the gesture as brushing his hair out of his eyes. He’d let it grow overlong. It was a wonder Colonel Millrose hadn’t chided him. Mama surely would, when she saw him.

Laura had seemed to like it, though. She’d toyed with it, albeit absently, every time he had carried her and she had passed an arm around his neck. If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel her fingers…

“Captain Addison?”

Mrs. Drummond, who managed the domestic affairs of the Underground and occasionally acted as salesclerk in the tobacco shop upstairs, had to speak three times before he jerked his thoughts back to the present time and place and scrambled to his feet, slipping his arms back into his coat as he rose.

“Forgive me, ma’am.” She was a pretty widow, hardly older than he. Half the officers in the Underground fancied her. Her perpetual black gowns, reserved demeanor, and icy-blue eyes kept them at a proper distance, however.

He bowed his apology, then looked up to find her studying him, a curious lift to one penciled brow. Colonel Millrose had ordered her to don a wig, fearful her extraordinarily fair hair might draw too much attention, but so far as Jeremy could tell, the present dull brown hairpiece offered little real disguise.

“There’s a young lady above,” she said. “Asking for you.”

“For me?” His heart thumped erratically and sweat dampened his palms. “I don’t—who?”

Her head tilted, matching the eyebrow for skepticism. She said nothing.

“I’ll just—” Quickly he marked his place and began to pile up books. Code and map work were never left unguarded, even here. “I’ll be right there.”

By the time he had safely locked away the papers on which he had been scratching out notes, she was already at the bottom of the stairs, and he hurried along the corridor to follow her. Halfway up the steep, narrow steps, he paused as she opened the door into the shop and sunlight spilled into the stairwell, making spots dance before his eyes. Was it morning, then? He’d lost track. Passing a hand through his hair again, he tried to remember when he’d last changed his shirt or had a shave. Finally, he stepped into the tobacco shop, drawing a deep breath of the warm, spicy air, uncertain who he was about to see and hardly daring to hope.