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The troops came tramping back down the stairs, and the captain reported that there was no sign of Hazelwood.

Chartwell spun on Goldsworthy. “By God, man, he’s selling secrets to that Russian scoundrel. I’ll have him hanged, and I’ll have this damned club shut down!”

Goldsworthy looked as if he might bat Chartwell away like an annoying insect. “Lads,” the big man said, “time to finish the mission. Where are we headed?”

Clare and Blackstone exchanged another look, and Nate felt better. Whatever Lord Hazelwood had got himself into; his friends would not let him down. Still Nate’s stomach clenched when Clare turned to him.

“Well, whelp, lead on.”

* * * *

Hazelwood stood at the gate of the deserted house, where Nate Wilde had earlier seen the watcher enter and leave. He had walked by the place for years without giving it any notice. Now he saw that one of the iron gates was no longer chained shut. With a little shove the gate moved enough to admit his entry. A pitted gravel drive made a short arc from gate to gate past the portico. To his left a horse nickered softly where a carriage waited in the deeper gloom under some trees. Oddly, a pair of lamps sat on the front step, as if Malikov expected visitors. And a large figure waited there in a hat and greatcoat, and no doubt, armed.

In his swift passage up the club stairs to his room and out again through the chemist’s shop, Hazelwood had considered and rejected a half dozen schemes for recovering his love. He had quickly decided that his pistols had no part in the plan forming in his head. Instead, he returned to his old claret-stained waistcoat and cravat. Only one part of the plan mattered, after all, the rest he would contrive as he went along. He would rely on his wits. And his friends. They would arrive with plenty of firepower, he was sure.

Malikov’s henchman reacted with swift and brutal efficiency to the sound of Hazelwood’s footfalls on the gravel drive. Hazelwood was searched for weapons and brought before Malikov as rapidly as he could wish. It took considerable self-control to refrain from expressing his feelings at the sight of his love bound and shivering. A second henchman, smaller than the first, but equally concealed by a greatcoat and muffler, stood by the hearth holding a pistol pointed directly at her.

“You!” Malikov did not conceal his obvious surprise.

“You were expecting someone else?” Hazelwood wondered for whom the lamps had been lit. The fellow with the pistol at his back reported that he’d found Hazelwood lurking outside.

“Not lurking, surely. I came right up the drive.” He took his first look at Jane, trying to judge how cold she was by now. He could see her breath in the frigid air.

Malikov had his guard up again. “Hazelwood, you interrupt my business with Miss Fawkener.”

“My mistake, Malikov, I heard you were hosting a card game.” He looked at the green baize table. “You know I’ve never been able to resist deep play.”

“Ah, but when your pockets are to let, you can hardly expect to join the game.”

“My pockets are not entirely empty. I have something you want.”

“What could you have that I could possibly want?” Malikov’s usual affability was strained.

Hazelwood looked into the man’s smooth countenance. At the moment the curled lip, the flared nostrils, and the fingers drumming on the arm of his chair suggested that Malikov was thinking of how to rid himself of an irritation. He saw the old Hazelwood, the sot, the wastrel dismissed as a bird-witted thrall to drink and gaming. Hazelwood was about to open the man’s eyes. Of course, he would betray his friends when he did it.

“A map.”

Malikov’s manner changed instantly. He sat up very straight in the chair. Hazelwood knew that look, the look of a man being undeceived, seeing for the first time what he had overlooked or underestimated. Malikov did not quite believe what he was seeing, but he reached for his henchman’s pistol and signaled for the man to search Hazelwood. The fellow stripped off Hazelwood’s greatcoat and made a rude and thorough search of his person. The man stepped back and shook his head at Malikov. The pistol changed hands again.

“Hazelwood, I am in no humor for games.”

“Did I mention that I have a condition for sharing this map with you?” Hazelwood said. He risked a second glance at Jane. Her eyes were watchful even as her body shook with the cold. Her cheeks bore two red streaks like burn marks where something had pressed against them. A gag, he realized.

“A condition?” Malikov’s voice was contemptuous. “I think you misunderstand your position.”

“Do I? I’m the only man in London who can lead you to the map you’ve been seeking.”

“Have I been seeking a map?”

Hazelwood nodded. Without his coat, he could feel the warmth leaving him. “I know where this map is.”

Jane made an odd strangled protest in her throat. She was shivering hard now. Hazelwood did not imagine she could talk.

Malikov did not even glance at the girl. “What an odd thing for an English gentleman to propose—to give a map to a subject of the Czar. I wonder what moves you to make such an offer.”

“Money, of course. Treasonous of me, isn’t it?” Hazelwood shrugged, at least he hoped it looked like a shrug. The careless pose was difficult to manage with a pistol still pointed at Jane. “As you pointed out, I’m a man with pockets to let. Humor me.”

“What is this condition you mention?”