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She dropped the little book in her other pocket—it was far lighter than her keys—and turned to Adam. She squeezed his hand once, a signal they had when it was time to move from one spot to another. Adam tottered to his feet, and Lucy led him to the door.

“Thank you, Captain,” she said, “for seeing to Adam last night.”

“My pleasure,” he said as she and Adam passed through the door.

Lucy looked back, unable to help herself. He hadn’t moved, and his face had its hardest look. “Your father protected Adam, kept him from being noticed, pretended that what Adam says makes no sense, but what if it does make sense? What if Adam knows a secret that could bring him...and you great harm?”

* * * *

Harry breakfasted in the common room over an ordnance survey map of Berkshire and Buckinghamshire. Studying the map should help him clear his head after his morning encounter with Lucy Holbrook. He had no quarrel with the Tooth and Nail’s eggs and toast, but his cup of undrinkable inn coffee cooled as he studied the map for likely ambush sites. A number of details puzzled Harry about Adam’s past.

If Lucy’s account were accurate and Adam had been in service, and if, as Tom Holbrook’s marked copy of the peerage suggested, Adam had been employed at Hartwood Park, then the attack would likely have occurred on the Aylesbury-to-London road, a road Harry had often ridden between Mountjoy and town. It was the route Radcliffe’s Rockets followed.

Supposing Adam had been attacked and blinded somewhere within walking distance of the inn, which Harry thought to be five to eight miles for a man of Adam’s strength, there were a few likely ambush spots where the road passed through woods or open heath.

But what he knew of the attack still made no sense. A man in service would have been traveling with a master or mistress and at least a coachman, if not other servants. If a child had been present, the party would likely have included the mistress of the house and a nursemaid. So how had Adam alone ended up at the inn? What had become of the child whose bloody garments lay in Tom Holbrook’s wardrobe?

At the time, the master of Hartwood had been the Clares’ neighbor, Edward Lydford, whose offspring were closer in age to Harry’s brother, Richard, than to Harry, two sons and a daughter. As far as Harry knew, Lydford, a man in his seventies, still held the title; his eldest son was betrothed or married, but Harry did not remember what had become of the other two Lydford children. Harry knew of no child belonging to the family twenty years earlier. He had been thirteen at the time.

The answers to the puzzle lay locked away in Adam’s disordered mind. Ordinarily, when Harry and his fellow spies wanted information out of an informant, they’d take the fellow to the nearest public house and keep the drinks coming until the man opened up. He could not treat Adam that way. The old man sat all day in a busy taproom, but no amount of drink would loosen his tongue. Apparently, only a reminder of his blinding could make him talk. As tempting as it was to put those bloody garments in Adam’s big rough hands and ask him direct questions, Harry had no intention of harming Adam or further scattering his wits. To get Adam to talk, Harry was going to have to win Lucy’s cooperation.

And while he tried to get the girl on his side, his brother, Richard, could sell Mountjoy out from under him before the government ever paid him a shilling of what he was owed for his year and a day as a spy. He lifted the cold coffee to his mouth and put it down again. The problem was charming Lucy Holbrook. Harry was no Hazelwood with an easy, engaging manner or a playful way with words. His uniform was apparently distasteful to her. He’d only been in London for a few weeks one Season when he’d returned briefly from the Peninsula to recover from a wound. Maybe he should have read her little book before he’d returned it to her.

He pushed the cold coffee away, laughing at himself. Whenever he let himself think about Lucy, he stopped thinking straight. He was a soldier with a mission. He needed to ride out and find the likely place of the ambush. Reconstructing the crime would be the first step toward understanding Adam’s disjointed ravings.

Harry looked at his watch. The stage was past due, and Lucy remained in her kitchen preparing for its arrival. He suspected her of hiding from him after their earlier encounter in his room. Without her cook, the duty of preparing a meal for the stage passengers fell on her. He would stay until she got over that hurdle.

He folded his map, aware suddenly of the distinctive aroma of fresh strong coffee somewhere near him. He looked around the common room for one of Lucy’s serving girls, but there was only the usual crowd of bench sitters, now gathered to see the drama of Lucy’s managing the stage passengers. His gaze found a man in a familiar cap hunched over his drink at the far end of one of the benches. As if aware of Harry’s scrutiny, the fellow in the cap turned.

Nate Wilde flashed his toothy grin and lifted a leather-coated flask in a salute.

Harry nodded, and the youth slid from his bench and crossed the room, putting the flask down at Harry’s side. “Thought you might need some decent coffee, guv.”

“Whelp, what are you doing here?”

“The big man sent me.” Wilde slid onto the bench beside Harry.

“And?”

“He thinks you might need help.” Wilde opened the flask, and the full rich scent of the coffee hit Harry.

He wanted to say that he worked alone, but a look at the youth stopped him. Wilde was buzzing with pent-up energy. “Feeling idle?”

“Useless. Do you know Will Jones employs a fellow that will turn down your sheets for you and...and more?” Wilde grinned, all his strong, white teeth in view.

Harry laughed. In some ways he and the youth were alike. Both had fended for themselves for years, Wilde in a bleak, lawless London rookery, and Harry at war.

“Is that your blind man?” Wilde asked, looking across the inn at Adam on his bench.

“Yes.” Harry took his first taste of Wilde’s coffee, rich and strong. “What do you see?” An early occupation of picking pockets had taught Wilde to be a sharp observer of people. Harry enjoyed a few more swallows of the coffee while the youth studied Adam, who was buffing a pair of boots.

“I see the cat, sir. The cat’s not moving. I’d say the old man sticks to his business as long as the cat sleeps. When the cat stirs, the old man will prick up his ears. There’s nothing wrong with his hearing, is there?”

“Nothing.” Harry thought it a good performance for a man trying to win a place on the case, and maybe Harry could use him. He could certainly use the coffee. He’d think it over.

The inn bell jangled, and the door blew open. Every head turned to the entrance. In walked King Cole, the most notable coachman of Radcliffe’s Rockets. His flushed and angry face, his muddied boots, proclaimed trouble. Then he started shouting.

“Holbrook! Where are ye, man? Call the constables, damn ye! My Rocket’s been robbed again.” Cole strode straight to the tap. Blodget handed him a pint, which he downed in a single drink. The bench sitters left their benches to gather around him, a jumble of shouting voices.