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"Indeed he would." Wells's gaze grew sober. "What questions can I answer to make this wedding happen more quickly, and more safely?"
"Father's late-night outings." With equal gravity, Breanna resumed their original subject. "The ones he's been taking more and more often these days. Do you have any idea where he goes? Who he meets?"
The butler pressed his lips together, contemplating his employer's activities. "I don't know the viscount's precise destination, nor the name of whomever he meets. What I can tell you is that he's only gone a few hours each time, which means he can't be going far. And, if I had to wager a guess, I'd say his meetings take place at a pub."
That brought Breanna up short. "A pub? Why would you think that?"
"Because whenever your father returns, he reeks of smoke, and there's a certain stench clinging to his clothing." A distasteful shudder. "The last time he got home, the smell of cheap ale was on his breath. It doesn't take a scholar to add up all those clues."
"That fits," B
reanna murmured. "If Father were meeting a contact for some secret, unscrupulous purpose, he wouldn't want to be recognized. And what better place to remain anonymous than in a seedy pub filled with riffraff who don't know you and, quite frankly, don't care?"
Wells nodded. "There are only three or four such places I'm aware of within a half hour's carriage ride from Medford Manor. But then again, I'm not exactly an expert on taverns."
Breanna couldn't help but smile at Wells's offended tone. "Of course you're not." She reflected on what she'd just learned. So her father met his snitch at a pub. Which pub she'd have to determine later, perhaps by intercepting the next message between the two men.
And that led to her next question.
"How does my father make arrangements for these late-night excursions? I assume he communicates with his colleague by messenger."
"A courier brings the messages straight to Lord Medcord."
"What about those messages initiated by Father, or his responses to those he receives?"
"One of our footmen delivers the viscount's correspondence directly to the courier's address. Where it goes from there, I have no idea."
"I see." Breanna's thoughts were racing. "They go to a great deal of trouble to keep the recipient's identity unknown." She pursed her lips. "This courier—I assume it's the same one each time?" She waited for Wells's nod. "Tell me, does he come here often?"
"Not too often. Other than to dispatch word on the late-night excursions we've just discussed, he generally comes only when the viscount receives business correspondence from the Continent." A frown, as Wells reconsidered his words. "Actually, that's not true. He handles only the viscount's most pressing business correspondence to and from the Continent."
Breanna jumped on that distinction. "How do you know the business involved is pressing?"
"Several reasons, the most obvious being that the letters are marked 'urgent.' Also, the viscount's instructions are that I bring these letters to him immediately, no matter what the hour or circumstances." Wells's frown deepened. "And they do arrive at the oddest hours. For instance, one such letter was delivered during Miss Stacie's coming-out party. Your father rushed off, closeted himself in his study, and read it. The next morning he arose at dawn, and dashed off an equally urgent reply."
"And this courier delivered it for him?"
"Again, our footman brought the letter to the courier's address. I assume from there it was dispatched to the Continent. I don't know who these messages are from or to, but they cause your father great agitation. Could that tie into anything you and Lord Sheldrake are considering?"
"Rouge," Breanna muttered. "That must be who Father is corresponding with. The courier you're describing is obviously hired by the informant at the House of Lockewood. It stands to reason he'd use the same person to handle everything else pertaining to these vile transactions." She met Wells's gaze. "I need that courier's address."
"Of course. It's number 17 Fleet Street
." Wells's eyes narrowed a bit. "You're not thinking of doing something foolish, are you? Because confronting the courier…"
"No, no." Breanna waved away Wells's concern. "Confronting the courier would be stupid. He wouldn't tell me anything, since I don't pay his bills. And I'd only succeed in making him suspicious enough to go to Father. No, what I intend to do is give the address to Damen. I'm willing to bet that courier is someone who does frequent business with the House of Lockewood. That way, no one would notice a few extra charges on his bill—charges incurred by the snitch Father's working with. Damen can use the address as evidence when he confronts whoever that turns out to be."
"You've lost me, Miss Breanna."
"That's all right." Breanna released her grip on the settee, and began walking restlessly about the sitting room. "The sordid details can wait. Planning our tactics can't." She paused, pivoting slowly to face Wells. "My father's with Mr. Lyman. He's probably trying to locate Stacie, which we both know is not going to happen. So, Father's going to be unnerved. My guess is he'll want to find out exactly how much Damen knows, and how he factors into Stacie's plans. He won't ask Damen flat out; that would be too risky. Instead, he'll probably get his informant to do a bit of spying. After which…"
"…after which, the viscount will need to meet with this snitch of his, to get the information he's seeking," Wells finished for her.
"Exactly." Breanna pressed her palms together, tightly interlaced her fingers. "Wells, I need you to tell me the minute Father gives you a message to send off to that courier. I'm going to steam open the seal and read it."
"There won't be time. Your father expects those particular messages to be dispatched posthaste. He'd notice even the slightest delay."
"Fine. Then I'll read his informant's reply."
