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Chapter Three
Dash staggered outof Haversham’s as he did almost every night for those who watched. He performed nightly for an unknown audience hidden in the shadows. He was tired of the charade, but his country was on the brink of war, and he was committed to doing his part. Napoleon’s advisors Talleyrand and Fouche excelled in building spy networks in enemy countries, and they had done a smash-up job in England. Dash had developed a counter network feeding false information to the French.
Jones, his footman, tonight clad in Beldon livery, opened the door to the waiting carriage emblazoned with the Beldon crest. “Home, my lord? Or to Miss Jamison’s?” Jones, a seasoned soldier who had proved himself in the colonies, announced in a distinct and loud voice.
Dash visited the favored brothel of the peers regularly to assess which peer would divulge information in their cups or during post-coital talk. He fanned the rumor that he was the only customer that Amanda Jamison had allowed in her bed, giving him quite a cache among his fellow rakes.
It wasn’t Amanda Jamison but a naked Perdita spread across the blanket in the dappled sunshine, her tumbled hair, the color of sunshine, around her shoulders screaming his name, that fueled every fantasy. A dream that was better than Amanda or any other woman he had bedded in the past years. Could he subject himself to the suffering that would come after seeing Perdita at the ball, knowing she was never to be his? He was reconciled to his life. The glimpse of what he had lost wouldn’t make any difference to his lonely existence, would it?
“Home, good fellow.” Dash tripped on the step and fell into the carriage, a performance worthy of George Cooke, the notable actor on Drury Street.
Dash leaned against the velvet cushions for a brief moment, pulling off his hat, and running his hands through his hair, taking time to rehash Roddy’s visit. He savored the idea of attending Perdita’s ball and holding her close as they danced. Remembering holding, touching Perdita kept him warm on the long cold nights. To be close to her again was a compelling and treacherous temptation. Yet if he indulged himself, he might never have the will to walk away again. The familiar rage stirring in his gut reminded him of how unfair were the decisions he had been forced to make.
He found it harder and harder to keep the burning fury for revenge when he knew there would be none. His father was dead and would never suffer.
He reached for the weapons tucked in the side compartment. His stableman and a skilled marksman maintained the carriage and the weapons. Dash had a small staff of trusted employees vetted by Rathbourne’s men. He undid the buttons of his coat and tucked the pistol and the knife into his breeches and then rebuttoned his coat. His entire wardrobe was black. He found the same color clothing made the transition for night activities faster, and black made for better concealment. When he adapted his wardrobe, he had no idea that it would become his signature look as the “dark lord.”
The drive to Dash’s estate was a waste of time but necessary for the ruse. Last year, Haversham had grown suspicious and had his men follow Dash for weeks. It had been a cautionary tale of diligence and never underestimating the enemy.
Dash slowed his ascent up the steps to the stone mansion, fighting the need to hurry, so he could reveal himself to possible observers. The enormous estate was worthy of the title bequeathed to him. It was one of the many holdings he had inherited without income to maintain.
Dash pressed against the wall, waiting for Emmett to open the door. Rushing forward, the butler and trained soldier took his elbow to escort Dash into the house. With the doors closed, Dash shed his coat and his black cravat, then donned his loose-fitting coat with pockets sewn to hide tools of the trade and a cap to hide his face.
“The hackney is waiting at the corner,” Emmett said. “Is there anything else you will need tonight, my lord?”
Rathbourne had several trustworthy hackney drivers who worked their regular runs but were available to drive for forgettable and unmentionable jobs. Exiting out the alley door, Dash was joined by Jones, who had shed his livery and became Dash’s associate-bodyguard on these nightly excursions.
“Nothing, Emmett. Get some sleep. I have a feeling it is going to be a long night.”
The men strode in companionable silence down the alley, not risking detection with any noise. Dash had grown comfortable with the large, taciturn man after several harrowing experiences. With no sense of humor and no breeding, Jones had become a compatriot and the closest to a friend in Dash’s current life.
Dash had a good relationship with Rathbourne, but neither of them had time for relaxing when the future of the country was at stake. How Rathbourne had time for a wife and kept the deception from the woman was a question Dash wanted to put to the inscrutable man. Damn Roddy for showing up at Haversham’s. His appearance had sparked all these fruitless meanderings. Dash would never be given an opportunity to explain his clandestine role to Roddy. Sharing his covert work could endanger his friend. Despite his diplomatic experience, Roddy’s face showed a clear map of his feelings just like his sister. Roddy could never dissemble, threaten, or torture a detainee. Skills that Dash had mastered. When the war was over… Dash had to believe that Roddy would understand what drove him to take this path.
The hackney waited down two blocks and around a corner. They rotated the pickup regularly, not keeping to any pattern for this part of the night. Within minutes, they were on their way to the newest location of the naval offices at Somerset House, making the trip short. The Navy had moved their offices to the grand riverside rooms in the western half of the newly completed south wing.
“How did Armfield look tonight?” Jones, seated across from him, stretched his long legs to the side of Dash.
“Desperate and terrorized. Like he was about to wet himself. Haversham has begun the blackmail.”
“It’s good Haversham is predictable. It makes our jobs easier.”
Haversham was careful in his selection of peers and when he began the slow process of undermining the lord to lay his trap for raising the owed debt. It was a tricky game to navigate. If the peer was pressed too hard and broke, he might go to the officials or take the cowardly way out by killing himself and raising questions.
Rathbourne’s people had generated a list of men who had the potential for blackmail with their debts, gambling, alcohol, or perversity and had a position in the government and access to information that the French could exploit.
Armfield had made the list because he worked as a glorified clerk in the Department of the Navy. Armfield wasn’t privy to classified secrets, but he had access to the naval shipyards, their schematics, and their production schedule.
The Treaty of Amiens was a ruse of sorts to allow England time to continue to build their already superior navy. If England was to win the war against Napoleon, it would be at sea. Acquiring ships by any means was the highest priority. Napoleon, a brilliant military strategist, would plan to cripple the shipyards. The heavily guarded principal royal dockyards were in Woolwich, Plymouth, and Portsmouth.
The docks in Portsmouth had undergone major renovations in preparation for the war. They were refitted—new wet and dry docks were excavated—and the docks themselves were drained using steam engines. These developments, because they sped the turnaround time for ships in the docks, put an end to the problem of the excessive number of ships requiring refitting to go into battle. Portsmouth would most likely be the focus of any espionage.
The second son of a viscount with a drinking and gambling problem was about to help Napoleon tip the scale in France’s favor. Not on Dash’s watch. And if his team had done it right, Armfield would deliver alternative schematics of the shipyard and production schedule tonight to Haversham’s minion.
The carriage was parked under a tree, away from direct view and from anyone straggling down the street at this time of night, when Armfield exited the building. Armfield’s office was on the backside of the grandiose main entrance, making their presence less conspicuous. The hand signals from a watcher, another soldier on Dash’s team, confirmed that Armfield had arrived and was in the building and most likely stealing the substitute documents.
Dash didn’t expect any trouble tonight. The part of the dirty business that he detested was the trade-off, watching a countryman save his reputation and hand over what he knew to be important to the sovereignty of his nation. Dash embraced Rathbourne’s point of view that their work was the long game. It didn’t deter Dash from wanting to get out of the carriage and pummel the traitor.
Neither man spoke as they waited. Dash spent his time imagining Perdita’s reaction if he did make an appearance at her ball. Would her eyes soften in welcome? Dash snorted out loud. More likely, she’d gut punch him before kneeing him in the groin. Either reaction filled him with hope and then melancholy. He wouldn’t witness either since he wasn’t attending any ball. Jones might have to hold Dash back tonight from damaging Armfield’s face. It was the only satisfaction he would have for a long while.
