While the Roundtrees did indeed possess more money than they were likely to spend in generations, Heath’s fee had already been deposited in the donation account for his sister Dahlia’s school.
He was not here today as an agent of his client, the baroness, but rather as the elder brother of a sweet and caring soul, whose exaggerated features were being bandied about town in mockery. He was here for Camellia.
“I told you.” Mr. Ewing gazed back at him in perfect boredom. “My clients expect complete confidentiality, which is what we provide. No sum you mention can cause me to ruin the name I’ve built for this agency.”
Heath ground his jaw.
In his experience, there wasalwaysa sum at which even the most pious gentleman broke. A monetary threshold at which loyalty, propriety, and honor simply fell away in favor of the allure of gold.
Mr. Ewing, however, was proving remarkably resolute.
“I shall discover the name with or without your assistance,” Heath informed him coldly. “You might as well confess, and earn a bit of coin for your trouble.”
Mr. Ewing pushed away from his desk. “I’ve another appointment waiting, so this conversation is finished. I’m sorry you have wasted your time, Mr. Grenville. You are not welcome back.”
Heath assented and rose to his feet.
He supposed he could not be surprised at the turn of events. Mr. Ewing was well aware of Heath’s reputation among theton, and his agency quite correctly had plenty of secrets of its own to keep.
But Heath was not so easily dissuaded.
Mr. Ewing was not the perpetrator of the caricatures. They had clearly been drawn by someone present in each moment, and a man such as this would be well out of place in Heath’s circles. Which meant the caricatures had to arrive at the agency before Mr. Ewing could turn around and forward them on to the printing house.
“Good day, Mr. Ewing.” Heath bowed and retrieved his coat and walking-stick. “I shan’t return.”
He didn’t need to.
Heath need only station a quantity of key, unassuming footmen along all the likely routes. The next time a collection of carefully-bound foolscap was delivered to the agency, his men would intercept the name of the sender, if not the entire package, and deliver the intelligence to him at once.
The method might not be as fast as simply paying for information, but in the end it would prove just as effective.
He returned home only long enough to dispatch his orders to select footmen well-practiced in being both unobtrusive and resourceful, then once again summoned his carriage. He’d spent the past several days with his sister and the rest of their family. None of them had felt ready to attend any soirées where the latestLord of Pleasurecaricature could be a topic of conversation.
Now that he’d returned home, however, Heath recalled that the Cloven Hoof had become more than a hub for gossip. Its unrepentant patrons had strung his sister’s likeness about the gambling den as if the infernal sketches were decorations for a royal parade.
Heath was going to rip them all down.
As soon as he’d handed off the reins to his carriage, he stalked up the dark path to the Cloven Hoof’s front door. His muscles were still tight from the meeting with Mr. Ewing. Heath had hoped to have done with the caricaturist this very afternoon. He would have to content himself with destroying evidence.
He pushed past the doorkeeper and into the dimly lit interior. His first goal was to protect his sister. His second was to avenge her honor. One way or another, he would find the artist responsible and make him pay.
In the meantime, he would rip down every brick of this gambling den if that was what it took to rid the walls of his innocent sister’s countenance.
But the walls and ceiling were empty, save for a few haphazard strings looping from one empty corner to another.
“I did it for you,” came a low voice from behind Heath’s shoulder.
He turned to face Maxwell Gideon, the club’s owner, Heath’s client, and now more than ever—a good friend.
“Thank you,” he forced from his scratchy throat.
Max’s black gaze didn’t stray from his. “I have a sister, too.”
Heath kept the surprise from his face. Although he had known Max for years, the man shrouded himself in mystery. No one had gotten close enough to know much more about him than his name, and whatever details were visible to the naked eye. To think of the dangerous, ruthless owner of an infamous gaming hell as a devoted brother who looked out for his sister…
“Then you understand,” he said gruffly.
Max’s dark gaze was inscrutable. “If it helps, I don’t believe the jest was aimed at your sister, but rather at the gossips who find ‘love’ to be a meaningless pursuit.”
