* * *
The loudcreakof aged wood settling under her weight briefly disrupted Grace Huntsbury’s thoughts as she dropped a missive to her desk and leaned back in her armchair. The bill on which she’d been attempting to focus couldn’t quite penetrate her mind. The predicament of Maria’s assignment took precedence.
Grace sighed. She’d been in contact with her friends both in the Home Office and at their other runner offices, and while they’d agreed to help, she lamented the fact that she hadn’t yet any foot staff of her own. They would come in time, of course, but men willing to work for hire were more inclined to take a position from a man, no matter her history as a spy.
“Grace.” Maria swept into the room, her smile tight and hair damp around the edges from the rain.
Standing, Grace smiled at her friend and gestured toward the chair opposite her desk. “Good afternoon, Maria.”
The low murmur of voices echoed in the room as Maria closed the distance between them. Another runner was interviewing a tearful woman in search of her daughter. Sadly, the assignment would take the runner into the depths of a gaming hell, where the woman suspected her daughter was being forced to sell her wares. It was a case all too common among their clientele.
Maria sat in the chair opposite and leaned close while Grace took her seat.
“Is Mr. Greene not available for instruction this afternoon?” Maria asked. “I ventured belowstairs, but he was nowhere to be found in our training rooms.”
A regretful frown puckered Grace’s brow. “I’m afraid Mr. Greene will be absent for some time, as he has been called away on his own assignment. I’d not intended for him to be a permanent fighting trainer, but I’d hoped to have a replacement for him by now.” Her lips tightened in self-recrimination. “For the moment, I shall instruct our runners.”
Requesting assistance and additional men from her friends and former fellow spies had been ideal at the beginning of this business venture, but it was time Grace found some men on her own. Mayhap she would visit the pugilist’s.
“Thank you, Grace,” Maria replied, her shoulders slumping fractionally.
“Are you well, dear?” Grace leaned her forearms on her desk.
Maria’s lips pursed. “I’m facing a quandary, I’m afraid. I’d simply hoped to expel some frustration with Mr. Greene.”
“I am at your disposal; do you wish to spar?”
“Thank you again, Grace,” Maria said, shaking her head, “but no. I’ve a ball to ready myself for anyway, so I mustn’t tarry.”
Grace nodded, disappointment swirling through her. “Very well. I am here should you have a change of mind. In the meantime, have you the opportunity to acquaint yourself with Miss Isabelle Hill in the magistrate’s office?”
“I have, indeed.” Maria inclined her head. “She was reticent in her response, however.”
“As would be expected from someone employed by the magistrate,” Grace mused. “I would suggest you spend a little bit of time establishing arapprochementwith her. Prove yourself as a person worth her trust. Do keep in mind that an association between you poses significantly greater risk to her than to you.”
Maria nodded. “I understand. Thank you.”
A smile tugged at the corners of Grace’s lips. Maria was an eager and swift learner, and would undoubtedly prove an asset as a runner.
“Now,” Grace added, “I should like to discuss our quarry. Have you formed any suppositions with regards to Francis Sinclair’s motivation?”
The woman shifted in her seat as she thought. “By all accounts the man enjoys torture. And I daresay the deaths of his family urged him further toward insensibility.” Her brow furrowed. “In fact, when Juliana lured Francis and Miles into our trap, they mentioned their sister Jean’s death and alluded to their uncle’s culpability. They were also insistent that the dukedom belonged to Francis.”
“Mmm.” Grace tapped her fingertips on her desk as thoughts raced through her mind. “The man might be rancorous, but I don’t imagine him entirely devoid of sense.”
“Indeed. He must know that Jasper’s demise alone would not grant him the title.”
“I believe you’re right.” Grace grinned in approval at her protégé. “He must be getting help.”
* * *
A chill travelledup Jasper’s spine, and he lifted his cloak’s collar in an attempt to warm his rain-dampened skin. It was a damned ill idea to attend the Weatherby ball that evening, but he’d foolishly agreed to Maria’s plan to behave as though nothing untoward had occurred.
How was he meant to do such a thing when someone among his staff might very well have permitted Francis access to his home? Hunger gnawed at his gut. For Christ’s sake, he’d been too wary to even eat his sodding evening meal.
His back rubbed against the squabs and he clutched the handle of his walking stick tighter as the carriage hit a rut.
Bloody foolish.
