Leo performed his ablutions, thinking he must warn Clay about his instinctive reaction to Miss Palliser. It could be nothing, but he knew his brother—newly reunited with his beloved son—would not want to take any risks where young Edward was concerned.
Washed and dressed, he rang for his valet. Though Leo, quite unlike most lords, preferred to dress himself, he nevertheless employed a man for the sole purpose of keeping himself and his belongings organized. Without Richland, he would be a hopeless, wretched soul. Or rather, even more of a hopeless, wretched soul than he already was.
“Your Grace,” Richland greeted with his effortless aplomb. The elder man had been a solider in the Crimea, and in addition to being blessed with excellent organizational talent, he was also the sort of chap Leo would want on his side in a skirmish to the death. Richland could shoot and wield a blade, and he was no stranger to the theater of war. Despite the irrefutable fact that he was twice Leo’s age, the man was as hale as any prize fighter and just as dangerous.
Richland had been assigned him by the Home Office, who had understood his need for a man he could trust. Leo was thankful for his aid and loyalty each day.
“Richland,” he greeted, grateful for the sight of the man he trusted so implicitly, for it returned his mind to reality. To the dangers at hand, facing them from all directions, unseen and boiling beneath the surface of every quiet moment. “We will be leaving by noon. Please see everything is prepared for travel.”
Richland, predictably, took the sudden change of plans in stride. He bowed. “Of course, Your Grace.”
“Have you any correspondence for me?” he asked, almost as an afterthought. He had not been long in residence at Harlton Hall—a mere day—and it stood to reason he would not have received much information from the Home Office in that time. Still, with the rabid tenacity of the most vicious of the Fenian groups, one could never become too complacent.
“I do indeed have a telegram for you, sir,” Richland said solemnly, reaching into his coat and extracting a sheet of paper. “It arrived not half an hour ago.”
Damn it.
This did not bode well.
He took the missive from his valet. In its haste, the message had not been written in the standard code he and his operatives preferred. Just as well he would not need to tear open his waistcoat and extract the cipher wheel.
His waistcoat.
Damnation, the governess still had his waistcoat.
A fresh wave of suspicion blossomed inside him. She had promised to see it laundered, and though scarcely any time had passed between yesterday morning and this morning, it did seem odd she had yet to return it. Especially considering her almost unnatural eagerness to see it washed for him.
Unnatural.
The lone word sank into his psyche, plaguing him as he pored over the telegram.
Female sent stop Last of plotters stop Burghly House dead man stop Household infiltrated stop Leprechaun
Leo’s blood went cold. Leprechaun was the code name of the highest level Fenian informant, Padraig McGuire, who had infiltrated the inner circle of the American Fenians. If he had dared to send Leo a telegram, unencrypted, the situation was dire, and chances were there was a hell of a lot more to the story than the succinct message expressed. He needed to find his brother Clay, and he needed to find himnow.
“Thank you, Richland,” he muttered, an automaton, his feet carrying him from his chamber.
He could only hope he wasn’t too late.
And that the female plotter in question was not the governess he had kissed. The governess he had just…hell.
Of course she was.
The jagged shards fit together, forming a hideous picture. Miss Palliser was a Fenian. How could he not have seen it sooner? How could he have allowed himself to fall beneath her spell? She had played him like a bloody violin.
Her final words to him took on a newer, more terrifying meaning.
Something to remember me by, Your Grace.
In the corridor outside his chamber, he broke into a sprint.
Chapter Five
By the timeBridget reached the main road with the Young Duke of Burghly, her charge had grown noticeably worried. Though she had promised him they were going on a learning expedition, and even the head groom who had prepared their early morning gig for them had not raised any questions, the duke was a wise lad.
He recognized the scenery, knew which direction they were going. He fidgeted at her side, shifting in his seat, expression pinched. She knew he understood they were traveling back toward the train station.
“Mama did not say anything of a trip,” the boy said, his tone fretful.
