Netta chewed her lip. That hadn’t been the whole-hearted agreement she’d hoped for, but it would have to be enough. She nodded and turned once more for Summerset’s house. At his neighbor’s yard, she paused. “You understand I’m going to keep going in using the servants’ entrance?” It was supposed to be locked at night, but one of the first things she’d lifted had been the housekeeper’s key.
He yawned, covering his mouth with his palm. “As you like. Your mode of entrance doesn’t matter; only that you’re back safe.” He even led the way, extracting his own key when they approached the back door. “Goodnight, miss.” He nodded and turned for the kitchens, his duty apparently satisfied for the night.
What a strange man. Netta smothered her own yawn. But as long as he kept his mouth shut, his mannerisms weren’t her concern.
She crept to the staircase and made her way upstairs to her room. Her eyes drooped as she changed into her night rail. As she settled under the covers one thought kept her awake longer than it ought.
What had the earl done to help Wilberforce out of trouble? For a man who cultivated an appearance of indifference, Summerset certainly seemed to be in the habit of rescuing those in need.
Even with all the roles she played, she couldn’t help but think that John Chaucer, Earl of Summerset might be the most practiced actor of them all.
***
The fourth step on his staircase squeaked, and John glanced towards his study’s door. Netta was home. Finally. Her excursion tonight had been longer than most.
Not that he was keeping an eye on her. As long as she learned her part, she could do whatever she wanted. Visit whomever she wished.
He slouched in his chair. Was she sneaking out to visit a lover? What kind of man would let his woman wander about at night getting into trouble?
What kind of man would be skilled enough to control her? Netta was quite the handful.
“Summerset?”
Shouldhelearn where she went? After all, she was an investment. Any intrigues of hers could interfere with his scheme. It was his duty to investigate who might be handling his asset.
Handling her assets.
“John?!”
“What?”
The Baron of Sutton blinked in surprise at the edge in John’s voice. He sat across from John, a snifter of brandy in his hand and a concerned expression on his face.
John modulated his tone, removing all signs of frustration. After all, why should he be irritated? Netta’s affairs were none of his own. “Apologies. What did you say?”
“I only asked when you wanted to leave. The Home Office won’t get any quieter.” Sutton placed his glass down and scratched his chin through his bushy, black beard. “If you want to take a more direct approach, I’d understand. Sudworth deserves a thrashing for what he did to your brother. I’d be more than happy to use my fists tonight rather than sneak about adding bits and bobs to a file.”
John smiled. Yes, his friends were always ready to get in a mill or two on his behalf, and he was lucky for it. He, Sutton, Montague, Rothchild, and Dunkeld had been in their fair share of fights working for the Crown as spies, but he’d never felt in any true danger. He had the best of men fighting alongside him.
His eyelids went hot, and he buried his face in his own drink. It wasn’t the fault of his friends’ that their time together was now so infrequent. They were married, some with families, all having given up espionage. John had a standing invitation to each and every one of their homes, but he rarely accepted. He was the odd man out as his friends turned into fathers and rusticated in their domestic lives.
But if he was ever in need, he knew who to call. Sutton was the only other one of them in London at present, but if John sent a request for assistance to his friends in the country, they’d be upon him just as fast as their horses could carry them.
“A physical response to the assault on Robert is very appealing, I admit.” One he’d had to talk himself out of several times. John tossed the last of his whisky down his throat. “But it won’t recover my ore mines. Sudworth’s beating can wait until after the deed is back in my brother’s hands.”
Sutton grumbled. “I hate waiting.” He tapped the toe of his boot on the floor. “I say, is your cat dead?”
John looked at Judith laying on the hearth before the crackling fire. The animal was stretched out as though she were on an invisible rack, her paws stretched up above her head.
John frowned. Sudworth’s cat most likely never lounged with such indelicacy. “No. She likes to sleep that way.” It was damned annoying when the cat took up half his bed with that position. And she was mean when he attempted to prod her back to her side.
John rose and stretched his hands to the ceiling. His back popped. “There is also the matter of what Sudworth is up to. I don’t buy his claims of seeking justice against Raffles one bit. There is some gain to him in ruining the man. I want to discover what it is before giving him a thrashing.” He patted his breast pocket, the letter folded within crinkling. John had written it before his friend had arrived, copying from the original word for word.
If what Sudworth had given him was the original. There was a strong chance it also was a forgery, one meant to implicate Raffles. Regardless, John had mimicked the handwriting to a decent degree, keeping it close enough to not arouse immediate suspicion but distinctive enough that its falsity would be uncovered under stricter scrutiny.
He hoped to walk the fine line between giving Sudworth what he wanted while not sabotaging Raffles with his actions. The subterfuge soothed his conscience but added to the difficulty of his task. He needed to discover the plot before his forgery was brought to light.
Sutton pushed to his feet. “What does Liverpool have to say about the matter?”
