Baines grunted. “Or burn it.”
“Or worse,” Fielding added, “he will vanish and continue bleeding information until the Crown begins cutting throats to stop the scandal. We cannot permit that.”
Edmund curled his hands into fists behind him. He heard himself say it, though he knew it was foolish, “Then apprehend him tonight—take him in the village. We have enough men.”
Renforth’s gaze did not waver. “And if the ledger is not on him tonight? He could have hidden it. He may think to arrange a second meeting elsewhere as insurance.”
Edmund could not answer, because every possibility Renforth named was not imagination but experience. Holt was the sort of man who survived by never wagering everything on one hand.
Manners spoke thoughtfully. “I suspect the ledger never leaves his body—and men like him sleep with one eye open.”
Stuart’s brows drew together. “Then tomorrow is our best chance.”
Renforth inclined his head. “Yes.”
Edmund forced himself to follow the reasoning, as if reason alone could soothe the anger he felt on Elise’s behalf. “If we takehim at the boat-house,” he said slowly, “we must prevent him using her as cover.”
Baines’s grin returned. “Then we do not let him touch her.”
Fielding’s voice sharpened. “We position men inside the boat-house before he arrives.”
“Sir, the term hut would be more fitting.”
Manners lifted a hand. “Behind the door then?”
Renforth nodded once. “We place two men where they can seize his arms the moment he reaches for her, another to search him and a fourth to secure the watchers.”
“There are at least two others,” Edmund confirmed.
Stuart added, “There should be one to watch the water. If he throws it, we might lose it.”
Baines made a sound of disgust. “If he throws it, I will throw him after it.”
Edmund listened, his mind moving over the plan as it took shape: the placement, the timing, the need for Holt to feel unthreatened. It was not the first time someone he cared for had been the centre of their operations. He felt himself sicken inside.
Renforth stepped closer, lowering his voice so only Edmund could hear. “You have become attached.” It was a statement.
Edmund shook his head. “Not in the way you think, but neither do I want her to share Singleton’s fate.”
Renforth’s eyes held his. “You are no longer indifferent, however.”
“She is in danger,” Edmund defended.
“She is,” Renforth agreed quietly, “and that is why we end this tomorrow. With speed and discipline. With every advantage we can take.”
Fielding glanced toward the cliff. “Has anyone come to the gate?”
“Not yet,” Baines said. “We have been watching. No midnight visitor, no torch; no foolishness.”
“Then Holt has received the note,” Renforth said, “or he is waiting to strike in a different way.”
Edmund stared at the dark outline of Belair House. He pictured Elise inside, perhaps sitting rigidly at a Blake’s side, listening to every creak of the rafters as if it might be a boot-step. He knew, with a bitterness that tasted of regret, that he had given her this plan because it was the only plan that kept the girls safe—and because he could not bear to watch her be threatened again without acting.
Renforth spoke again, his voice quiet and decisive. “You will return to the house.”
Edmund turned briskly. “Now?”
“Yes,” Renforth said. “You will reassure her. You will tell her only what she must know: that she will not be alone tomorrow.”
