Aden’s sister looked over at him. “Are you going to tell us?”
“Open it, lass, and tell all of us.”
Miranda broke the wax seal, unfolded the paper, and frowned. “It’s from… Basil Jones, Lord George Humphries’s butler.”
“A butler?” the countess repeated, lifting a curved eyebrow. “How unusual.”
“Yes. It says, and I shall quote, ‘Lord George requeststhe honor of your presence at a small breakfast gathering tomorrow at eight o’clock.’ Basil Jones, his butler.” She looked up. “What in the world?”
“What’s wrong with it?” Aden asked, his expression perhaps a bit more intense than it should be.
“Well, to begin, a bachelor does not invite an unmarried lady to his home without detailing precisely who will be there, and he certainly doesn’t have his butler write out the invitation.”
“This far into the Season, an invitation should never be sent out in the evening for an event the next morning,” Eloise added. “Everyone’s calendar is full to bursting.”
“Vale wouldnae know all those rules though, I reckon, would he?”
She looked at the missive again. A servant sending an invitation on behalf of his master, an assumption that she would be available and would appear—it actually seemed rather like something of which Vale would approve. “No, I don’t think he would. But George certainly does.”
“There it is, then.” He pushed away from the table. “That’s one thing fallen into place. If ye’ll excuse me, I’ve a note of my own to write.”
“Just a moment,” Miranda countered, handing the note to Coll when he gestured for it. “Thatis what you’ve been waiting for? A note fromBasil Jones?”
“Nae. I asked Humphries if he cared to get out from under all this, and if he did, for him to send me a note about someaught peculiar if Vale should make a visit to the bank today—or go anywhere without wanting his shadows to prop him up. From what ye said, a letter from a butler asking ye to breakfast is peculiar.”
“So now you’re rescuing Lord George Humphries, as well?”
“I’d rescue the devil from hell if it helped ye, lass,” hereturned, steel beneath his easy tone. “I’ll be back here by dawn. The rest of ye stay indoors. Vale’s likely to have somebody watching this house.”
“And how are you getting to this bank you’re robbing?” his mother demanded.
He sent her a brief, grim smile. “Nae by the front door.”
Chapter Seventeen
It was odd, having what felt like half of London know his plans. Back up at Aldriss both his brothers and their father had complained more than once that they never knew whether he was coming, going, or drowned in a loch somewhere. He’d liked it that way, or so he’d thought, though lately the idea of being answerable to someone else had taken on a certain, unexpected appeal.
Aden ducked into Francesca’s office and found a piece of paper. Dipping a quill into ink he wrote outnine o’clockand folded it again before he summoned Gavin from the stables.
Trotting up to his bedchamber, he stopped the maid from setting the fire in his hearth, and turned the single lamp down to a flickering sputter. Once he’d pulled the curtains closed, he shed his English clothes in exchange for his old, worn kilt, work boots, shirt, and black coat. He didn’t mean to be seen much tonight, but he did need to move fast. This way he felt much more… himself.
Once Gavin appeared, Aden handed over the note and recited the address. “I need ye to deliver this for me. Ye’ll need to slip out of the stables without anyone seeing ye,and hire either a hack or a pair of horses. When ye’ve done it, wait for me in the park with the old, split oak.”
The groom nodded. “I’ll need a bit of coin for that.”
Aden handed over a few pounds. “Dunnae be seen by anyone watching the house, Gavin.”
“I reckon that’s why ye sent for me, and nae some Sassenach boy in pretty livery.”
Aden pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. He wanted to leave immediately, go see this finished once and for all. But Gavin needed time, and he needed to be certain no one lingered late at the bank doing the books or whatever it was bankers did at the end of the day.
It was odd; generally, he was an exceedingly patient man. Gambling required patience, and so did coaxing wallflowers out to dance and encouraging them to talk, to hand out the little dabs of information he enjoyed collecting for its own sake. Now, though, he wanted to gallop through the middle of London and slay Miranda’s dragons.Him.
But now he needed to wait, and for at least thirty minutes. The less time he spent out where one of Vale’s so-called friends could see him and note where he happened to be, the better. He paced to the curtained window and back. Dinner was likely still sitting on the table, but he didn’t want more polite conversation. He didn’t want to hear the speculating, and he didn’t want his brothers picking apart his plans and trying to force him to reveal the bits he hadn’t yet deciphered.
Brògan scratched at his door, and he walked over to open it for her. Just beyond the spaniel stood Miranda, her hand upraised to knock. Well, this seemed a much better way to spend half an hour. “Come on in, lass,” he said, holding out his hand as Brògan scooted in between his legs and dove under the bed.
“Thank you, Aden,” she returned, angling a finger to point over her shoulder.
