“I am no longer a guest of Lady Fayne,” Jack said flatly. “And whilst she will continue to work on the mission, she has requested that someone other than myself act as liaison for our team.”
“Problemas en el paraíso,” Calderone murmured.
“That’s colder than a whore’s farewell.” Delaney slapped her hands on her hips, her brows arched. “What did you do, Granger?”
“Why do you assume he did anything?” Laurent said.
“Because he is a man, obviously.”
“Maybe his lady changed her mind. Since she is a woman, obviously.”
“Stop it, you two.” In no mood for their bickering, Jack cut to the chase. “Lady Fayne learned something of my past that changed her opinion of me, and rightly so. That is all I will say. Now who of you will be the liaison?”
“Your lady would prefer one of them.” Delaney jerked a thumb at Laurent and Calderone.
“Laurent it is,” Jack said shortly. “Now, what progress have you made on the Bromptons?”
“Quite a bit,” Delaney said smugly. “Turns out Emmett Brompton, the heir apparent to the company, is a neck-or-nothing cove, especially when it comes to cards. Half the moneylenders in London held his vowels at some point, but something changed in the past year.”
Jack’s nape prickled. “His debts mysteriously got paid off?”
“Exactly,” Delaney replied. “But now that we know Wilmer Upholsteries owns the Brompton’s Works, it’s not a mystery after all. He sold the property without telling anyone, and they’ve let him stay on as if nothing had changed.”
“This bears similarities to Tony Quinton’s situation,” Jack said. “We have a gambler whose debts are paid off by a mysterious benefactor. The fellow then becomes beholden to said party. The party then uses the man toward their ends: in Quinton’s case, his skill as a sailor to bring in some sort of cargo. In Emmett Brompton’s case, they wanted his match manufactory...but why?”
“Perhaps Lady Fayne might know based on her surveillance of the factory?” Laurent suggested.
Bloody hell, Laurent was right. Last night, things between Jack and Lottie had disintegrated to such a degree that they’d forgotten about work. Not only had Jack destroyed his marriage, but he was also bungling up the assignment as well.
“I shall relay her a message,” he said tersely.
“One more thing.” Delaney held up a finger. “Emmett Brompton might be missing.”
Laurent’s brows elevated. “Might be?”
“I overheard his maids saying that he hasn’t been home in five days. He didn’t take a bag or his valet, so he’s not on a trip. It’s possible that he’s holed up in a brothel somewhere. Apparently, he has a penchant for the birch.”
“Brothels and flagellation, eh?” Laurent smirked. “I volunteer to look for the cove.”
Jack nodded. “Good idea. Brompton may be able to tell us what Wilmer is up to.”
Calderone sighed. “I had better accompany Laurent. No telling what trouble he may get into otherwise.”
The pair departed.
Delaney, however, remained. And she was staring at Jack in a manner that made him feel as bare as the de-feathered fowl swinging from hooks.
“If you find yourself with idle time,” he said curtly, “you can help me dig into Wilmer’s financials?—”
“You did this the last time,” Delaney said.
“Did what?”
“Ran away. From your wife.”
Emotion rammed against the numbness in his chest.
“I did not run away,” he said tightly. “I corrected a mistake that I should not have made.”
