“How do you know about the skullduggery at the King’s Dockyard?” countered Pierson.
A mirthless laugh. “Surely it’s not a state secret that Lord Lampson and my two wards were invited by Samuel Tilden to visit the naval laboratory. They happened to be there when it was discovered.”
He placed his portfolio on the tabletop. “However, let us not waste time talking about the intrigue among the competitors trying to build the first oceangoing steamship. I’ve more important crimes to discuss.”
* * *
“Ugh.”
The clacking and whirring of metal had given way to a queasy silence.
Raven, who was lying spread-eagled on the rug, squeezed his eyes shut. “I think . . .”
“I think we have made ourselves sick,” mumbled Peregrine. He, too, was flat on his back.
Harper eyed the empty platter and gave an indignantwoof.
“I warned you,” said Hawk primly. He had returned to his school desk and was studying the scrap of fabric that Wrexford had ripped from his assailant’s coat collar. “I saved my share of Pontefract cakes for later.”
“As did I,” volunteered Horatio. “Sweets are a special treat, so I wish to make them last.” He grimaced. “The food served by the Royal Navy is horrible.”
“It can’t be worse than the swill they give us at Eton,” said Peregrine.
Horatio rolled his eyes. “Ha! Try salt pork and rock-hard biscuits teeming with weevils.”
“Ugh,” Raven clutched his belly and choked back a retching sound.
“Even more of a treat is to have so many wonderful books to peruse,” marveled Horatio. He was looking through a volume of colored engravings on moving mechanical devices that the earl had purchased for Peregrine, the pages angled to catch the lamplight from Hawk’s desk.
“I have an illustrated book on steamboats that recently arrived from America,” offered Hawk, indicating the pile of books beside his sketch paper. “Would you like to see it?”
“Oh, very much so!” Horatio scrambled to his feet.
“Here.” Hawk held it out, but as Horatio rose to take it, he froze, the air leaching from his lungs in an audible gasp.
The lamplight wavered while he fought to regain his voice.
“W-Where did you getthat?” he demanded, pointing at the scrap of fabric that Hawk had been sketching.
* * *
“Save your breath, milord,” growled Pierson.
Wrexford glanced at Griffin, whose face was unreadable in the flickering of light and shadow, then drew his gaze back to the government operative and remained silent.
Shouts, laughter, the thump of pewter tankards punctuating the rough-cut curses of the tattered crowd clustered by the barman’s counter—the place was alive with all the little noises of downtrodden men drowning their sorrows, at least for the moment.
While at their smoke-shrouded table, Wrexford and Pierson were playing a waiting game.
It was Griffin who decided to end the stalemate. “Lord Wrexford, your note said that in addition to possessing evidence of other crimes, you also had proof that Lord Taviot was guilty of betraying our country during the Peninsular War.”
In answer, Wrexford opened his portfolio case and slid out the letter samples given to him by the Frenchman.
Pierson didn’t grace them with so much as a glance. “Forget those. You’ve got it all wrong.”
For an instant the earl felt a stab of uncertainty, but he quickly shook it off. “The traitor’s handwriting matches that of Taviot, and the dates of the diplomatic mission for the Foreign Office corroborate his presence in Lisbon,” he retorted.
“I don’t dispute any of that, but as I said, you’ve got it all wrong.”
