A knock sounded—sharp, too loud for a refined gentleman but just right for a man with no sense of subtlety. Leander already knew who was at his door without him even entering, as did Dash.
Dash grinned. “Ah. Slothington.”
Leander called, “Enter.”
The door swung open and Viscount Slothington strode in—tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing an expression that suggested he had either uncovered a secret or started a fire. It really could be either one, and it would be entertaining to discover exactly what the viscount had uncovered.
“Lionston. Ravenwood.” Slothington said as he dropped into the nearest chair without invitation. “I’ve information on Whitley. And you’re not going to like it.”
Leander exchanged a dark glance with Dash.
“Speak,” he commanded.
Slothington leaned forward, voice dropping. “Whitley has been visiting Élise nightly. And last evening—someone else followed him there.”
Leander’s blood chilled. “Who?”
Slothington met his gaze squarely. “An agent I recognize from the French embassy.”
The warehouse seemed to still around them, as if the very walls understood the weight of those words. Leander rose slowly from his chair, purpose hardening within him like iron. “So,” he said, voice low. “The game has truly begun.”
“What do you propose we do?” Dash asked.
Slothy grinned. “I thought you would never ask.” He crossed one long leg over the other and met each of their gazes. “One of us has to seduce the lovely Élise to discover the wench’s secrets.”
Leander rolled his eyes. “Let me guess you volunteer for this distasteful task.”
He let out a deep sigh. “Well of course…” He laid a hand over his chest. “Someone has to do the dirty work and I am more than willing.”
Dash shook his head. “I just bet you are.”
Leander pinched the bridge of his nose, the beginnings of a headache pulsing behind his eyes. “Slothy, I would sooner trust a fox in a henhouse than trust you within ten paces of a woman whose loyalty is already in question.”
Slothington gasped—dramatically, as always. “I am wounded. Mortally. My reputation maligned in my very presence.”
Dash snorted. “Your reputation was in tatters long before this conversation.”
Leander ignored their antics and paced to the edge of the sparsely lit warehouse. Dust motes drifted through a sliver of afternoon light cutting across the floorboards. Outside, the bells of St. Aldwyn’s tolled the hour, each strike tightening the knot forming in his stomach.
A French agent following Whitley to Élise’s door…
It meant only one thing: the secrets Whitley carried—national, political, deadly—had finally drawn blood-scent.
Leander turned back to his friends.
“No one is seducing Élise.”
Slothington groaned loudly. “You are determined to rid my life of joy.”
“She is not some tavern maid to charm into spilling her employer’s secrets,” Leander continued coldly. “If she is involved with the French embassy, then she is far more dangerous than any of us assumed.”
Dash’s expression darkened. “So, what is the plan?”
Leander exhaled slowly. “We watch. We wait. And we intercept any message or visitor that leaves her rooms. For now, Élise is the only thread connecting Whitley to foreign agents—and I intend to tug that thread until the entire scheme unravels.”
Slothington sighed, slumping back in his chair. “You always choose the dull route.”
Leander arched a brow. “Staying alive is rarely dull.”
