“It has been what, a year, since you resigned your post?” Lionston asked after the hackney had pulled into traffic.
“Yes.”
“And now you’re dissatisfied?”
“Yes, which I am certain you can understand, though perhaps being a duke is as intriguing as your previous activities.”
“I likely would be had I…We will discuss what I have been doing when we are free of this conveyance.”
Intrigued, Rhys settled back and watched out the window but grew concerned when they did not stop at White’s or Boodle’s but continued through Covent Garden until the hackney came to a stop at the corner in an often-dangerous rookery, one he was familiar with. There was little of London that he did not know well after years of following supposed spies and other enemies of the Crown.
“Did the driver misunderstand the direction?”
“He did not,” His Grace answered as he pushed the hackney door open and stepped out.
Rhys slipped his knife from inside his suitcoat then grasped the hilt and tilted it back, the blade hidden along his wrist and lower arm, tucked against his side and ready to use as he stepped into the shadows of a building.
“This way,” Lionston said and started walking south. He also avoided being near the street and crossed the opening of an alley with caution, their senses alert to danger.
Rhys may have retired from the Home Office a year ago, but he had been an agent long enough that caution and readiness were second nature.
When Lionston stopped at a large dark door and produced a key, Rhys stood at his back and watched the area so that they could defend against a surprise attack from thugs, and only relaxed his guard after the door was opened, they both entered and His Grace once again set the lock.
“This way.”
Muted voices came from deeper in the warehouse, somewhat echoed, but they were too far away for Rhys to make out what was being said or who they belonged to.
When His Grace lifted a lantern then opened a door to enter, Rhys once again followed and stopped in the center of a large room. His host went about lighting candles then took a seat behind a large oak table littered with sketches and maps, a stack of files at the corner.
“Sit.” Lionston gestured to the seat on the other side.
He did so but continued to look around. Books and ledgers were on a shelf, and more maps upon the wall where cities were circled.
“Shall we continue our conversation?”
“Yes, I am most intrigued,” Rhys answered.
“As to your comment on being dissatisfied, my answer is that I likely would be if I had not started my own agency. Obviously, I could not say so in the hackney where I might be overheard.”
It took a moment for Rhys to realize what Lionston had said, and he leaned forward.
“Your own agency? As in agents, espionage, secrets?”
“One with individuals in possession of particular skill sets that allow us to assist in matters most urgent or longer missions.”
“You are hired by individuals?” Was his agency more similar to Bow Street, but made up of spies?
“Or the Crown.”
“Your own Home Office?”
Lionston chuckled.
“Does this agency have a name?”
“The Lion Watch,” he answered. “It is a living network that stretches across the country and beyond, poised to act against threats.”
Rhys glanced back at the maps, continents and countries, together it was a view of the world. How could Lionston’s reach be so far if the circles indicated the location of an operative of The Lion Watch? At least, that is what he assumed, though they could be areas of interest.
