“Did it feel like one?” Myrtle queried softly.
“No,” Rose admitted as she remembered the pain of landing on her back, the air leaving her body. “It felt real.”
“Then that’s enough for me.”
“Perhaps it was best that the men didn’t believe me,” Rose said.
“How so?”
Lord Barbury’s voice echoed through Rose’s mind.Talk. Only. To. Him. Spies. Everywhere. Active everywhere.The words seemed prophetic now ... or was that only because they’d just inspired her latest episode of shell shock?
“My attackers mentioned the name of one of my last patients—an English nobleman who spoke of an extensive network of foreign agents.”
“Surely you don’t believe that the local doctor and the police chief are part of the conspiracy?” For the first time, Myrtle’s voice held a hint of skepticism—not that Rose blamed her on this point.
“Heavens no, but if I look into Lord Barbury’s claim, I need to be careful about what hornet’s nest I poke.” Rose started walking again, as if the momentum would somehow give her a sense of direction. “If what the viscount said was true and I confide in the wrong person, whatever actual evidence there is could disappear.”
“Are you planning on tracking down a spy ring? By yourself?” Myrtle huffed a little as Rose set a punishing pace toward the east end of her parents’ mansion, where the family wing was.
“I ... I believe I am.” Rose paused at the steps that led to a private veranda outside her bedroom.
Myrtle inclined her head toward Rose’s room. “Shall we head inside so no one can overhear?”
Rose nodded and opened the french doors to a small sitting area attached to the bedchamber. Despite the rather heavy-looking armor that composed her Joan of Arc costume, Myrtle sank down onto the settee and patted a spot next to her.
Rose joined her friend. After neatly arranging her Grecian-inspired dress, she launched into how she’d first met the viscount when she had been sheltering in the poste de secours. Myrtle, who normally asked a thousand penetrating questions, remained silent as Rose recounted what had happened.
“I only found out the viscount’s identity right before I fell ill. I wasn’t sure how much of the truth he’d spoken ... until tonight,” she concluded.
“What do you plan to do next? You’ve just had an attempt on your life!” Myrtle asked, worry lacing her normally collected tone.
“Well, one botched abduction at least—that I may or may not have imagined,” Rose corrected, refusing to allow shadowy figures to terrify her any further. “But now that I am aware that they may be lurking about, I can take precautions.”
Myrtle snorted. “I don’t think you know the meaning of caution—pre or otherwise.”
Rose rolled her Lucky Strike between her thumb and forefinger. “Well, then I’ll just need to discover who the spies are before they can get to me.”
“On your own? Entirely?” Myrtle questioned.
“I can’t see another option,” Rose said.
“How in heaven’s name are you going to unravel a spy ring with practically no information and absolutely no resources?”
“For someone who has devoted her life to digging through mud in hopes of discovering a hint of the habits of long-dead peoples, I would think you’d have more faith.”
“But where to even start?”
“I have Lord Barbury’s key.” Rose tugged on the chain and laid the piece of metal on the outside of her costume. “I know that it opens a chest or safe or locked drawer that holds his reports on the spy ring. He told me to go to a place that sounds likehammerand that a man would be able to help me. He also mentioned a woman—Tamsin Morris, I believe. I know from my own inquiries that Lord Barbury was the Earl of Mar’s son.”
Myrtle arched a blonde eyebrow. “That still begs my initial question of where to begin.”
“Why, London, of course.”
“London?”
“Where else to find information out about a peer of the realm? Besides, his father is often in residence there. I can learn more about the late viscount from his friends and family, and maybe the clues he left will make more sense.”
“I am going with you.” Myrtle linked her arm through Rose’s, and the gesture immediately strengthened Rose’s resolve—or, perhaps more accurately, her conviction. She wasn’t completely alone—neither in her belief nor in the investigation. The realization warmed her.
