Leaving the house, he hurried along the drive to the stables and requested a groom saddle a horse. Mounting, he rode toward the gates. As he grew close, a gunshot broke the silence. Damian felt a sharp pain high on his arm. He gritted his teeth and galloped on.
By the time he’d reached the Horse Guards in London, blood dripped down from the gunshot wound on his right arm onto his hand. He dismounted, tossed the reins to a soldier on duty, and, wiping his fingers with a handkerchief, ran into the building. He knocked, then flung open the door at Scovell’s invitation. Taking a few steps across the floor toward the startled man seated at the desk, Damian stopped to wipe the blood from his fingers with his handkerchief before it dripped on the carpet.
Scovell threw back his chair and rose, coming around the desk. “What the devil has happened, Ballantine?”
“Someone took exception to me leaving Holland House with this in my possession. They winged me.” Damian pulled the document from the pocket of his coat, winced, and handed it to his spymaster.
Scovell opened it out on the desk. “Good man. I’ll send for the surgeon. You’ve done what I trusted you’d do. Take a well-earned rest until that arm heals.” He went to the cabinet and poured two glasses of brandy, handing one to Damian.
Glad of it, Damian tossed it down. “I need to get back to Holland House. This is little more than a graze. A bandage will suffice.”
The brandy took the edge off the pain. Damian eased himself out of his ruined coat and shirt. The ball had caused a deep furrow in the muscle before it had exited. Thankfully, it didn’t require stitching.
After the summoned doctor had patched Damian and left them, Scovell questioned him. “Can you give me their names?”
“Only de La Touche. I suspect Viscount Montgomery is involved. Has he had access to the war office?”
Scovell looked grim. “Once. Came in with a Lord Williams.” He held up a hand. “Williams is one hundred percent trustworthy.”
“Charles Moreau may be the third spy. I have no other suspect to offer. But I lack any definitive proof for either of these men.”
“What about Holland?”
“It’s common knowledge that he and Lady Holland support Bonaparte, but I’ve seen no evidence to think it goes further.”
“That’s it, then,” Scovell said. “Do not go back there. You could walk into a trap.”
While he agreed that was certainly possible, he had promised to meet Lady Diana. He wasn’t about to let her down.
It was past one o’clock when Damian arrived back at Holland House in a fresh shirt, cravat, and coat, supplied by Scovell’s office to replace his ruined clothes. His pistol was loaded and tucked into the back of his breeches. He kept a wary eye out for any sign of a disturbance in the gardens. Perhaps they didn’t expect him back. Maybe they feared the game was up, for no one approached him or took a shot at him.
He left the horse at the stables, expecting Lady Diana to have given up on him. In case she hadn’t, he made his way to the lake.
She was still there, throwing some cabbage leaves to the ducks. Seeing him, she came to meet him. “I thought you weren’t coming. Grandmama will be downstairs at two o’clock.” She placed a hand on his arm, making him pull away with a wince.
Her eyes widened. “What is wrong? Have you hurt your arm?”
“A touch of rheumatism,” Damian said with an amused smile. His gaze swept the scene as he held her elbow and drew her away from the noisy ducks flocking around her on the bank. He led her into the summerhouse, which offered a measure of shelter and a good view of the surrounding meadows beyond the lake, should anyone come by. He intended to deal with this quickly, as she would be in danger if seen with him.
Once within the wooden-framed dwelling, he felt the full force of Lady Diana’s searching blue eyes. “You’re hurt, Ballantine. What happened?”
“It’s nothing.” He casually folded his arms then tightened his lips on a grunt as pain shot through him. “We’re here to discuss your problem. And we have little time in which to do it,” he said, hoping to hurry her and return her safe to the house.
“Well, yes. As I told you, I want you to help me find my friend, Lady Anne Daintith.”
He gazed at her warily. “You must at least consider that after all this time, your friend no longer lives.”
She raised her chin. “I am not yet prepared to believe that.”
“But where can you even begin to look for her?”
“When Lord Daintith held a memorial for Anne at Daintith Park, I questioned the coachman. He told me exactly where the kidnapper held up the Daintith carriage and abducted her, but not where her father left the ransom for them to pick up. It was an inn and could not have been far, as Lord Daintith rode there and back in the same day.” She paused to take a deep breath. “So you see, the two events are less than twenty miles apart, whichcould mean the rogue is somewhere in that area. If we were to search the villages and surrounding countryside, we might discover where he keeps her.”
It was pitifully inadequate. He reached up and stroked a finger over her trembling chin. “What reason would he have to keep her alive?” he asked gently.
Her shoulders slumped, and she covered her face with her hands. “I don’t know.”
He held her shaking shoulders, wishing he could draw her into his arms. “You believe your father will let you traipse around the countryside with me looking for her?”
