“Perhaps a lady, my lord?” the waiter ventured, tucking the coin into his coat pocket.
“Some intrigue, I imagine,” Damian replied, impatient to find something concrete to use against Montgomery while troubled by how little time he had to act. While he fervently wished to see Diana and assure her she wasn’t alone, he couldn’t. He was unable to take any action until he had proof.
The following evening, Montgomery visited the club.
Damian waited in a hackney. Sure enough, at ten o’clock, Montgomery left the club and hailed a carriage. He might have had a mistress, but Damian doubted the man would be so punctual. He followed Montgomery’s hackney at a discreet distance as they wound their way through the dirty and dangerous streets of St. Giles.
At the apex of the Seven Dials, the hackney pulled up outside the Red Cow. Montgomery alighted, paid the jarvie, and disappeared inside the pub.
Crossing the pavement, Damian gazed through the dirty windows in time to see Montgomery climb the stairs.
A mistress in the Red Cow wasn’t entirely impossible. The man was capable of anything, but Damian doubted it would be a woman Montgomery sought. He wouldn’t want to risk getting the pox, not when his money could buy him any high-class courtesan in London he fancied. But who knew the tastes of such men?
Damian went through the door into the crowded, smoky pub, noting the smells of hops, sour bodies, and a distinct aura of despair. The patrons hovered over their tables, intent on drinking themselves to oblivion or arguing among themselves. No one bothered to look his way as he took the stairs.
At the top, three doors opened onto a small landing. He listened at one and heard only the groans of its inhabitants. The sound of snoring boomed out from behind another. Muffled voices came from the next. Two men, by the sound of it. His heart took a leap when he heard a Frenchman speak and Montgomery answer.
Damian drew his pistol from beneath his coat. He raised his foot and kicked the thin, wooden door open. It flew back with a resounding bang and hung off its hinges. Its two occupants stared at him, stunned. In front of them on the table was a large document.
The Frenchman started to rise. “Mon Dieu!”
“Remain seated, if you wish to live.” Damian kept his pistol aimed at Montgomery.
The Frenchman, a swarthy fellow with angry, brown eyes, shifted in his chair.
“Don’t move, you fool,” Montgomery cried. “He will shoot me first.”
Unwilling to wait, the Frenchman dived for the gun inside his coat. Damian fired, and a bloom of red spread out over his coat. He fell back with a gurgle and rolled off the chair to the floor.
Montgomery barely glanced at him. His hard eyes watched Damian with furious spite. “Such violence, Ballantine. Surely, it’s unnecessary? We are reasonable men. I have important friends you will anger should you murder an unarmed lord in cold blood.”
“I don’t intend for them to find out.” With an eye on Montgomery, Damian moved over to the document. It was the one of Scovell’s meant for the diplomatic pouch thought to be stolen at the same time as the other. Their courier had never left England; he’d been found near the docks with his throat cut. Damian backed up and gestured with his pistol. “Let’s go somewhere quiet to discuss it.” It was always possible one ofthe more sober drinkers below might mount the stairs, roused by the gunshot. That would confuse matters. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”
Montgomery rose slowly from the table and raised his hands. “You have one ball left in that pistol. What happens if you miss me?”
“I never miss.”
Damian snatched up the document and slipped it inside his coat. They left the room and descended to where a bleary-eyed audience made no move to stop them. Damian poked Montgomery in the back and they walked out into the street. He gestured around the corner. They stepped into an alley poorly lit by candlelight from the pub windows. “You won’t kill me. It’s hardly the act of one gentleman to another,” Montgomery said.
“Would you prefer to hang as a traitor?” Damian prodded him farther into the shadows.
“Don’t you want to know why?” he asked, stalling for time.
“Not particularly. People like you, who would sell out your own country, shouldn’t be given a voice.”
Montgomery sneered. “Nothing you or any of your misguided patriots try to do will beat Bonaparte. He is a tactician par excellence. The world has never seen the like.”
“And hopefully never will again,” Damian said grittily.
Montgomery stumbled. As he went down on one knee to steady himself, a small gun appeared in his hand from a holster strapped to his ankle. He whirled on Damian, his finger already on the trigger.
His shot went wide, biting off a piece of brick on the wall, but Damian’s ball found its mark on Montgomery’s chest.
Montgomery, surprise in his eyes, crumpled on the ground, his face taking on a blueish tinge. Spread-eagled on the pavement, blood seeping from his white cravat, he fought to speak.
Damian knelt beside him, expecting some last request. “What is it?”
“England will lose the war, you fools.” His head fell back.
