Nicholas stepped into the study.
“Lord Vanover,” Fletcher said, straightening.The Bow Street Runner was in his late thirties, wiry, with a sharp, clever face and eyes that missed very little.“My apologies for the unexpected visit, my lord.”
“Not to worry, Fletcher.”Nicholas glanced at the clock on the mantel: half past four.He’d spent most of the afternoon in bed with Bea.But even if her father was waiting to call him out, he couldn’t regret a moment of it.
“I have the information you requested,” the man supplied with a deferential bob of his head.
“Excellent.”Nicholas moved behind his desk, more to give his hands something to do than from any particular need to sit.
Fletcher reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small, folded square of vellum, sealed with a dab of wax.
Nicholas’s heart gave one hard thump.He was about to discover the identity of the man who had been making his life a particular form of hell for over two years now.
He’d told himself it was about political strategy.About understanding his adversary.About anticipating attacks and parrying them before they landed.About setting the record straight.
But now he had to admit to himself that he wanted to know because he simply couldn’t bear not knowing.Because he hated that someone had been moving pieces on the board behind his back.
A thought he rarely let himself consider flashed through his brain.Was it someone he trusted?
He reached for the vellum, his hand suddenly not as steady as he liked.
“Before I open this,” he said lightly, “assure me I haven’t agreed to pay you a small fortune to be told B.Adroit is, in fact, a figment of my imagination.”
Fletcher gave a curt shake of the head.“I assure you, my lord.B.Adroit is quite real.”
Nicholas broke the seal with his thumb and looked down at the vellum.
One name.Three words.
Three incomprehensible words.
Lady Beatrix Winslow.
For a heartbeat, his brain refused to process the letters.
He blinked, then read them again.
Beatrix.
No.
That was impossible.
He stared at the vellum, waiting for the letters to rearrange themselves into something sensible.His most formidable opponents in Parliament.Some obscure pamphleteer.Hargrave, even.Winston’s footman.Anyone but?—
His brows snapped together.“Is this meant to be a jest?”His voice simmered.
Fletcher actually blinked—once, sharply—as if the very idea had knocked his well-ordered thoughts askew.“A jest, my lord?”
Nicholas lifted his gaze, the smile gone from his mouth, the warmth gone from his chest, leaving something cold and sharp in its place.
“You’ve given me the name of the Duke of Winston’s daughter,” he said.“The same Lady Beatrix whom I am currently courting.The same Lady Beatrix whose father would have your head on a spike if this were some mistake.So, I will ask you again.Is this supposed to be amusing?”
Fletcher swallowed, then shook his head.“No, my lord.No jest.”
Nicholas’s jaw clenched.“Explain.”
Fletcher shifted his weight, the faintest hint of discomfort crossing his features.“I followed the trail as we discussed, my lord.Talked to the printers’ lads.Most had no idea of the person behind the sketches, but one—” He smiled faintly.“One boy likes to talk when he’s had a bit of gin.”
