Nicholas said nothing.His pulse pounded in his ears.
“He said the servant was careful,” Fletcher continued.“Always used the slot.Always kept their face in shadow.But came regular as clockwork.”
Fletcher continued, “Appeared to be a lady’s maid.As I told you before, I followed her home.To a ducal household in London.But I had to be certain of theartist’s identity.”
“You’re certain it wasn’t a footman?”Nicholas prodded.
“After I followed the maid the first time,” Fletcher said simply.“I kept watch.”He met Nicholas’s gaze.“And I saw the same woman.Saw her with my own eyes.Turns out she wasn’t a maid at all, but a lady.Tall, blond hair, eyes the color of the sea on a cloudy day, and?—”
“Enough!”Nicholas’s fingers tightened around the vellum.A sick feeling began to coil in his stomach.
But Fletcher didn’t stop.“I have served Bow Street ten years.I do not bring a name to a gentleman of your position unless I’m certain of it, my lord.”
A strange roaring filled Nicholas’s head.His mind flashed back—unbidden—to Bea in his drawing room earlier, standing by the hearth with her hands clenched, saying,There are things about me you don’t know.To her muttered,I came here to tell you the truth.I meant to.
He had kissed her instead.
He felt suddenly, violently tired.
Nicholas folded the vellum slowly, his jaw tight enough to ache.
Bea.
A laugh rose in his throat and died there.Of course.Of course it was her.The sharpness of the lines, the way the humor cut clean, the occasional surprising kindness tucked amid the scathing accusations—it was all her.
She’d been skewering him with her drawings while he’d been searching for a man.Merely assuming she might be feeding information to the real culprit.No wonder she’d been so anxious.
He’d been a fool.
She’d even named herself…B.And Adroit was obvious enough.A cunning nod to her cleverness.
And yet.
He had been paying a man to discover the truth while she had been gathering the shredded pieces of her courage to offer it herself.
Now the truth sat in his hand, written in another man’s ink.
“Thank you, Mr.Fletcher,” he said, voice clipped.
Fletcher relaxed as if a tension had eased.“You’re satisfied then, my lord?”
Satisfied.
The word tasted like ash.
“I am satisfied that you have done the job I asked of you,” Nicholas said.“Payment as agreed.”
He opened the top drawer of his desk, withdrew a small, heavy purse, and set it atop the polished wood.Fletcher stepped forward eagerly.
“Take it,” Nicholas said shortly.
Fletcher did, the purse disappearing into his coat with practiced speed.
“One more thing.”Nicholas hoisted a second heavy purse from the drawer.
“Yes, my lord?”
“This name does not leave this house,” Nicholas said quietly, waving the vellum between two fingers.“Not to Winston.Not to Hargrave.Not to your superiors.Not toanyone.”He tossed the second purse at the man.
