He pasted on a smile. “I have no idea to what you refer, madam.”
“No?”
Jackson dropped the act. “You know of the counterfeiting?”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon raised her chin to regal effect. “I know a great deal more than that, sir.”
“I am rife with anticipation,” he said.
“That is the real name of the man known asThe Printer.”
Jackson’s gaze shot back to the single name, memorizing every loop and letter as his mind raced. The Black Widow of Whitehall had handed him the identity to the counterfeiting leader. Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s spy network had to rival the Home Office to uncover such a closely guarded secret.
“How did you manage to find his real name?” Roberts had combed every brothel, tavern, and gaming hell in London.
“Simple,” she said. “I asked.”
She didn’t meanasked,like inquiring after a recipe—Jackson paused, a moment in which he seriously questioned the extent of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s authority and the Home Office’s decision not to welcome the proprietress into the fold.
He ran a hand over his face. It didn’t escape him that Mrs. Dove-Lyon hadn’t asked for a price for her information; if the name proved legitimate, she could have bartered for the crown jewels.
“Thank you,” he said and meant it. “It is quite a gift.”
One he’d repay. Twice over.
“That is but the man’s name,” she said, a smile in her voice. “What a sad excuse for a parting gift if my offering were to end there.” Another pause. This one for dramatic effect.
Jackson raptly awaited the final curtain.
The teacup lifted to her mouth. Stopped. “The man is currently in the hell. Not four doors down.”
Jackson’s fingers clenched on the arms of his chair, his first instinct to track the man down and see him secure. But he relaxed his hold on the upholstery. “I take it this Mr. Bogart is in no danger of vanishing into the night?”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon tutted. “Why would he when he is receiving the best hospitality my wolves have to offer?”
Wolves. The only hospitality the great brutes who guarded the Lyon’s Den showed were smiles accompanied with claws and teeth... or a chokehold. Little worry Mr. Bogart would make a single step toward the exit. Jackson’s lips curled upward. “A lucky man.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s own smile was a slash of red lips through the mesh of her dark veil. “Nothing but the best for a man who thought to cheapen my business by funneling money less valuable than the paper it was printed on.”
Jackson took back every nasty thought he’d ever had of the woman. Mrs. Dove-Lyon was a jewel, a well-polished gem surrounded by equally precious stones. “Any chance your sources would be willing to change employers?”
A delicate laugh followed by a steely response. “Not even for a devil as handsome as you.”
Jackson shrugged. At least he’d tried.
He stood and straightened his cuffs. “I do believe I should relieve your men from their host duties.” He offered a bow of his head to a worthy opponent. “The least I could do after such a generous gift.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon waved him on. “Last room at the end of the hall. Knock four times in quick succession or you may find yourself at the mercy of Titan’s good manners.”
Jackson donned the hat he’d refused to relinquish at the door and bowed. “An absolute pleasure, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. I hope nothing but kind gratitude is conveyed when I say I wish to never be on the receiving end ofyour hospitalityever again.”
She laughed. “Tell Sidmouth, the next time he sends one of his dogs to my den, more than the man’s bachelorhood will be up for the gamble.”
Jackson shook his head, no longer surprised at the woman’s connections. Criminals, spies, now the Home Secretary. If someone were to whisper in his ear that the Widow of Whitehall had a direct line to the Prince Regent himself, it wouldn’t be without precedent.
Another tip of his hat, this time to a masterful surprise ally. “Good day, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”
“Good day, Your Grace. Do leave the door open on your way out. I am expecting another wayward soul in need of my attentions.”
