Fielding sat down and crossed his legs. “Ambiguity is London’s greatest talent. It is how we keep the French from understanding us.”
“It is how we keep ourselves from understanding us,” Arch said.
Fielding smiled.
Renforth entered while the three of them were speaking, and the energy of the room altered at once. The Colonel did not raise his voice, yet attention followed him as naturally as shadow follows a man in sunlight.
“Report,” Renforth said in his usual direct manner.
Stuart delivered it with the clipped economy of a man who valued accuracy over drama. Arch watched Renforth’s expression as Stuart spoke. Renforth’s face did not change much, but Arch had learned to read the small shifts: the faint narrowing of the eyes, the slight pursing of the lips, and thepause that suggested something was being compared against another piece of information already held.
When Stuart had finished, Renforth turned his gaze on Arch. “How goes Miss Vale?”
Arch felt the question as a pressure he resented, not because it was unfair, but because it demanded that he expose his uncertainty.
“I have not seen her in several days,” Arch said. “She was to request duplicate ledgers. I do not know if she has received them.”
Renforth’s expression remained composed. “Would she tell you if she had?”
Arch hesitated. “Probably not immediately.”
“She would read them first,” Fielding offered with insufferable ease, “discover something alarming, and then attempt to resolve it without admitting she required assistance.”
Arch glanced at him. “Do you know her?”
“I know pride,” Fielding replied. “It is a common trait among the wealthy.”
Renforth’s gaze remained on Arch. “Do you believe she might confront Kendall alone?”
“I believe she might consider it her responsibility,” Arch answered, “and she is not entirely wrong.”
Renforth’s voice was calm, but there was steel under it. “Responsibility does not equal safety. If Kendall suspects scrutiny, he may act.”
“Then we must not alert him.”
“Precisely,” Renforth said. “We proceed quietly.”
Baines, who had not yet appeared, chose that moment to swagger into the room with the air of a man who had collected gossip and was pleased with his own success. “You are all talking as though the Devil himself is hiding in Miss Vale’s desk,” Baines announced.
Fielding raised a brow. “Is he not?”
Baines grinned. “Not in her desk, no. In Kendall’s pocket, perhaps. I have heard his name in two places that do not speak of philanthropy.”
Renforth’s eyes did not leave him. “Explain,” he ordered.
Baines accepted a glass from O’Malley. “Kendall is known to a printer in Fleet Street, who claims to be a Friend of Liberty and is, in fact, a friend of money; and also to a fellow who once served as a clerk to a man convicted of sedition. Kendall’s name passes between them as though it opens doors.”
“Does it?” Arch asked.
Baines’s grin widened. “Not respectable ones.”
Stuart’s voice was quiet. “Did you discover aught of the funds?”
Baines shrugged. “Money seldom admits its origin, but I heard mention of ‘a lady patron’ in connexion with the printing costs.”
Arch felt something cold settle in his chest. ‘A lady patron.’ It could mean anyone. It could mean no one. It could mean Miss Vale.
“We still need dates and amounts,” Baines added. “The printer was going to look for them, once he had been greased in the fist, of course.”
