The carriage rolled forward into the crowded London street.
When the carriage stopped before Renforth’s house, Arch stepped down first while Stuart followed. O’Malley opened the door with his usual unflappable efficiency.
“Colonel Renforth is awaiting you,” he said.
Inside, the familiar quiet of the house settled around them. Stuart removed his hat and glanced towards the drawing room where voices could already be heard.
“They will want a full account,” Stuart said.
Arch shook his head.
“You are not coming in?”
“I have another engagement.”
Stuart’s brows lifted slightly. “Already?”
Arch removed his gloves with deliberate care.
“My mother has secured tickets for the theatre tonight.”
Stuart’s mouth twitched faintly. “A hardship, indeed.”
“A nuisance, rather.”
“Who will be in attendance?”
Arch gave him a dry look. “Half of London, I imagine.”
“Including Miss Vale?”
“I would assume so.”
Stuart studied him briefly. “I shall explain matters to Renforth,” he said, “and Baines will want to hear about Kendall.”
“Tell him Kendall is patient.”
“That will annoy him greatly.”
Arch inclined his head. As Stuart disappeared into the drawing room, Arch slowly climbed the stairs, his mind far from the theatre.
In his chamber, he removed his coat and stood for several moments beside the window overlooking the street. The city continued its restless movement beneath him, carriages passing with unbroken rhythm as though London itself never paused long enough to consider what men were planning inside its houses.
Kendall’s composure lingered in Arch’s thoughts with uncomfortable persistence.
He had expected something more… radical. Instead, he had found something more complicated. Kendall did not rage or inflame the room with reckless declarations. He guided conversation with calm patience and rational discourse. That made him dangerous.
Arch moved away from the window and began preparing for the evening with mechanical efficiency: coat brushed, shirtchanged, and boots polished. As he tied his neckcloth, his thoughts returned unwillingly to Francesca Vale.
Her expression at the salon had been very different from the one she wore at Lady Stratton’s ball. At the ball she had been guarded but amused, her intelligence sharpened by the absurdity of Polite Society. At the salon she had been something else entirely—focused and concerned. Would she support the reform if it escalated as it was sure to do?
Arch found himself pacing once across the room. If she discovered something treasonous—if she began to suspect Kendall’s intentions were plotting overthrow or assassination—would she confide in him?
Francesca Vale did not appear to be a woman who invited assistance easily, which meant she might walk directly into danger without realizing it until the door had closed behind her.
Arch paused beside the small table where the letter she had sent that morning lay folded among his papers. He had already memorized the dates she had copied from the ledgers.
Two discrepancies, possibly three, were enough to justify suspicion. He tapped the paper lightly with his finger. Would she mention the salon? Would she pretend nothing had occurred?
