“What happens with respect to Kendall?” Arch asked quietly.
Baines’ expression lost what little levity remained. “If he is tied to this, he will be there.”
Renforth looked at Arch. “His presence makes your role with Miss Vale no less critical.”
The reminder struck cleanly.
“If Kendall suspects her,” Renforth continued, “he may seek to control that risk before committing himself fully.”
“He will not have the opportunity.” Arch hoped he had not growled the words.
Renforth held his gaze. “See that he does not.”
There was no need to elaborate further.
Baines pushed away from the mantel. “To clarify, then, we bait them at Grosvenor Square, let them confirm their grand opportunity, and take them at Cato Street before they congratulate themselves.”
Renforth inclined his head. “That is the design.”
“And what is the design if they suspect?” Baines asked.
“We will be prepared for such an eventuality,” said Renforth, “but they will not. Men who believe themselves clever are the easiest to lead.”
Arch allowed himself one brief glance again at the map and pictured the actual situations—Grosvenor Square, elegant and exposed; Cato Street, narrow and shadowed.
Between the two lay the entire success or failure of the operation… and somewhere within that same web moved Francesca.
“When is the dinner to take place?” Baines asked.
“Tomorrow night.”
CHAPTER 20
Francesca had barely finished breakfast when a servant announced that Sir Percival had gone out early on business. This did not alarm her in itself. Her uncle often kept engagements before the hour at which younger people thought it proper to be abroad. Francesca settled herself in the morning room with a small pile of papers she had been meaning to sort, and had just begun to believe the day might pass in a degree of ordinary quiet when the butler appeared at the door with a face imperfectly arranged for indifference.
“Mr. Kendall has called, miss.”
For one instant she merely stared at the butler.
Then Thomas Kendall himself entered, all polished civility and easy confidence, as though there were nothing in the world more natural than his calling at such an hour and without prior notice. He was dressed with his customary care—perhaps a little too carefully for a business errand—and his smile, though pleasant, seemed to her now to hold a quality she had once overlooked: a watchfulness just beneath the smoothness, like a blade kept sheathed but near at hand.
Francesca rose; no one had thought to warn the butler.
The absurdity of that actuality struck her at once. An entire means of protection had been devised about her movements, yet the first practical gatekeeper of the house had apparently not been instructed that Thomas Kendall was to be denied or delayed. It might have amused her under other circumstances. Now it merely made her pulse leap.
“Mr. Kendall,” she said. “This is an unexpected pleasure.”
“Unexpected, perhaps,” he returned, bowing, “but I hope not unwelcome.”
He looked around as if to assure himself of their privacy. That single glance did more to unsettle her than any overt impropriety could have done.
“Sir Percival is from home, I understand?”
“He is.”
“That is a pity, although in truth I came in the hopes of speaking to you.”
“Indeed?” she said, resuming her seat because standing made her feel too evidently on the defensive. “Then pray sit down and explain your urgency.”
