They were probably cycled in and out of the job, was Hawkes’s guess.
He thought quickly. Brundage had actually likely paid a pittance if anything at all for the objets d’art, recorded the purchases in his accounts, and then returned them to this shop in exchange for full—or greatly exaggerated—cash value. The ensuing proceeds he’d then hidden in the invented charity—hopefully Hardy or Bolt would be able to get an answer from their friends at Lloyd’s about that—and from this charity Brundage had likely paid his debts and bought silver buttons for his coat and the like.
And he’d probably done it this way because the finances of an ambassador were always under some scrutiny; the acceptance of nearly any kind of gift would be, if not suspect, at the very least noted, given the sensitive nature of the information he was privy to and the demands of diplomacy. New acquisitions would be noted, too. Brundage would have needed to hideanyunorthodox influx of money, and he’d decided a virtuous charity would be just the thing.
He imagined the cognac that Pike had fetched back had merely been a gift to seal some sort of bargain made. The kind of gift only a French national could provide.
Judging by these purchase dates—someone—perhaps the proprietor of this shop—had made a depositon any information Brundage had promised to provide. And later, Brundage had delivered spectacularly.
All told, Hawkes estimated that Brundage had been paid about five hundred pounds by the time he’d likely, somehow, delivered information about troop movements that led to the defeat at Dos Montañas in late 1814.
Hawkes had been arrested shortly after that.
He considered whether he ought to try to steal this account book now—asking the bored young lady to make some tea, absconding with it when she retreated to the back of the shop, that sort of thing.
But he didn’t want to alarm the proprietor. He sensed Mr. Guthrie, whoever he might be, would disappear once he got wind of a missing account book. And Guthrie was key to the whole thing.
That led Hawkes to his remaining critical question.
“Is Mr. Guthrie in this morning, Miss Wallace? I should like very much to discuss my potential acquisition with him in detail.”
“Oh, no, sir. There’s no Mr. Guthrie, sir. That’s just the sign on the shop, you see. The owner is in Paris, at present, but he’s expected in London by Wednesday next. He owns a shop in Paris, as well, and it seems he is always searching for new antiquities.”
Hawkes resisted the temptation to point out that antiquities, by their very nature, could not be new.
His heart picked up an extra beat, and his old friend, portent, prickled at the back of his neck. “What is the owner’s name, if I may ask?”
“Mr. Florian Vasseur, sir.”
Her French accent wasn’t very good, but the slow smile Hawkes gave her then, she later confided to hersister when she told her about it, “fair made me want to drop me knickers then and there.”
The irony. The sweet, sweet irony that both Brundage’s and Vasseur’s—Cafard’s—downfalls would come at the hands of women. Because Hawkes was only here because of Aurelie, and Vasseur apparently possessed a sentimental streak—or a fear of God—that had caused him to write his own name in the church register when he was married. Berwick, bless his grimy soul, had beenright.
Hawkes immediately tracked Berwick down near Piccadilly and gave him five pounds to watch Guthrie’s Antiquities in the event Monsieur Vasseur made an appearance before the projected forthcoming Wednesday, and gave Berwick dispensation to hire another person he trusted to help, provided he didn’t share any details beyond the description of the man. It was the best Hawkes could do, given that he currently had no authority at the Alien Office. The case he was building was so sensitive and incendiary he would need to carefully consider whom outside of Hardy and Bolt he could trust, and ironically, Berwick was at the top of the list.
He’d promised Miss Wallace of Guthrie’s Antiquities he’d return on Wednesday next.
And then, because he wasn’t a complete idiot, he returned to The Grand Palace on the Thames to rest for at time. Impatiently, but determinedly. If one could lie still impatiently but determinedly.
First, on the pretense that he wished to borrow a book from her, he asked Dot whether Mrs. Gallagher was in. Dot told him that she was, indeed.
Hawkes finally gave himself permission to rest.
First, he unwound his bandage, salved his neatlystitched wound, and bandaged himself again. Slowly, carefully, and painfully.
He rubbed at his shoulder, which twinged him. He tamped back his frustration by clamping his teeth together. He didn’t want to be the sort of man forever obliged to drink to drown pain or to take medicine for it to get through a day, and that meant he needed to be more responsible and actually behave as though he was injured.
Most importantly, he would need to be sharp and nimble and fully alert for his meeting with Brundage in a few hours.
He would need every ounce of his self-control not to lean over and squeeze the man’s throat between his hands.
Because not only was the bastard a traitor, he was more and more certain that Brundage had gravely harmed Aurelie in some way. And he’d probably done it because he’d known full well she had no one to turn to. In other words, like treason, he’d done it because he’d thought he’d get away with it.
It was so clear the struggle to maintain her secret was little by little wearing Aurelie down. He sensed her yearning for someone in whom to confide.
But if she’d known Hawkes had been paid by the earl to find her, she would consider him just as much a traitor as he considered Brundage.
It was abastardof a predicament.
