“Get me the map of Derbyshire.”
“It’s on the floor,” interrupted Hugh. “By the foot of your desk.”
Sir Edmund peered down. “So it is. No wonder you are one of our finest intelligence officers.”
“Thank you, Sir Edmund.”
He commenced scribbling notes. “I’m sending you to…” A palm was thrust upwards. “Wait.” More scribbling.
Hugh casually hooked his boot onto his knee but every nerve heightened as he’d not be leaving London for aught at this moment in time.
For Ross’ notebook had contained a handful of further surnames scribbled beneath a title: The Brotherhood of Ravens.
Nothing further had been written about them and Hugh had wondered who the hell they were? And why had Ross been interested?
It’d taken Hugh more than a few guineas in bribery and endless nights in various rookeries before he’d discovered they were a group of disgruntled soldiers. Feeling abandoned by the government after the war, rumours said they plotted revolution and chaos.
After learning that an Ensign named Forsyth and another man listed in Ross’ notebook were regulars at an ale-house off Seven Dials, Hugh had also started frequenting the establishment in the guise of an equally disgruntled Lieutenant Davies from the Royal Welsh Fusiliers.
Only too aware of the dangers, Hugh had been patient in befriending them, always taking care to follow a torturous route home through the lanes of London to ensure he wasn’t trailed.
They’d mutually complained about the corrupt government, the spendthrift Prince Regent and all those debauched coxcombs in parliament, whilst Hugh had let it be known he wanted more to be done.
Then last week, Forsyth had brought along another man.
John Roberts.
A former lieutenant in the 32ndRegiment of Foot. And moreover, leader of the Brotherhood of Ravens.
Hard-eyed and grim-lipped, he’d invited Hugh to a meeting in three days’ time.
At last, he was getting somewhere.
But Ross’ notebook had also contained another clue. A torn-out page, folded and stuffed in amongst the leaves, with a list of ladies’ nam–
“Derbyshire!”
“Beg pardon?”
Sir Edmund glared. “I’m sending you to Derbyshire.”
Not with the Ravens meeting in three days, he wasn’t.
And he was also making progress on that list of ladies’ names and a certain Lady Thurwood…
Justice for Ross and Phoebe came above all else and besides, if someone was still passing on information, who knew which of them could be prematurely put to bed with a mattock and tucked in with a spade.
“I am unable to–”
“It’s all arranged. Lodgings and what have you. Details are sent. Number Eight is set to leave and… What are you still doing here, Thomas? Be off with you.”
The clerk rolled his eyes and dashed out.
“Sir, I cannot–”
“There’s talk of rebellion. Stocking frames destroyed. Riots. Stones thrown. Et cetera. So insinuate yourself with the felons. Good chap. Close the door on your way out.”
Hugh remained seated. “I have a ward to consider, Sir Edmund. I cannot up sticks so quickly now.”
