“Then so be it, Sir Edmund. Good day.”
A splutter of “Come back here” followed him down the corridor but Hugh refused to turn.
This was for the best and his boots instinctively continued.
He needed to be free to pursue his investigation, find Ross’ killer.
As though in a trance, he descended the stairs, trailed a finger along the gilt-framed portrait that hung there of Sir John, the spymaster who’d recruited him, and wished him farewell.
He pushed opened a hefty door, traipsed down steps and found himself on the Whitehall Street, a chill wind buffeting his frame.
Felt…odd.
The corners of his lips wilted.
“Hugh?” a soft voice called. “Are you well?”
Those corners lifted.
“Amelia…” She wore that dire grey dress, hair neat as a ninepence, and that habitual carpetbag was clutched in her hand with all her governess paraphernalia inside. She lookedbeautiful. “The Home Office and I…have parted company. After all these years.”
An arm laced through his, Amelia not seeming to care one whit for gossip in the middle of hectic Whitehall. Horses pranced, maids giggled with soldiers, and…was that the back of Lady Tremlach with a broad-shouldered fellow?
He couldn’t be certain.
“And how…how does that feel?”
“Adrift, if I’m honest.”
“Let’s stroll in Saint James’ Park.” And he let her guide him down Parliament Street, turn onto Great George and then through Storey’s Gate and into the wide avenue which bordered the royal park, plane trees and bushes prettifying the edges.
A gaggle of ladies sauntered, tucked up against the cold spring breeze in redingotes and muffs, while a boy played hoop, and the place all seemed rather affable by day. Alas, Hugh knew by night it teemed with penny doxies and footpads.
“Ross and I used to come here,” he murmured. “We’d practise fencing at dawn when no one was about but the pelicans.”
“Were they to judge the winner?”
He smiled, for the park had been home to those birds for some two hundred years. “Yes, usually Ross as he was excellent with a sword.” He breathed deep. “Better than me.”
“When did you begin working together?”
“I was recruited after Oxford. They were looking for young, non-titled men with naught to do but gad around London. I seemed to fit the bill. Ross had been with the Office for five years and he was to be my mentor. But we became firm friends and it all felt…such a lark at the beginning.”
“Then the reality of what men can do to one another sets in, doesn’t it? The desperation and the depths.”
Hugh peered down at her. “Exactly so. I have enjoyed the work but…” He needed this, he realised. To be able to talk with someone who understood, to know she wouldn’t be repulsed by the deeds he’d done for King and Country, and he felt profoundly grateful Amelia had plunged into his life. “Lately, I’ve felt…jaded.”
She nodded, carpetbag and skirts swirling against his boots in a sudden gust. “I was once told by a Foreign Office colleague that one should retire within fifteen years of service regardless. That it was more than enough.”
“And did he?”
A smile. “Yes. Lord Kelmarsh now lives in utter rusticity with his lovely wife. He even digs up his own potatoes.”
Hugh laughed. “Not sure that’s for me.” They weaved around a wooden hoop as it spun down the path, then dodged the lad who chased it. “So what did Rainham have to say?”
“That we must continue to gather evidence.” Her nose scrunched. “And if Sir Edmund is involved in some way, it still doesn’t explain why Roberts raised his tankard to a Lady T, unless he was referring to the money he receives from Lady Twyford.” She paused in her stride. “Perhaps we should review the file on each of the Ravens once more. Last night, before we…” She cleared her throat; Hugh’s lips twitched. “I re-read of there being no service record on Roberts?”
“I had that same thought.”
