Not with both Miss Appleton’s tome and Mr Cadwalader’s boots held within.
But with a smile, she clasped the handles as best she could, thought perhaps to call in at Madame Devy’s for Phoebe on the way home, and strode off.
“Are you quite well, Number Five?”
“Yes, Sir Edmund.” Hugh attempted to flex his toes. “Boots chafing.”
White eyebrows huddled close, resembling a bank of snow. “Intelligence officers can’t have chafing boots, you know. Bad form. As is arriving late for our meeting. Two hours late.”
“Unforeseen circumstances, Sir Edmund.”
“Hmm.”
Hugh tapped his foot in order to ascertain if his toes were still attached. After untying his ankles and discovering the little minx had stolen his boots, he’d staggered to the door to find himself not in some east end warehouse but the Whitehall Timber Yard, which was located between the Thames and the governmental offices.
Not five hundred bloody yards from where he’d been snatched or where he’d been headed.
Ladies promenaded, the horse guards pranced and the aristocrats prattled.
Forced to purchase the too-small boots from a foreman at the yard, he’d hobbled down Whitehall to his superior’s office, vowing all sorts of pleasurable revenge against the resourceful, deceitful Miss Jones…Lambert.
Lud, he’d known something was amiss but could hardly have expected the Foreign Office to have sent a governess to spy on him.
With the hobble down Whitehall to muse on it, however, Hugh had become more bothered by the fact that whilst he’d been burning for the minx, she’d merely been casting herpractised wiles, luring him in with her demureness and drab dresses.
Had it all been a pretence?
“Number Five!”
“Yes, Sir? You were saying?”
“How is your investigation into the royal coffers proceeding? Has the lady you spoke of before given you all she has?” And he leaned forward to raise one bushy eyebrow and wink.
Eh?
Hugh gathered his thoughts.Oh, yes…“The Regent spent three hundred guineas on saddles last year.” Information not from the fictitious lady but from the Prince Regent himself at a Carlton House affair last month. He’d been rather proud of the fact.
“What! Keep at it then. But I want you in Derbyshire as…” Sir Edmund glanced up. “Thomas!” he bellowed.
The door was flung open and that cousin of Lady Thurwood’s transferred from Records, dashed in. He appeared thinner than last time with dishevelled cravat and sallow skin. “Yes, Sir Edmund?”
“Where are the documents on the situation in Derbyshire?”
“By your left hand, Sir Edmund.”
“Good work. Now, Number Five, I want you in a village named Pentrich before the end of the month. Number Eight is already there, but the dissent is mounting, and this kind of talk will only grow if we don’t see to it. Starts with ten disgruntled stocking workers, then fifty, and before you know it, a thousand rabble-rousers are hurtling over Westminster Bridge.”
Hugh rubbed his nape, thankful he’d received a message back from the officer in Pentrich who was going to change lodgings and keep his head down. “Not possible, Sir Edmund.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I cannot leave until my ward is settled. If that means…taking leave, then I will.”
Sir Edmund shoved papers aside, those bloodshot eyes narrowing. “My men do not take leave unless I say so. We have an uprising and… What are you still doing here, Thomas? Begone with you.”
As Thomas scuttled for the door, Hugh breathed deep. Knew what he had to say. For he would not leave while Ross’ murderer had not been brought to justice, while Phoebe needed him or while even his superior had not been absolved of involvement.
“I will take permanent leave if you force me, Sir Edmund.”
