Page 78

The pale little man scowled. “Everyone reports to me.”

“Ah, everyone except her.” Ian opened the door and stuck out his head. “Madame Martand.”

Phipps crowded past him to look. The hood of her cloak was down, revealing her glossy dark hair and unmistakable profile as she reached the stairs and turned to climb them. “Her,” Phipps muttered petulantly. “Too proud for her own good, that one.”

“Aye, but good enough to deserve some pride. She must have caught that American swindler.” Ian lounged in the doorway. “Miserable doings there, I gather.”

Phipps’s ears all but quivered. “Indeed. I can’t recall all the details of that assignment…”

Because he hadn’t been told them. “Old Staff sent me out to check on her a week ago,” Ian said. “I think she and the American—not the swindler, the one she was meant to work with—weren’t getting on well. No surprise there, he’s an excitable, unreliable fellow, the sort who only cares for his own affairs.”

“Do tell,” murmured Phipps.

“Well, she must have got around it one way or another.” Ian paused. “I wonder you don’t know all about it. They told me next to nothing, you know. But the old fox was quite eager to see that matter settled. Wonder what it was, eh?”

Phipps’s mouth pinched. “I am hardly about to divulge what he tells me.”

Ian laughed. “Nor I! Guess we’ll have to stifle our curiosity, then.”

“Yes.” Phipps cleared his throat. “If she’s completed a job, I shall be wanted. To take the notes and send any notifications and such.”

Ian shrugged. “Oy, aye. Might as well go wait.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

The Earl Selwyn was a tall man, with dark hair and a florid face. Angelique guessed he was about forty, gone a little soft around the middle as men of his age tended to do. But there was nothing soft about his cold, arrogant expression as he turned and glared down his long, sharp nose at her when she opened the door, interrupting what sounded like a tense argument.

“Get out,” he snapped.

Angelique closed the door behind her and met John Stafford’s eyes. “I wish to speak to you.”

“In a moment, Madame,” said Stafford, in a far more polite tone than Selwyn’s simultaneous, “Go!”

There was a moment of silence. Angelique returned Selwyn’s angry stare without flinching.

“My lord,” said Stafford reluctantly, “this is Madame Martand. I engaged her on the matter we were speaking of.”

Selwyn’s expression didn’t alter, but a vein began pulsing in his forehead. “Indeed,” he said in a frosty voice. “What do you want? Have you come to report success?”

“I have brought news.” She drew out a small, battered journal from under her shawl. “And a gift.”

Selwyn scowled. “What the devil is that? Have you done your job or not, girl?”

“My lord,” said Stafford, giving the man a warning look. He came to take the journal from her when she held it out. “What is your news?” he asked, laying the book on his desk.

“I have done as you asked.”

Selwyn inhaled expectantly and glanced at Stafford, who gave a tiny nod. “Excellent work, my dear,” Stafford said. “If you would excuse us a moment⁠—”

“But you must read the journal.” She raised one eyebrow. “It will tell quite a story, one I believe you will wish to know.”

Stafford paused. “Whose journal is it?”

“That of Jacob Dixon. I discovered it in his belongings while Mr. Avery was retrieving the stolen funds.”

Selwyn’s triumphant expression faltered. Stafford looked at the journal. “Perhaps you should tell us.”

Angelique kept her eyes on Selwyn. “It begins many years ago, with a young husband and father who suddenly, unexpectedly, rose to an earldom.” It was very quiet in the office. Selwyn looked stunned. “Unfortunately, his young son suffered a grievous, and mysterious, affliction the doctors could not cure. How distressing for a man to think of his new title descending into the hands of a child who would never be able to care for himself, let alone estates. If only there were some way to remove him from the succession.”