James was in serious trouble if he thought to wiggle out unscathed. It was obvious whatever was going on between the two of them would have James gnashing his teeth for a long time. The tension between them set the air on fire. Every time they were within ten paces of each other sparks erupted.
Stephen enjoyed the fireworks.
Yes, the romantic downfall of the Marquess of Angelford would be spectacular. He smiled as the a butler opened the door and escorted him to Holt’s study.
"Chalmers, good to see you. Wondered when you’d get around to debriefing."
Lord Holt sat in his favorite chair, the leather permanently dented from long use, and gestured for him to be seated.
Stephen looked around and saw nothing had changed since his last visit to his superior. The room had been designed for intimidation. Low light streamed through shuttered windows, highlighting the visitor. On the other hand, Holt, spymaster of the Foreign Office, was cast into dark relief. It was a good visual effect, as it masked his more subtle expressions. The furnishings were dark and designed to put the visitor at a disadvantage.
Stephen sat comfortably in the offered chair. He was no longer the green lad he had been at twenty. The room, best known for the interrogations held there, had become a room like any other.
"The others should arrive shortly, Chalmers. We need to make some quick decisions, especially given the recent data we have gathered," Holt said. He stroked his pointed chin in the familiar rhythm he had adopted long ago. Stroke, stroke. Pause. Stroke, stroke.
Stephen nodded. He had expected a large gathering. Discussing the options and possibilities of the mission from various perspectives was normal. When the five gentlemen arrived, the questions began. Stephen leaned back in his chair and let the answers roll fluently off his tongue. From years of practice, part of his brain detached to appraise the group while the other segment supplied the information the men craved.
Each man present was a member of Holt’s elite group, selected because each held a unique position and possessed an important skill. Only Angelford was absent, having been unexpectedly called to another task. But Stephen had filled him in earlier and received his feedback.
Stephen looked worriedly at the duke, who appeared as ill as the gossips claimed. His face was wan and drawn. He was known for his logic and candor, and Stephen hoped he was consulting a doctor about his health.
The earl seated to his left, a wizard at languages, looked distinguished as usual with his sleek black and silver-shot hair, but something in his demeanour had always put Stephen on edge. Involved in numerous cases on the continent, he was the member Stephen knew the least.
Another earl, to his right, was a leader of the ton and a skilled marksman. He had always reminded Stephen of a bulldog, and the image grew stronger the longer he stared at his blunt features and stubborn eyes. Stephen let his gaze slide away. The earl was a likable fellow of passing cleverness. Of the team he seemed the least suited to intelligence work. Yet Holt included him in most projects.
Continuing to the right was the baron whose features were as inscrutable as usual in his tanned face. The shadows concealed the lower portion of his face, but Stephen would have bet a five o’clock shadow had already appeared, the bane of his valet’s existence. The baron was a good friend and Stephen had always admired him for his ability to mask his emotions, a most useful tool for a spy.
The only other non-titled gentleman, whom Stephen referred to as Mr. Righteous, looked faintly bored with the proceedings, a strange reaction considering the importance of the topic at hand. The man’s pinched features usually looked to be on the verge of shattering but today appeared less brittle than usual.
Stephen wound down his presentation.
"In Paris, are you sure?" The duke looked aggrieved.
Stephen nodded.
"But how would it come to be there?"
"I believe-" Stephen hesitated as he looked at Holt, who was rolling a ring in his right hand, while stroking his chin with his left. The insignia design on the ring was a bird of prey.
Stephen had seen a ring just like it the night before.
"-it was moved two months ago. We still have time to eliminate it," Stephen continued, picking up his line of thought quickly. Dangerous thoughts were racing through his mind.
Discovering Calliope Minton alive, the ring and the spy list, all within a matter of weeks. Stephen didn’t believe in coincidences.
The men in the room continued to ask questions and plan strategy, as other questions circled through Stephen’s head.
The old but clear memory of his mentor’s dying expression came rushing back and he had to fight the need to hurry home. It was imperative he reach his townhouse.
Calliope’s maid bustled into the room. "Is there anything else, miss?"
"No, Betsy, thank you. Have the others left?"
"Yes, miss. The footman, Herbert and I are the last to leave." Betsy was bobbing and shifting her feet back and forth as if the floorboards had turned into hot coals.
"Have a good night, Betsy. "
"You too, miss." Betsy hesitated in the door- way. "Begging your pardon, miss, but I’d like to thank you for giving us the night off. Some of the others might think you’re a tad strange, but I think you’re an angel."
Calliope coughed into her handkerchief to hide her smile. "Thank you, Betsy, that means a lot."
"Good night, miss."
Betsy turned and sprinted down the hall. Her footsteps echoed in the empty house. Calliope smiled in triumph. Stephen owed her a lemon ice. He had been so sure Betsy and Johnson, the driver, had a romance. Calliope had put her money on Herbert.
There were two at least who were going to enjoy their free night. Hopefully Grimmond was having a good time too.
Calliope applied the finishing touches on her makeup. Tonight she and Stephen were attending a small party given by an aging roué.
She looked at the ornate clock on her table. There was still quite a bit of time before Stephen if would arrive. She picked up her sketchbook and started drawing.
A sketch took shape. Thorny rosebushes hemmed in the background. A garden bench faced sideways. A debutante leaned back against the bench, attempting to get away from a foul-breathed old man leaning toward her. A young dandy had one foot on a globe and was pinching the debutante from behind. She knew exactly how the girl felt. Stephen’s laughing presence had saved her on more than one occasion from bloodying a nose.
Some men were more difficult to handle than others. Although she had felt Angelford’s stare frequently in the past few days, he had refrained from approaching her outright. It was as if he had decided to end the cat-and-mouse game they had been playing for weeks. She wasn’t sure why the thought brought a stab of disappointment. Being away from his overpowering presence made it much easier to formulate sketch ideas. She flipped the page and moved her hand absently across the paper.
Calliope checked the clock again. Little time had passed. Why was she so uneasy? She looked at the new page. She was alone in a ballroom and the walls were closing in. Calliope blinked. Where had the notion originated?
A floorboard creaked. She whipped around, but no one was there. The silence of the house stretched. It was just the house settling, nothing else. Funny how one became so sensitive to noise. The Dalys’ house was always teaming with sound. From the younger boys bounding from room to room to the ragamuffin dog scurrying about, someone or something was always raising a fuss.
Stephen’s servants usually bustled about, but now the house felt watchful. Calliope shifted in her seat. She would convince Stephen to stay in his room down the hall tonight.
Maybe she should get a spot of tea to calm her nerves. She smiled. Tonight she could brew her own tea without receiving raised eyebrows and darting glances from the servants. Grimmond had nearly had apoplexy the first time she’d fetched her own drink.