As for the note… well, no one really needed to know about that, did they?
Besides, what was one note compared with the prospect of getting whole folios of evidence? By that point, Miles was three-quarters through the glass of gin and feeling decidedly sanguine, even though the candle had guttered and gone out, and Molly the barmaid was conspicuous by her glower. Instead of resting on one note, resolved Miles, he would gather enough evidence to make a full case against Vaughn and rout out any little cronies Vaughn might have scuttling around the city.
That one note, had he managed to steal the right one, might have been enough to implicate Vaughn — Miles squinted wistfully at the level of gin in his glass at that point, and took another swig — but it wouldn't have done anything to smoke Vaughn's accomplices out of their burrows. Where there was one mysterious hooded man, there were bound to be others; spies generally carried on their nefarious undertakings through means of an elaborate network.
By the time the glass was empty, Miles had come up with a plan, and he would have tried to put it into execution immediately if he hadn't been just a bit not at his best at the time. He wasn't foxed, not on one glass of blue ruin — or had it been three? He couldn't remember. At any rate, he was just a little… tired. That was it. Tired.
His trouble locating the doorknob as he exited from the tavern convinced him that his plan was best mulled upon overnight and executed in all its fullness the following day. When he could walk in a straight line again. Besides, he needed an accomplice, and he knew just where to find one.
Turning down St. James's Street, dodging an inexpertly driven phaeton on the way, Miles strode briskly towards White's, in search of a large brandy and a partner in crime.
It was at moments like this that Miles missed Richard. It wasn't something that Miles would ever admit to — aloud, at least — but White's felt oddly empty without his oldest friend around. Richard would have been the logical choice for accomplice in this endeavor; the two of them even had their own code, developed during their schooldays and never cracked by even the most determined of French agent. But no, Richard had to go and fall in love. Dashed inconsiderate of him.
It wasn't that Miles disliked Amy. She seemed nice enough. Reasonably pretty, bright, clearly devoted to Richard. Not Miles's type, but that was probably a good thing, since he could imagine few things more disturbing and dishonorable than harboring an illicit passion for one's best friend's wife — except perhaps harboring an illicit passion for one's best friend's sister. So it didn't distress Miles that he couldn't quite see just what Richard saw in Amy. He couldn't have wished for better for his best friend.
But this whole having-a-wife-around business changed a man. No matter how unobjectionable the wife in question was. Dash it all, in the old days, Richard would have been at White's, they would have split a bottle of claret, exchanged manly quips about outwitting Bonaparte, thrown a few darts, plotted the downfall of Lord Vaughn, and headed off to Gentleman Jackson's for a quick mill. And where was Richard now? Rusticating in Sussex, that was where. It was a damned waste.
Ah well, at least Geoff was still in town, and free from feminine leg shackles. Miles went in search of his second-oldest friend. Until recently, Geoff had been in Paris with Richard, serving as second in command of the League of the Purple Gentian.
Now he was conveniently back in London, and just the man Miles needed to help him unmask that French spy. Miles caught sight of the back of a familiar-looking head at a small table at the back of the room, and strolled in that direction.
"Geoff?"
The head, with its close-cropped dark hair, remained bent over the table, a quill tapping restlessly against the scratched surface.
"Pinchingdale-Snipe?"
Still no response.
Miles drew closer. A low droning noise emerged from the vicinity of the tabletop, punctuated by the tapping of the quill.
"If — tap — to love me — tap, tap — I could thee — tap, tap — entice…"
" 'It would be very, very nice'?" suggested Miles.
Geoff's head snapped up. "What are you doing here?" he demanded, with less than the show of pleasure one might reasonably expect from one's second-oldest friend.
Miles regarded the splotchy piece of paper in some amusement. "Not what you're doing, clearly." He leaned an elbow on the table and scanned the verses inscribed in Geoff's tidy handwriting.
" 'Oh peerless jewel in Albion's crown /I would I had thee for my own' ?"
"Don't you have someplace else you would rather be?" gritted Geoff, clamping an ink-stained hand down over the piece of paper.
"Not particularly." Miles leaned over to peer between Geoff's fingers. "Are you sure that scans, old chap?"
"Don't you have a mistress you could go annoy? Somewhere far, far away?"
"Not at the moment." Miles abandoned Geoff's literary attempts and propped himself casually against the table, stretching his booted legs out in front of him. "I gave Catalina her conge last week. I was late for dinner and she broke an entire tea set over my head."
Despite himself, Geoff's lips twitched. "Sugar bowl and all?"
"Down to the last saucer," confirmed Miles. "Artistic temperament is one thing, but having china shards underfoot all the time was growing a bit wearying. Not to mention painful."
Miles grimaced at the recollection. It had taken hours to pick the fragments of porcelain out of the folds of his cravat. His valet, Downey, had been decidedly unamused by the process. And when it came down to a choice between his valet and his mistress… well, there was no question. No one kept linen quite as fresh as Downey.
"Then shouldn't you go find a new one?" Geoff suggested, keeping a protective hand over his maligned verses. "I hear there's a new French opera singer performing at Haymarket tonight. If you hurry, you might be the first to proposition Madame Fiorila."
"I've gone off opera singers for the moment. Too temperamental. Besides, I'm consigned to perdition in the form of the Middlethorpes' ball this evening. I promised Richard I'd keep an eye on Hen while he's in Sussex. Keep the young bucks at bay, that sort of thing."
"Isn't that a bit like setting the wolf to guard the henhouse?" Geoff winced. "Damn. I didn't mean it to come out like that."
"I don't know which is worse, your puns or your poetry."
"I'll pretend you didn't say that."
"That's because you know I'm a better shot than you are," Miles replied equably.
Geoff cast his friend an exasperated look, but refrained from comment. "I'll see you at the Middlethorpes' tonight."
"That's exactly what I was hoping you would say." Miles clapped his friend on the shoulder, then lowered his voice. "I need your help."
Sensing the change in Miles's tone, Geoff set down his quill, took a quick look around the room to make sure it was empty, and modulated his own tone accordingly. "With what?"
"I need you to make sure someone remains in the ballroom while I burgle his house."
"May I ask whose house you're planning to burgle, or is that a secret? And why? This isn't for a wager, is it?" Geoff asked in long-suffering tones.
Hmph. That had been eight years ago. And he'd given the chamber pot back after he'd won the wager. Trust Geoff to bring that up.
Miles refused to let himself be diverted onto the thorny pathways of self-justification. "What do you know of Lord Vaughn?" Geoff's dark brows drew together in thought. "Vaughn… He left for the Continent under mysterious circumstances while we were still at university, something to do with the death of his wife. She was an heiress, and upon her death, all of her wealth devolved to him." Geoff looked grim. "Vaughn had expensive tastes. Something didn't smell quite right about it. He put it out that she died of smallpox, but there was something dodgy about it."