Rex was almost counting himself in that number. "Is your name Harrison at all?"
Without saying yes or no, which Rex could have judged, the Aide said, "It is as good a name as any."
Rex nodded. Let the man have all the secrets he wished behind his green-glass spectacles, and cast his webs as far as he could throw them. Rex merely needed his influence.
He stood, obviously dismissed as Harrison read the message in front of him. "May I count on you to clear my path with the courts?"
The older man looked up. "Well, that is not as easy as you make it sound. You might need to lend a bit of assistance in return."
Rex raised his eyebrow, but the man either did not see or pretended not to. "Oh?" Rex asked in frigid tones.
"It is that job of work I mentioned."
"And I mentioned I was no longer interested in the army. I am on sick leave, and shall resign as soon as I am done with this ugliness."
"You are in uniform. And capable of fighting." Harrison tapped one of the letters again. "I could ask the general to put you under my command, of course."
Rex sat back down, glaring.
This time Harrison must have noticed. "I am not speaking of the army, Captain, but Bow Street, which is where you need to go anyway. I believe they are holding the murder weapon, and they have the depositions from the witnesses."
"Why am I not surprised that you have something to do with the new police force also?"
"I have something to do with a great many fields of the kingdom's well being. But I have a friend, an old friend-"
Now Rex pounded on the desk, not caring that this was, more or less, his superior officer, and the most powerful man who did not exist in all of Britain. "You told him about me? How dare you! My father said you could be trusted with the truth that could see the house of Royce destroyed."
"No."
Through his anger Rex could see the blue of the truth. "No?"
"No, I did not tell my friend about your gift, only that you had extraordinary instincts and had conducted scientific experiments while with the army, experiments concerning the timbre of a suspect's voice, the tempo of his speech, the amount of times he blinks his eye. I made up as many possibilities as I could, so no one would suspect the truth. I doubt anyone would believe it without proof anyway, so your secret is safe."
"Then what do you want with me?"
"Think, Lord Rexford, instead of going off half cocked. Imagine if an investigator could ask a few questions to know if he had arrested the right suspect? Or if a witness is lying? How many more could be put behind bars? How many innocent men freed? How much time gained by the few detectives we employ? Your skill could revolutionize thief taking and make London a far safer place."
"I am one man. What could I do?"
"You could get on about your business of begetting sons, that's one thing, so there are more of you. And you can give Inspector Josiah Dimm a few hours of your time. You are asking me to bend the law in your favor, and asking him to share evidence in a capital crime. You can repay the favor, while still doing service to your country."
"I have served!"
"Yes, but now you are quitting. I cannot permit that. You, sir, are a national treasure." He held up a hand, which had none of Nanny's swollen knuckles. "No, not like a masterpiece to be displayed at the Royal Gallery, or the Crown Jewels, on view at the Tower of London. You are rarer, actually. I shall not, will not, see you squander the gifts you have been given by wallowing in self-pity."
"Recovering from my wounds and tending my father's holdings is not wallowing."
"Rat rot! Next you will be milking the cows! Anyone can be trained to manage your estates. No amount of training will yield England another truth-seer. Your country needs you."
Rex had no choice, as far as he could see. He needed the weapon and the search warrants.
Harrison-or whoever-held the sheet of paper closer to his face, as if anyone could read it by the one small lamp, especially a man in tinted spectacles.
"Very well."
"Excellent. Give Inspector Dimm this letter."
The letter was already prepared and addressed. "You knew I would agree?"
Harrison smiled. There was something familiar about the smile behind the mustache, but Rex could not place it. Perhaps what he recognized was the sense of being managed, the way his father had manipulated him into coming to London and helping Miss Carville. Which reminded him: "If I chose not to accept this assignment, would you let Miss Carville hang, knowing she is innocent of the crime?"
Again the spymaster did not say aye or nay.
"Damn you for a blackmailer and a blackguard."
Harrison stood and sketched a slight bow. "We all do what we must, in service to King and country. Remember that."
Chapter Twelve
Rex had done enough, he thought, as he made his way to Bow Street. He was doing enough for his father, too, limping his way through London. When was he to be left in peace, to find his own path?
Granted he hadn't found any direction yet, but that was not to say he mightn't enjoy counting sheep and deciding whether to plant mangel-wurzels or maize. He was tired of others deciding for him. Yes, he had joined the army willingly, anxious to prove his worth and his courage like every other red-blooded-and blue-blooded-Englishman. What, should he have become another park-saunterer wasting his patrimony in idle pleasure while others died to keep the Corsican from British soil?
They had not let him fight.
Now they wanted him to become a Robin Redbreast. The populace hated and distrusted the new police department as much as they despised spies. The beau monde looked upon the Bow Street Runners as little better than ferrets set out to kill mice, one kind of vermin set out to kill another kind.
Rex slashed with his cane at a scrap of paper swirling through the filthy London streets and almost stumbled while two clerks watched and snickered, thinking him drunk. He wished them to perdition.
What he really wished to do was return to the Hall and sail his boat away from everyone, those who pitied him, those who worried about him, those who thought he was wasting his life. No, that was a lie he could not tell, even to himself. What he truly wanted was to return to Royce House and make sure Miss Carville was not set back from the morning's interview. She was ill; he had been harsh. He ought to apologize and make certain she was comfortable. He could find another, less finicky physician if she still had the fever. He could hire more maids if Nanny was too old. Zeus, he ought to help Daniel bring back her parents' portraits that she valued so highly, if they would bring her solace. Perhaps he should stop at a bookseller and find her the latest novel to read during her convalescence. Or did she like to have flowers about her?
He stumbled again when he realized where his mind was wandering. What he had to do was find the killer-soon-not find out if Miss Carville liked roses instead of lilies. If the price of information was a few hours playing at policeman, so be it. Far better to serve his country that way than by siring more misfits, no matter what the Aide thought. Or his father. Or Nanny. Or Daniel.
He wondered what Miss Carville thought.
Where were they? Amanda had napped; then she'd forced herself to eat some biscuits along with her tea. She had to get better, stronger, so she could act on her own behalf. Her headache was gone, but her worries were not.
Why had they not sent word? Surely Lord Rexford and his cousin knew how desperate she was for good news. She did not wish to be ungrateful, but she could not help fretting that the two men were what Aunt Hermione Hawley called choice spirits, hey-go-mad gentlemen out on a lark. A lark? To her it was life or death.
She dismissed her lack of trust. Lord Rexford took her situation seriously, enough to break the law, jeopardizing his military career. Mr. Stamfield was willing to break a few more laws, plus windows. Good grief, what if they were arrested? How could Amanda ever explain to Lady Royce that her son was in prison? Who could she ask to bail him out? How could she console the viscount's dog, who was resting on her feet, watching the door mournfully and whining occasionally. Who, by all that was holy, would help Amanda if Lord Rexford could not?