"Yes, my lord." The flunkey stared rigidly out of the narrow, slitted window in the ancient stone wall overlooking the river.
Simon scratched his head. If the intelligence in the note was genuine, then it was of incalculable importance. As important as the information about the secret articles to the Treaty of Tilsit.
He dismissed the flunkey, picked up his hat and cane, and left Westminster, hailing a hackney. "Bruton Street."
Nathaniel, in buckskin britches and top boots, was leaving the house as the hackney drew up. "Simon, what brings you in the middle of the day.?" He greeted his friend cheerfully. "Affairs of state not too pressing?"
"On the contrary," said Simon. "I need to discuss something with you."
"Oh, well, let's go to Brooks' in that case. I was thinking of going to Mantons Gallery for some target practice, but Brooks' will do as well. Gabrielle's interviewing cooks and the house is Bedlam. Jake's just slid down the banisters and twisted his ankle, which seems by any standards to be only justice, but Miss Primmer is wailing and gnashing her teeth, and Gabrielle insists on sending for the doctor. One more minute in that madhouse, and I shall seriously take to drink."
Chuckling, he flung an arm around Simon's shoulder, turning him toward Piccadilly.
Simon, despite his preoccupation, couldn't help reflecting with pleasure that his old friend had finally reemerged from the dour carapace of grief and guilt. But then, no one could live with Gabrielle for any length of time and remain morose. Outraged, perhaps, but never sullen or aloof.
In the hushed masculine seclusion of Brooks', Simon handed Nathaniel the paper. "This arrived by some mysterious messenger this morning." He reached for the decanter of port on the table between them and filled two glasses while Nathaniel perused the document.
"A secret convention at Fontainebleau with the Spanish," he murmured, sipping port. "We knew about that."
"But not about the threat to Portugal."
"No." Nathaniel sat back, crossing his legs. "Who the hell supplied this?" It was a rhetorical question, and Simon offered no answer.
"Do we believe it?" he asked.
Nathaniel nodded. "Can't afford not to, as I see it. Boney's had his eye on Spain for a long time. We need to support Portugal if we're to keep the entire Iberian Peninsular out of bis clutches."
"You'll put some of your people into the field?"
Nathaniel nodded again, setting down his glass. "I've several agents in Madrid who can be deployed to Lisbon. In fact," he added almost to himself, "I might go myself."
"You could talk directly with the Portuguese regent," Simon said. "You'd have more authority, carry more weight than one of your agents."
He stood up. "I'll see the prime minister immediately. I expect he'll want to consult with you without delay." He drew on his gloves. "I wonder if this mysterious source will produce anything else."
"If he does, make damn sure the messenger is held at the gate until I can interview him. I have every intention of getting to the bottom of this," Nathaniel declared. "If there's one thing I can't tolerate, it's manipulation, even if it is to our benefit. If this source is above board, then why the devil doesn't he show himself? Surely he must want something in exchange?"
"You're a cynic," Simon said. "Maybe his motives are of the purest… loyalty, patriotism…"
"In a pig's ear," Nathaniel retorted. "If they were, he'd show himself. No, something about this stinks to high heaven, Simon, and I intend to find out what."
He strode back to Bruton Street, his head full of dispositions and plans, and a deep sense of unease. All his instincts told him that something was badly wrong. Espionage by definition involved clandestine informers, but this intelligence was too important for a mere dabbler to have acquired. And Nathaniel was convinced he knew all the experienced players in the international field. And if it was a newcomer, how did he know to pass on his information to Simon? Simon's close government connections with Nathaniel's secret service were known to no one apart from the spymaster and the prime minister, not even Georgie or Miles.
Gabrielle knew, of course. He paused outside Hatchard's bow window, frowning, as a past world of suspicion reared its ugly head. Once a spy always a spy? No, that was nonsense. She had given up espionage with irrefutable conviction, and he had no justification for doubting her. Besides, there was no way she could be involved in this. Her marriage had defined her loyalties and cut her off from all access to such privileged information. And even if by some weird happenstance she had had such access, she'd simply have given the information to him. It was only logical. She'd gain nothing by this devious approach.
He walked on, convincing himself of this logic. A line of black-clad candidates for the post of cook snaked out of the door and down the steps of his house. With a fresh wash of irritation he stopped on the pavement. Surely Gabrielle should have finished this tedious business by now.
He marched in and entered the morning room, where Gabrielle was conducting her interviews.
"For God's sake, the house looks like an employment exchange," he declared. "Haven't you found someone suitable yet?"
"Thank you, I'll be in touch with the agency," Gabrielle said to the woman sitting on a straight-backed chair against the wall. The woman bobbed a curtsy and left.
"What's the matter with you?" Gabrielle demanded of Nathaniel. "That was so inconsiderate."
"What's going on in my house is inconsiderate," he said. "There must be twenty women out there."
"Well, I can't send them away without seeing them," she said reasonably. "I don't know why there are so many unemployed cooks in town at the moment. I should have told the agency to screen them first, but it slipped my mind."
She regarded her husband closely. He was in one of his impatient, preoccupied moods, and it wouldn't take much to trigger an explosion. "Something's upset you."
Nathaniel ran a hand through his hair in an impatient gesture. "I've just seen Simon, that's all."
Had Simon consulted Nathaniel about the information already? She'd expected him to consider the message, consult his cabinet colleagues, and certainly the prime minister, before involving Nathaniel. Was Nathaniel Simon's first call? The lad couldn't have delivered the paper much more than a couple of hours earlier.
"Is that all?" she said lightly. "Seeing Simon doesn't usually put you out of sorts."
"I hate mysteries," he said. "And I cannot abide the feeling that I'm being used in some way." His eyes skimmed her face, took note of her hands lying calmly in her lap.
Gabrielle's palms dampened. So it was about the information. "Who's using you?"
"I don't know… yet," he added, beginning to pace the room. "But I intend to find out."
"You're not being particularly informative." Gabrielle rose and went to the fire, bending to warm her hands, although she was uncomfortably hot. She had the feeling her cheeks might be flushed and the warmth of the fire would offer explanation.
Nathaniel looked at her, the graceful curve of her tall body, the flickering lights in her hair, caught by a spurting flame, the slenderness of her waist, the flare of her hips, outlined under the creamy beige cambric of her morning gown.
Gabrielle had nothing to do with the events of the morning.
A familiar urgent sweep of lust carried all unease and irritations from his mind.
He approached her softly, encircling her waist with one arm, holding her steady across one outthrust thigh, his free hand molding the curve of her buttocks beneath the gown, slowly drawing up the soft material, revealing the length of her legs inch by inch, the hollow behind her knees, the expanse of smooth thigh, the pale flesh above her stocking tops.