Leopard in Exile (8 page)

whose plots had vexed England since long before even Wessex's father had been born.

The interior of the coach reeked strongly of hashish, and Wessex spotted the tall slender form of a

narghile set in an ebony stand attached to the floor of the coach. He set his lantern beside it, scenting the

bitterness of absinthe beneath the cloying sweetness of hashish.

He had no time to refine upon Warltawk's vices, however. Working as quickly as he could, Wessex

began to dismantle the interior of the coach..

There were secret drawers beneath both seats. One contained a pistol—mercifully unloaded—and a

stack of gold coins. Wessex picked one up and examined it by the lantern's light. A gold napoleon, of this

year's minting. He tipped the booty into his pockets, conscious of the role he must play, but beneath the

acting, his mind raced. How had Warltawk come by these coins? Had he been paid in them, or was he

to pay in his turn?

The other drawer contained a small packet tied with a violet ribbon. Wessex sniffed at it, and untied the

packet. A cursory inspection identified these as the letters of a lady. This, too, was bestowed upon one

of the pockets of the grey coat for further inspection.

"I said bestir yourself, me lord!"

Merlin's voice. Wessex came quickly out of the coach.

The tableau upon the turf remained unchanged. Warltawk stood unmoving, glaring malevolently at the

highwayman. With his coachman by his side, it would be a great risk to approach him, and one that Mad

Merlin obviously preferred not to take.

"You may shoot my servants, if it amuses you. But if you shoot me, I guarantee that worse will come to

you than hanging." Warltawk's voice was dispassionate.

"And if you are an invalid? Thrown upon the charity of your son?"

Wessex, coming closer, spoke softly into Warltawk's ear in a voice quite unlike his natural one. He laid

the barrel of his pistol against Warltawk's leg meaningfully.

"You were a noted duelist in your day, my lord. You have seen how a wound can fester, condemning a

man to see out his days hemmed in by servants and the grossest indignities. You are thought to be the last

of your line, my lord, but I know otherwise. You have a living son. I am certain that he would not

condemn you to the care of strangers." The identity of Lord Warltawk's secret by-blow had been a

closely-guarded secret for nearly half a century, but the White Tower knew many secrets. It would be a

quietly amusing sort of revenge to throw Warltawk into Malhythe's household.

As the meaning of his words penetrated, Wessex felt the old man's body struck by a whiplash of rage,

until for a moment he feared that a paroxysm would carry Warltawk off.

"You
will
pay for this insolence!" the old man hissed in an adder's voice.

"On another day." Wessex stepped back and gave the servant a shove. "You—move off."

The footman's nerve broke at last. He turned and ran in the direction from which the coach had come.

"Allow me to assist you," Wessex offered, reaching for Warltawk's cape.

There was nothing in the cape; Wessex tossed it to the ground. He was reaching for Warltawk's coat,

when he discerned a glint amidst the foam of lace that cascaded from his lordship's throat. Wessex seized

it, and flicked the long golden chain over Warltawk's head.

He stepped back, gazing at what he held in growing dismay.

It was a quizzing-glass, such as any member of Warltawk's generation might sport… but a highly unique

one which, as Wessex knew for a fact, did not belong to Warltawk.

An antiquary who'd once seen it had suggested that the stone itself was possibly Roman—a disk of ruby

roughly two inches in diameter, with a silvery flaw in its center whose shape had given the gem its name.

The ruby called the Mirror Rose had been reset several times, though always as a quizzing glass. There

were five bands along the handle engraved with letters in the Hebrew, Greek, and Latin alphabets. Once

the rings were set in combination, the quizzing-glass became the engine to cypher—or uncypher—any

document. Unbreakably.

The Mirror Rose was the property of Sir Geoffrey Hanaper, personal private secretary to Endymion

Childwall, Marquess of Rutledge.

And Rutledge served the White Tower.

"How did you come by this?" Wessex demanded roughly.

It would be too much to say that there was a look of fear upon Warltawk's face, after the threats Wessex

had made, but there was certainly a look of… caution.

"I am an antiquary. I recently purchased this item. And you, sir, are a most peculiar highwayman."

Wessex was fast ceasing to care whether Warltawk recognized him or not. Hanaper would not have

given up the jewel while he lived, for whoever possessed it could translate England's most secret

correspondence.

Wessex cocked his pistol and pressed it against Warltawk's thigh, prepared to deliver the wound he had

promised. "Tell me how you stole this from Geoffrey Hanaper," he said.

"One cannot steal from a dead man," Warltawk answered coolly.

"Why should I believe you?" Wessex said.

"An impasse," Warltawk agreed. "Very well, sirrah, let me offer you this to match it: the late Mr.

Hanaper's employer, one Endymion Childwall, is making a hasty trip to the Continent under cover of the

nuptial celebrations. Perhaps it was occasioned by the discovery that his secretary had uncovered that

which he ought not to've. Perhaps it is the desire to ally himself with the winning cause. His blood was

never what it ought to be, you know."

Wessex took a silent step backward, raising his pistol and releasing the hammer. Warltawk's words

made a terrible kind of sense. If Hanaper had been murdered and the death disguised—If Rutledge were

the Judas-agent whose activities had so vexed the White Tower, and Hanaper had discovered that

fact—

There was nothing more that could be done here, short of shooting Warltawk. And Wessex would leave

that work to another. Wessex turned away, gesturing for Merlin to precede him.

"I bid you good evening, Your Grace of Wessex," Warltawk said, his voice pitched for the Duke's ears

alone.

Wessex did not look back.

Wessex and Morgan rode until the lights of Town were visible. Whatever Warltawk knew—or thought

he knew—was a problem for another dawn. For now Wessex put it behind him. At the edge of Town,

Wessex drew rein and turned to his companion. Both men had rearranged their dress as they rode, giving

themselves a more respectable appearance. If luck was with them, it would be hours before Warltawk

could report his encounter with a pair of highwaymen. And it would be best for all concerned if the

Prince de Minuit
could prove he'd been entirely elsewhere, for Warltawk's reach was long.

"If I were you, my lad, I'd get Malhythe to send you somewhere safe—such as Paris," Wessex said with

a faint smile.

"I was thinking more of Coronado," Merlin said fervently. "I'd rather live under the Dons than be torn to

gobbets by that wizened old hellgrammite."

"Coronado might be far enough," Wessex allowed. He passed Merlin a heavy wallet that bulged with

stolen gold. An experienced gentleman of the high toby such as Merlin would find ways to spend the gold

napoleons without attracting undue attention. "This should see you there and more. If I were you, I'd

leave now."

Merlin smiled a crooked smile and touched two fingers to his hat-brim. "And so I shall. And I thank you

for an evening I'd not care to repeat, Master Blaise."

He wheeled his horse and trotted away. Wessex wasted no time in spurring Hirondel on his own path.

At this hour, it was not possible to use the regular entrance to the White Tower Group, which was a

haberdashery on Bond Street. Instead, Wessex spent precious minutes locating a certain coaching inn

that lay along High Holborn. He did not stop in the Globe and Triangle's innyard, but rode Hirondel

directly into the stable.

A surly ostler looked up, reaching for the lead-weighted club with which he kept order in his domain.

"The Scarecrow has business with England," Wessex said, and the ruffian subsided. He jerked a thumb

over his shoulder.

Wessex dismounted—to have dismounted before giving the code-phrase would have been to ensure his

immediate execution—and led Hirondel through the stable. The Globe and Triangle was a busy inn, and

for the most part its traffic was entirely ordinary.

A second groom watched carefully as Wessex led Hirondel into the last stall on the end, taking with him

the lighted lantern that hung on the peg there. It was a loose-box, scrubbed clean and with thick straw

strewn upon the floor. Wessex went quickly to the manger in the back and pushed it toward the left.

There was a loud click as the mechanism engaged, and then the entire back wall of the stall swung inward

as if it were a door, to disclose a long downward-sloping narrow passageway, just high enough for a

mounted man, if he were a careful one.

Wessex led Hirondel through the opening, then shoved the wall back until he heard the click that meant

the mechanism had engaged once more. The stallion nosed at him inquisitively, and Wessex took a

moment to reassure the beast before he swung into the saddle again.

The passage was damp and close and smelled pervasively of horse. Hirondel's hooves made only the

faintest of sounds, for the passage was floored in thick rubber tiles. It led from the stables at the Globe

and Triangle to the cellars of the Bond Street house, a passage of no little distance. Wessex had used it

only once before, but tonight he had no choice: there could be no possible reason for the Duke of

Wessex to call upon his tailor at this hour of the morning—and he could not approach Baron Misbourne

at a public function even if he knew where the White Tower's master might be.

A quarter of an hour brought him to the end of the passage. The passageway seemingly ended in a solid

wall, but Wessex knew its secret. He dismounted, tied Hirondel to a ring set into the wall, and cast about

until he found the pulley-ropes that worked the dumbwaiter. As Wessex strained at the counterweighted

ropes, an open-sided box that only moments before had appeared to be a part of the tunnel walls began

to rise skyward, bearing Wessex with it.

It was just as well that my lord of Wessex had dressed the part of a low fellow when he had gone

seeking the highwayman, for no Pink of the
Ton
7
would have been able to work the mechanism without

imperiling the work of the impeccable Weston. But Wessex's coat was slovenly loose, and a few minutes

of exertion saw the open elevator rise into the lowest of the cellars of the Bond Street establishment.

Charteris was there to greet him as always, the impeccably-liveried White Tower butler giving no

indication that there was anything amiss regarding the hour or fashion of Wessex's arrival.

"Good evening, Your Grace," Charteris said imperturbably, reaching for Wessex's cloak and hat.

His Grace surrendered the items reluctantly. The Mirror Rose was in the inner pocket of his coat. "I need

to see Lord Misbourne. It is a matter of the utmost urgency."

"Of course, Your Grace. If you will come with me to the Yellow Parlor, I shall enquire if His Lordship is

at home. I shall send a servant to see to your horse."

A few moments later, Wessex stood in one of the four small rooms on the ground floor of the premises.

Except for the colors for which they were named—Red, Yellow, Violet, Blue—and which were carried

out in their decoration and appointments, the four rooms were virtually identical. Even at this hour there

were fresh candles burning on the mantel, and from behind the velvet curtains, the faint sounds of late

revelry could still be heard on the streets without.

He supposed that Charteris was waking Misborne as he waited. He doubted Misbourne would be any

happier to receive this news than Wessex had been to gain it… assuming it were in fact true.

He drew the Mirror Rose from his pocket and studied it. In the light of the clustered candles, the flaw

that so resembled a silver rose in the heart of the ruby could be clearly seen. With this and its

counterparts, Britain had an inviolable code to use in communicating with its politicals on station in Lisbon

and elsewhere. Without it, they did not. It was bad enough that the secret should be known at all. Worse,

that it should be compromised.

The door to the Yellow Parlor opened.

"My lord will see you now," Charteris said impassively.

Wessex dropped the quizzing-glass into a pocket and followed Charteris up the curving staircase to the

first floor of the town house concealed behind the haber-dasher's facade. No doors gave onto the

corridor save the one at its end. That door was covered in padded red leather, and as always, Charteris

pushed it open and allowed Wessex to pass through without announcement.

Also as always, the room was frightfully dim, for Jonathan Milo Arioch de la Forthe, third Baron

Misbourne, had been born an albino: strong light hurt his eyes, and sunlight blinded him. But these

disabilities were insignificant in the face of Misborne's formidable intellect, a mind which had placed him

as the spider in the center of the web that held the Grande Alliance together: the white knight who had

taken the field against the Black Pope and the prospect of a globe-spanning French empire.

Wessex forced himself to stand still, waiting for his eyes to adjust. The room was lit by several cobbler's