“Don’t you find it odd that Sir Henry is still in Westfirth?” Stephano asked. “If I’d kidnapped a journeyman who’d made an astounding discovery that would revolutionize warfare, I’d be on the first ship out.”
“Maybe Wallace knew that people would be searching for him and he’s lying low to wait for the furor to die down.”
“Maybe,” said Stephano, unconvinced. “But now he knows that Father Jacob recognized him, and while he probably hopes the demons killed the priest, Wallace can’t count on it. He’ll have to leave tonight.”
“Perhaps he’s already gone,” said Rodrigo.
“Don’t sound so hopeful,” said Stephano. “Wallace went back to the Blue Parrot. Let’s say he has Alcazar stashed there. He has to pack up his things, collect Alcazar. That could take some time.”
“If I am not mistaken, here we are,” said Rodrigo as the carriage rolled to a stop. “Too bad we don’t know what Wallace looks like. Thomaso’s description could fit almost any one.”
“From what my mother told me, a description wouldn’t help,” said Stephano. “He’ll be disguised and he’d have Alcazar disguised, as well.”
“Fine establishment, this Blue Parrot,” said Rodrigo, as they emerged from the cab. “A hotel suitable for intrigue, secret assignations, lovers escaping the eyes of jealous spouses. Not the sort of place one hides kidnapped journeymen.”
The Blue Parrot was obviously a well-to-do establishment, catering only to the finest clientele. The windows of the upper levels were discreetly sealed and shuttered, while the windows on the ground floor were ablaze with light. The neatly painted sign featuring the bird for which the inn was named hung above the well-lit entryway. Through the windows, they could see serving maids bustling about in little frilly caps and white aprons waiting on elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen.
“You’re right,” said Stephano, frowning. “Still it won’t hurt to ask-”
He started toward the door. The scandalized Rodrigo dragged him back.
“My dear fellow, you can’t possibly think you’re going to go bounding inside and demand to see the guest register?”
“I was going to ask the landlord if he’d seen a man resembling Wallace’s description-”
“And you would be escorted to the street and tossed out on your ear,” said Rodrigo.
“So what would you do?” Stephano asked, exasperated.
“Take a room,” said Rodrigo. “Wash off the gunpowder residue and have supper. I’m thinking a nice bit of fish, followed by broiled squab, new spring peas and a dry white wine, moderately chilled.”
“You have to explain this bill to my mother,” Stephano grumbled.
Sir Henry Wallace arrived at the Blue Parrot without incident. Ordinarily he would not have risked giving a carriage driver his true destination, but he was in haste and he had no reason to think anyone had followed him. He did take the precaution of ordering the carriage to drive around to the back alley and came in through the rear entrance. He opened the door to his room with his key and walked in, expecting to find Alcazar there, whining as usual.
Alcazar was nowhere in sight.
“Pietro?” Sir Henry called softly, looking about.
No answer. The suite was empty. Swearing beneath his breath, Sir Henry searched all the rooms twice, even looking under the bed. He was trying to think what might have happened, when there came a timid knock on the door.
Sir Henry flung open the door and found Alcazar in the hall. Henry grabbed hold of the journeyman and dragged him, stumbling, inside.
“Where the devil have you been?”
“I… I went to visit Louisa, my b-brother’s wife,” Alcazar stammered, shriveling beneath Sir Henry’s withering eye.
“You went to visit?” Sir Henry said, his voice shaking with fury. “You left this hotel and went to visit your brother’s wife, who is undoubtedly under surveillance-”
Alcazar went exceedingly pale. “I… I w-wore a hat.”
“You wore a hat. God give me strength not to murder you,” said Sir Henry, his fists clenching.
“I have good news, sir!” cried Alcazar faintly, backing into a corner. “The Silver Raven is in port. We can leave tomorrow…”
“We’re leaving now, tonight,” said Sir Henry. “Go get dressed.”
“But I’m already dressed-”
“As a woman, you blithering idiot. You came here in petticoats. You’re damned well going to leave in petticoats.”
The chastened Alcazar hurried meekly into his bedroom, stripped off his clothes, and began to wrestle with his corset. Henry blew out the lights, walked over to the window, parted the velvet curtain a crack and looked out onto the street. He was certain he had not been followed from the bordello, but that fool Alcazar, traipsing about the city in his blasted hat could have picked up any number of tails.
Sir Henry saw a group of men congregating down the block in front of the Masons’ Guildhall. The men were drinking ale and relaxing after a hard day’s labor. Such gatherings were commonplace and he gave them only a cursory glance and then dismissed them. No one else was about.
He left the window and went to pack his things in a portmanteau. He would give orders for the portmanteau to be delivered to one of any number of locations in the city, to be retrieved at a later date. Henry deeply regretted the loss of his leather satchel, but Alcazar had his satchel, in which he carried valuable notes relating to his experiment. Sir Henry buried the pewter tankard in the satchel under the papers and then went to wash off the blood and dirt and change into elegant clothes that suited the count.
He was putting on his white, gold-embroidered weskit when he heard the clatter of horse’s hooves and the sound of wheels rolling to a stop in front of the hotel. Henry parted the curtain for a look. Two men descended from the carriage and stood in the light of a streetlamp, conversing.
Sir Henry recognized them both. He let the curtain fall.
“Son of a bitch!” Henry muttered.
Coincidence might have brought Captain Stephano de Guichen to this hotel, but Sir Henry had learned long ago to never trust in coincidence. He had to assume, therefore, that Captain de Guichen was on his trail. Henry ran through his plans.
He had purchased tickets for himself and his “lady” for the evening’s performance at the Opera Bouffe. His coach, driven by his agent, was going to take them to the crowded theater. Inside the coach were two more of his agents, dressed as the “count” and his “lady.” Wallace and Alcazar would enter the coach, but his agents would enter the theater. They would mingle with the crowd, go into their box while the lights were up, wait until the lights went down, and then disappear. All the while Sir Henry and Alcazar would be boarding the ship and sailing back to Freya.
Wallace looked back out the window to see Captain de Guichen, and his friend Monsieur de Villeneuve entering the hotel. Wallace knew what they would do, which was what he would do. They would request one of the elegantly appointed tables in the dining room, eat supper, drink wine, and observe all who came and went. He did not fear that either of them would penetrate his disguise as the count, nor were they likely to recognize Alcazar in his face powder, rouge, and curling love locks.
“But should I take that chance?” Henry reflected, pacing the room, talking to himself. “We could leave the hotel by the rear entrance. I’ll have to order the coach to be brought around to the back and that will seem odd, but I can tell the landlord that my lady’s jealous husband is looking for her.”
About to summon the page to carry a message to his coachman, Henry once again looked out the window. The lamplighter had been making his rounds and the streetlamps shed bright pools of light up and down the block. Sir Henry’s eyesight was keen. He knew what to look for, and although the pudgy man in the long cloak and hat was careful never to step directly into one of those pools of light, Sir Henry saw him lurking near a doorway.
Henry drew in a hissing breath. “Dubois!”
The arrival of Dubois, the bishop’s agent, at the Blue Parrot was definitely not coincidence. Wallace now understood everything that had puzzled him. Dubois was the third man at the duel, the mystery man who had shot at Harrington. Dubois must have kept on Harrington’s trail, followed him to Westfirth, and stayed on him until Harrington had led him to Henry, undoubtedly at the cafe. The countess’ bloodhound and the bishop’s bulldog-both
