Jeremy in, then followed.
They left the hackney at the nearer end of the park. As they strolled onto the lawns, they separated, Tristan going ahead, striding easily, stopping now and then as if looking for a friend. Leonora followed a few yards behind, an empty trug hung over her arm—a flowerseller heading home at the end of a good day. Behind her, Jeremy slouched along, apparently sulking to himself and paying little attention to anyone.
Eventually Tristan reached the entrance known as Queen Anne’s Gate. He slouched against the bole of a nearby tree and settled somewhat grumpily to wait. As per his instructions, Leonora angled deeper into the park. A wrought-iron bench sat beside the path wending in from Queen Anne’s Gate; she sank onto it, stretched her legs out before her, balancing the empty trug against them, and fixed her gaze on the vista before her, of the treed lawns leading down to the lake.
On the next wrought-iron bench along the path sat an old, white-haired man weighed down by a veritable mountain of mismatched coats and scarves. Humphrey. Closer to the lake, but in line with the gate, Leonora could just see the old plaid cap Deverell had pulled low over his face; he was slumped down against the trunk of a tree, apparently asleep.
Without seeming to notice anyone, Jeremy slouched past; he made his way out of the gate, crossed the road, then stopped to peer into the window of a tailor’s shop.
Leonora swung her legs and her trug slightly, and wondered how long they would have to wait.
It was a fine day, not sunny, but pleasant enough for there to be many others loitering, enjoying the lawns and the lake. Enough, at least, for their little band to be entirely unremarkable.
Duke had been able to describe his foreigner in only the most cursory terms; as Tristan had somewhat acidly commented, the majority of foreign gentlemen of Germanic extraction presently in London would fit his bill. Nevertheless, Leonora kept her eyes wide, scanning the strollers who passed before her, as an idle flowerseller with no more work for the day might do.
She saw a gentleman coming along the path from the direction of the lake. He was fastidiously turned out in a grey suit; he wore a grey hat and carried a cane, held rigidly in one hand. There was something about him that caught her eye, tweaked her memory, something odd about the way he moved…then she recalled Duke’s landlady’s description of his foreign visitor.
This had to be their man.
He passed by her, then stepped to the verge, just short of where Tristan lounged, his gaze fixed on the gate, one hand tapping his thigh impatiently. The man pulled out his watch, checked it.
Leonora stared at Tristan; she was sure he hadn’t seen the man. Angling her head as if she’d just noticed him, she paused as if debating with herself, then rose and sauntered, hips swinging in time with her trug, to his side.
He glanced at her, straightened as she came up beside him.
His gaze flicked beyond her, noted the man, then returned to her face.
She smiled, nudged him with her shoulder, angling closer, doing her best to mimic the encounters she’d occasionally witnessed in the park. “Pretend I’m suggesting a little dalliance to enliven the day.”
He grinned at her, slowly, showing his teeth, but his eyes remained cold. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“That’s the man over there, and any minute Duke and Charles will arrive. I’m giving us a perfectly reasonable reason for following the man when he leaves, together.”
His lips remained curved; he slid one arm about her waist and pulled her closer, bending his head to whisper in her ear, “You are not coming with me.”
She smiled into his eyes, patted his chest. “Unless the man goes into the stews, and that hardly seems likely, I am.”
He narrowed his eyes at her; she smiled more brightly, but met his gaze directly. “I’ve been a part of this drama from the beginning. I think I should be a part of its end.”
The words gave Tristan pause. And then fate stepped in and took the decision from him.
The bell towers of London’s churches tolled the hour—three clangs, echoed and repeated in multiple keys— and Duke came striding swiftly along the pavement and turned in at Queen Anne’s Gate.
Charles, in the guise of a tavern brawler, came sauntering along a little way behind, timing his approach.
Duke halted, saw his man, and marched toward him. He looked neither right nor left; Tristan suspected Charles had drilled him until he was so focused on what he had to do, so desperate to get it right, that paying attention to anything else was presently beyond him.
The wind was in the right quarter; it wafted Duke’s words to them.
“Do you have my vowels?”
The demand took the foreigner aback, but he recovered swiftly. “I might have. Have you got the formula?”
“I know where it is, and can get it for you in less than a minute, if you have my vowels to give me in return.”
Through narrowing eyes, the foreign gentleman searched Duke’s pale face, then he shrugged, and reached into his coat pocket.
Tristan tensed, saw Charles lengthen his stride; they both relaxed a fraction when the man drew out a small packet of papers.
He held them up for Duke to see. “Now,” he said, his voice cold and crisply accented, “the formula, if you please.”
Charles, until then apparently about to stroll past, changed direction and with one step joined the pair. “I have it here.”
The foreigner started. Charles grinned, wholly evil. “Don’t mind me—I’m just here to make sure my friend Mr. Martinbury comes to no harm. So”—he nodded at the papers, glanced at Duke—“they all there then?”
Duke reached for the vowels.
The foreigner drew them back. “The formula?”
With a sigh, Charles pulled out the copy of the altered formula Humphrey and Jeremy had prepared and made to look suitably aged. He unfolded it, held it up where the foreigner could see it but not quite read it. “Why don’t I just hold it here, then as soon as Martinbury has checked over his vowels, you can have it.”
The foreigner was clearly unhappy, but had little choice; Charles was intimidating enough in civilized garb—in his present guise, he exuded aggression.
Duke took the vowels, quickly checked, then looked at Charles and nodded. “Yes.” His voice was weak. “They’re all here.”
“Right then.” With a nasty grin, Charles handed the formula to the foreigner.
He seized it, pored over it. “This is the right formula?”
“That’s what you wanted—that’s what you’ve got. Now,” Charles continued, “if you’re done, my friend and I have other business to see to.”
He saluted the foreigner, a parody of a gesture; taking Duke’s arm, he turned. They marched straight out of the gate. Charles hailed a hackney, bundled a now trembling Duke in, and climbed in after him.
Tristan watched the carriage rumble off. The foreigner looked up, watched it go, then carefully, almost reverently, folded the formula and slipped it into his inner coat pocket. That done, he adjusted his grip on his cane, straightened his back, pivoted on his heel, and walked stiffly back toward the lake.
“Come on.” His arm around Leonora, Tristan straightened away from the tree and started off in the man’s wake.
They passed Humphrey; he didn’t look up but Tristan saw that he’d produced a sketch pad and pencil and was rapidly drawing, a somewhat incongruous sight.
The foreigner didn’t look back; he seemed to have swallowed their little charade. They’d hoped he would head straight back to his office rather than into any of the less salubrious areas not far from the park. The direction he was taking looked promising. Most of the foreign embassies were located in the area north of St. James’s Park, in the vicinity of St. James’s Palace.
Tristan released Leonora, then took her hand, glanced down at her. “We’re out for a night of entertainment —we’ve decided to look in at one of the halls around Piccadilly.”
