She opened her eyes wide. “I’ve never been to one—I take it I should treat the prospect with enthusiam?”
“Precisely.” He couldn’t help but grin at her delight—nothing to do with any music hall but the result of pure excitement.
They passed Deverell, who’d got to his feet and was brushing himself down preparatory to joining them in following their quarry.
Tristan was an expert at trailing people through cities and crowds; so, too, was Deverell. They’d both worked primarily in the larger French cities; the best methods of the chase were second nature.
Jeremy would collect Humphrey and they’d return to Montrose Place to await developments; Charles would be there ahead of them with Duke. It was Charles’s job to hold the fort until they returned with the last, vital piece of information.
Their quarry crossed the bridge over the lake and continued on toward the environs of St. James’s Palace.
“Follow my lead in all things,” Tristan murmured, his eyes on the man’s back.
Just as he’d expected, the man paused just before the gate leading out of the park and bent down as if to ease a stone from his shoe.
Sliding his arm around Leonora, Tristan tickled her; she giggled, squirmed. Laughing, he settled her familiarly against him, and continued straight past the man without so much as a look.
Breathless, Leonora leaned close as they continued on. “Was he checking?”
“Yes. We’ll stop a little way along and argue about which way to go so he can pass us again.”
They did; Leonora thought they put on a creditable performance of a pair of lower-class lovers debating the merits of music halls.
When the man was once more ahead of them, striding along, Tristan grasped her hand, and they followed, now rather more briskly as if they’d made up their minds.
The area surrounding St. James’s Palace was riddled with tiny lanes and interconnecting alleyways and yards. The man turned into the labyrinth, striding along confidently.
“This won’t work. Let’s leave him to Deverell and go on to Pall Mall. We’ll pick him up there.”
Leonora felt a certain wrench as they left the man’s trail, continuing straight on where he had turned left. A few houses along, she glanced back, and saw Deverell turn off in the man’s wake.
They reached Pall Mall and turned left, ambling very slowly, scanning the openings of the lanes ahead. They didn’t have long to wait before their quarry emerged, striding along even more quickly.
“He’s in a hurry.”
“He’s excited,” she said, and felt certain it was true.
“Perhaps.”
Tristan led her on; they switched with Deverell again in the streets south of Piccadilly, then joined the crowds enjoying an evening stroll along that major thoroughfare.
“This is where we might lose him. Keep your eyes peeled.”
She did, scanning the throng bustling along in the fine evening.
“There’s Deverell.” Tristan stopped, nudged her so she looked in the right direction. Deverell had just stepped into Pall Mall; he was looking about him. “Damn!” Tristan straightened. “We’ve lost him.” He started openly searching the crowds before them. “Where the devil did he go?”
Leonora stepped closer to the buildings, looked along the narrow gap the crowds left. She caught a flash of grey, then it was gone.
“There!” She grabbed Tristan’s arm, pointed ahead. “Two streets up.”
They pushed through, tacked, ran—reached the corner and rounded it, then slowed.
Their quarry—she hadn’t been wrong—was almost at the end of the short street.
They hurried along, then the man turned right and disappeared from view. Tristan signaled to Deverell, who started running along the street after the man. “Down the alley.” Tristan pushed her toward the mouth of a narrow lane.
It cut straight across to the next street running parallel to the one they’d been on. They hurried along it, Tristan gripping her hand, steadying her when she slipped.
They reached the other street and turned up it, strolling once more, catching their breaths. The opening where the street the man had turned down joined the one they were now on lay ahead to their left; they watched it as they walked, waiting for him to reappear.
He didn’t.
They reached the corner and looked down the short street. Deverell stood leaning against a railing at the other end.
Of the man they’d been following there was absolutely no sign.
Deverell pushed away from the railing and walked toward them; it only took a few minutes for him to reach them.
He looked grim. “He’d disappeared by the time I got here.”
Leonora sagged. “So it’s a dead end—we’ve lost him.”
“No,” Tristan said. “Not quite. Wait here.”
He left her with Deverell and crossed the road to where a streetsweeper stood leaning on his broom midway down the short street. Reaching under his scruffy coat, Tristan located a sovereign; he held it between his fingers where the sweeper could see it as he lounged on the rails beside him.
“The gent in grey who went into the house across the way. Know his name?”
The sweep eyed him suspiciously, but the glimmer of gold spoke loudly. “Don’t rightly know his name. Stiff- rumped sort he is. ’Ave ’eard the doorman call him Count something-unpronounceable-beginning-wif-an-eff.”
Tristan nodded. “That’ll do.” He dropped the coin into the sweep’s palm.
Strolling back to Leonora and Deverell, he made no effort to keep his self-satisfied smile from his lips.
“Well?” Predictably, it was the light of his life who prompted him.
He grinned. “The man in grey is known to the doorman of the house in the middle of the row as ‘Count something-unpronounceable-beginning-wif-an-eff.’”
Leonora frowned at him, then looked past him at the house in question. Then she narrowed her eyes at him.
His smile broadened; it felt amazingly good. “The house is Hapsburg House.”
At seven o’clock that evening, Tristan ushered Leonora into the anteroom of Dalziel’s office, secreted in the depths of Whitehall.
“Let’s see how long he keeps us waiting.”
Leonora settled her skirts on the wooden bench Tristan had handed her to. “I would have assumed he’d be punctual.”
Sitting beside her, Tristan smiled wryly. “Nothing to do with punctuality.”
She studied his face. “Ah. One of those strange games men play.”
He said nothing, simply smiled and leaned back.
They only had to wait five minutes.
The door opened; a darkly elegant man appeared. He saw them. A momentary hiatus ensued, then, with a graceful gesture, he invited them in.
Tristan rose, drawing her to her feet beside him, setting her hand on his sleeve. He led her in, halting before the desk and the chairs set before it.
After closing the door, Dalziel joined them. “Miss Carling, I presume.”
“Indeed.” She gave him her hand, met his gaze—as penetrating as Tristan’s—coolly. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Dalziel’s gaze flicked to Tristan’s face; his thin lips were not quite straight when he inclined his head and waved them to the chairs.
Rounding the desk, he sat. “So—who was behind the incidents in Montrose Place?”
“A Count something-unpronounceable-beginning-wif-an-eff.”
Unimpressed, Dalziel raised his brows.
Tristan smiled his chilly smile. “The Count is known at Hapsburg House.”
