Entering the library where Hungerford, his butler, had left Dalziel to kick his heels, the first thing he became aware of was the aroma of fresh coffee; Hungerford had served Dalziel a cup.
Tony nodded to Dalziel, elegantly disposed in an armchair; without breaking his stride, he went to the bellpull and tugged. Then he turned and, propping an arm along the mantelpiece, faced Dalziel. He had set his cup down and was waiting.
“I apologize for the early hour, but I understand from Whitley that you discovered a dead body last night.”
Tony looked down into Dalziel’s dark brown eyes, half hidden by heavy lids, and wondered if such occurrences ever slipped past his attention. “I did. Pure chance. What’s your—or Whitley’s—interest?”
Lord Whitley was Dalziel’s opposite number in the Home Office; Tony had been one of, possibly the only member of, Dalziel’s group ever to have liaised with agents run by Whitley. Their mutual targets had been the spy networks operating out of London, attempting to undermine Wellington’s campaigns.
“The victim—a William Ruskin—was a Senior Administrative Clerk in the Customs and Revenue Office.” Dalziel’s expression was totally uninformative; his dark gaze never wavered. “I came to inquire whether there was any story I should know?”
A Senior Administrative Clerk in the Customs and Revenue Office; recalling the stiletto, an assassin’s blade, Tony was no longer truly sure. He refocused on Dalziel’s face. “I don’t believe so.”
He knew that Dalziel would have noted his hesitation; equally, he knew that his erstwhile commander would accept his assessment.
Dalziel did, with an inclination of his head. He rose. Met Tony’s eyes. “If there’s any change in the situation, do let me know.”
With a polite nod, he headed for the door.
Tony saw him into the hall and handed him into the care of a footman; retreating to the library, he wondered, as he often had, just who Dalziel really was. Like recognized like; he was certainly of the aristocracy, with his finely hewn Norman features, pale skin and sable hair, yet Tony had checked enough to know Dalziel wasn’t his last name. Dalziel was somewhat shorter and slighter than the men he had commanded, all ex-Guardsmen, yet he projected an aura of lethal purpose that, in a roomful of larger men, would instantly mark him as the most dangerous.
The one man a wise man would never take his eye from.
The door to the street shut; a second later, Hungerford appeared with a tray bearing a steaming cup of coffee. Tony took it with a grateful murmur; like all excellent butlers, Hungerford always seemed to know what he required without having to be told.
“Shall I ask Cook to send up your breakfast, my lord?”
Tony sipped, then nodded. “Yes—I’ll be going out shortly.”
Hungerford asked no more but silently left him.
Tony savored the coffee. Along with the premonition Dalziel’s appearance and his few words had sent tingling along his nerves.
He was too wise to ignore or dismiss the warning, yet in this case, he wasn’t personally involved.
But
Dalziel’s query gave him the perfect excuse to learn more of her.
Indeed, given Dalziel’s interest, it seemed incumbent upon him to do so. To assure himself that there really wasn’t anything more nefarious than murder behind Ruskin’s death.
He needed to find the lady.
The Bastion Club novels came about when I returned to a character who appeared in my novel
In asking the question,
However, in telling Tony’s story, I found that, of necessity, I had to tell the story of the Bastion Club itself, and ultimately the stories of all seven of its members, for these stories are all interwoven.
About the Author
By Stephanie Laurens
