broad shoulder against the back of the chair and crossed his legs at the ankle. ‘I will accept your commission with pleasure, Justin.’
‘Rein in your enthusiasm, Richard,’ Lucas said drily, coming to lean against the arm of his brother’s chair. ‘I believe we should discover the true nature of the task before we get too excited!’
Cory took a deep swallow of the brandy and glanced appreciatively at the glass in his hand. There were many reprehensible things going on in the Midwinter villages, but the smuggling was the one thing that he would be loath to put at an end.
‘Thank God you gave us a drink before you sprang that on us, Justin,’ he said feelingly. ‘I need it! Where do you find your brandy?’
‘In a keg under the hedge, I’ll wager,’ Richard said drily. ‘And I cannot blame you, Justin.’
The Duke grinned, but did not deny it. ‘Let us be serious for a moment, gentlemen,’ he said. He got to his feet and moved across to the table. A map of the county of Suffolk was folded there and Justin opened it, spreading it out on the green baize surface. Richard weighted one corner down with his brandy glass and Lucas took a book from the shelves and placed it on the corner diagonally opposite. The atmosphere in the room had changed from the good-natured banter of a moment previously. All of them knew that there was more to this than a convivial drink among friends and an outrageous commission.
‘I realise that you are aware of why we are here,’ Justin continued, ‘but it might help to recapitulate.’ He looked around at their intent faces. ‘As you know, gentlemen, this is an invasion coast. It would take a French fleet no more than forty-eight hours to make the crossing from Dunkirk-less, in fair weather. It is generally accepted at the Admiralty that the bulk of the invasion army would be landed in Kent or Sussex, but that a diversionary force could land on the Suffolk coast and cause considerable difficulties.’
The others nodded.
‘How many men?’ Cory asked.
It was Richard, with his Navy background, who answered, ‘Possibly twenty thousand.’
Cory gave a silent whistle. ‘Hence the need for well-drilled volunteers to provide support for the regular troops.’
Lucas nodded. ‘Exactly. It may not happen, of course, but one must be prepared. But our problem is closer to home. What is the latest intelligence, Justin?’
Justin took up the thread. ‘Precious little. We know that French spies have been operating in the Midwinter villages, but we do not know who they are. They have been passing on information about troop movements, harbour defences, even, we suspect, the names of local men who might prove amenable to helping the French ships navigate the rivers-fishermen, smugglers and the like.’ His mouth tightened to a grim line. ‘Much of the information is in code and we do not know which cipher they are using, nor how the messages are being passed.’
Richard frowned. ‘Had Jeffrey Maskelyne not found out any information before his death? I thought he had been working on the problem for some time.’
Justin was shaking his head. ‘He had, but he left no record-’ He broke off. ‘What is it, Cory?’
‘Maskelyne did leave something,’ Cory said slowly. ‘Miss Odell told me yesterday that she had found a collection of false books that Maskelyne left.’
‘False books?’ Richard frowned.
‘Book frontages with nothing but blocks of wood behind,’ Cory elaborated, much as Rachel had done. ‘I wondered whether there might be a message of some sort hidden in one of them.’
‘Any chance you could get a look?’ Justin enquired.
Cory nodded. ‘I can certainly try, though it would be difficult to explain if Miss Odell noticed what I was up to…’
‘I am sure that you can think up a suitably plausible excuse,’ Justin said. He shifted slightly. ‘We are dealing with damnably clever spies here, gentlemen. These are people who do not make mistakes and do nothing to draw attention to themselves. They give us no clues at all. Hence the need to take a different approach and one that may seem a little…duplicitous at times.’
Lucas’s eyes narrowed. ‘So, speaking of duplicity…Your theory is that if we lay siege to the hearts of the Midwinter ladies, then we may learn something useful?’
Justin’s grim expression lightened slightly. ‘In part. Local gossip is often a fertile source of information. There is another reason, however.’ He let go of the map and rolled it up with a sharp snap.
‘All evidence suggests,’ he said, ‘that the Midwinter spy is a woman.’
This time the silence went on for a long time. Eventually Cory broke it with a rueful look round at his companions.
‘I do not suppose that any of us disputes such a possibility, Justin,’ he said, ‘but what is the evidence?’
Justin sighed. ‘There was a female spy working in Dorset last year. She was almost caught.’ His mouth quirked ruefully. ‘The reason she was not was because those seeking her found it so difficult to believe that the spy
‘And now you suspect that the same woman is here in Midwinter?’ Richard questioned.
‘That is correct.’
Lucas grimaced. ‘Surely there cannot be many suspects who fit the bill? She should be easy to trace…’
Justin smiled. ‘That is precisely the problem, Lucas. She is not. And this is a matter of life and death. A man has died and we are no further advanced. The activities of this person are putting thousands of lives at risk. If her information enables the French to mount a successful invasion, then put that at hundreds of thousands.’
‘Treason,’ Cory said. Put in such stark terms, it hardened his purpose. There could be no allowances made, nor chivalrous gestures. Cory’s adventures, both covert and open, had taken him all over the globe and he had no illusions about the capabilities of women. Justin’s next words echoed his thoughts precisely.
‘There is no room for sentiment here, nor conventional views on the frailty of women, gentlemen. I assure you that our spy is not in the least frail.’
‘Does she work alone?’ Cory asked.
Justin shrugged. ‘Probably not. But the organisation centres on her. Hers is the cool calculation behind all the planning-and hers is the execution.’
‘Suspects?’ Richard said succinctly.
‘The obvious one,’ Justin said, ‘is Lady Sally Saltire. She is a rich widow, she has the freedom to travel a great deal, she was in London this winter past, and we know her to have the capability to plan such an operation. One has to question what she is doing in a backwater like Midwinter in the first place.’
‘Planning a watercolour book to raise funds for charity, so I hear,’ Cory said feelingly.
Justin Kestrel laughed. ‘Indeed. Which gives us an ideal excuse for becoming involved in Lady Sally’s circle. If we were all to volunteer to take part in the book-’
Cory groaned. ‘Must we? All experience suggests that you will not need an excuse to become involved in local society, Justin. To the contrary, you will need protection from it! An unmarried Duke with a romantic reputation-you will be under siege!’
‘Devil a bit!’ Justin said cheerfully. ‘I can handle it. I say we should all offer to take part.’
Richard raised his brows. ‘I have no objection to the watercolour book, but one has to question your logic in suspecting Lady Sally of spying, Justin.’ He hesitated. ‘You know her better than anyone and I cannot believe that you would think her a traitor.’
Justin Kestrel’s face was drawn. ‘I used to know her a long time ago, Richard. I have no idea of her political sympathies now.’
Cory caught Richard’s eye. They all knew that Justin had once carried a torch for Sally Saltire. Popular rumour said that he still did. He had never married.
Lucas was leaning over the map. ‘Who are our other suspects and where are they situated?’
Justin reached for the brandy bottle and passed it around.
‘The Marneys live in Midwinter Mallow,’ he said, pointing to the west of the area. ‘Ross Marney is a war hero who served in Egypt. He is married to Olivia, a lady of unimpeachable virtue whom I would swear could no more be a French spy than I could. But-one never knows.’
Lucas grimaced. ‘And Lady Marney has a widowed sister, if my memory serves me correctly.’
Justin shot him a look. ‘She does. Mrs Deborah Stratton. She was married to a soldier who died in action. That alone should give her no love for the French.’
