Rendezvous by Amanda Quick
“Excellent observation. I have always been a great believer in the virtue of a strategic retreat.” Peter flashed a brief grin and quickly opened the rear door. “After you, sir.” He waved Harry politely ahead of him.
Harry stepped out into the alley. Peter was right behind him, slamming the door shut on the angry shouts of Bleeker and the restless horde of tavern patrons.
“Damn,” said Harry as he saw the man with the knife looming up out of the reeking shadows.
Moonlight glinted on the blade as the man leaped for Harry’s throat.
Harry swept his ebony walking stick up in a slashing arc. The cane struck his assailant’s outstretched arm in a savage blow that sent the knife flying off into the shadows.
Harry rotated the stick’s handle a quarter turn with a practiced one-handed movement. The hidden blade inside the walking stick leaped out, pressing against the assailant’s neck.
“Bloody ’ell.” The man jumped back and promptly stumbled over a heap of garbage. He lost his footing on the greasy stones and fell to the pavement. He flailed wildly and began screaming curses.
“Best be on our way,” Peter said cheerfully with only a passing glance at Harry’s victim. “I expect our friends will be coming through that door any minute.”
“I had no intention of delaying our departure.” Harry flicked the walking stick handle back a quarter turn and the blade disappeared as silently as it had emerged.
Peter led the way out of the alley. Harry followed quickly. They raced out into the lane where Peter unhesitatingly turned to the right.
“It occurs to me,” Peter growled as they dashed up the lane, “that I have found myself in this sort of situation more than once with you, Graystone. I am beginning to think these things come about because you never leave a decent tip.”
“Very likely.”
“Cheeseparing, that’s you, Graystone.”
“I, on the other hand,” Harry said as he pounded down the street beside his friend, “have noticed that I only seem to find myself in these circumstances when I have you along as a guide. One does tend to wonder if there is not some logical connection.”
“Nonsense. Simply your imagination.”
Thanks to Peter’s intimate knowledge of the underbelly of the city and the general reluctance of the denizens of the stews to get involved in what looked like trouble, both men soon found themselves standing in relative safety on a busy street.
Harry used his walking stick to hail a hackney carriage which had just set down a group of drunken young dandies. Apparently the hackney’s previous passengers intended to sample the darker side of London’s nightlife.
For his part, Harry had seen more than enough. He bounded up into the cab and dropped down on the seat across from Peter.
A thoughtful silence descended. Harry idly studied the dark streets outside the window as the hackney headed toward a better part of Town. Peter watched him from the shadows, saying nothing for several minutes. Then he spoke.
“An interesting story, was it not?” Peter finally asked.
“Yes.”
“What do you make of it?”
Harry went over Bleeker’s tale again in his mind, searching for possibilities. “I am not yet certain.”
“The timing fits,” Peter said slowly. “Ballinger was killed the night after the fire at the Saber Club. He could have set the fire to muddy his own trail and killed that witness. And then gotten himself shot by that highwayman the next night.”
“Yes.”
“So far as we know, the Spider became inactive shortly before Napoléon abdicated in April of 1814. That would fit with the time of Ballinger’s death, too. He was shot in late March of that year. There was no sign of the Spider having resumed his work during the short time between Napoléon’s escape from Elba and the final defeat at Waterloo.”
“The Spider was too shrewd to have cast his lot with Napoléon a second time. The attempt to regain the throne of France in 1815 was a lost cause from the start and everyone but Napoléon knew it. Defeat was inevitable the second time and the Spider would have realized it. He would have stayed out of the affair.”
Peter’s mouth twisted wryly. “You may be correct. You always did have a talent for second-guessing the bastard. But the end result is the same. The Spider vanished from the scene in the spring of 1814. Perhaps the reason we never heard from him again was simply because he had the bad luck to fall victim to a highwayman’s bullet. Richard Ballinger could have been the Spider.”
“Hmmm.”
“Even brilliant spymasters must occasionally find themselves on the wrong road at the wrong time of night. They are no more immune to the odd highwayman than anyone else, I should imagine,” Peter said.
“Hmmmm.”
Peter groaned. “I detest it when you get into this mood, Graystone. You are not an entertaining conversationalist at such times.”
Harry finally turned his head and met his friend’s eyes. “I am certain there is no need to mention that I would not want any of these speculations of yours to get back to Augusta, Sheldrake.”
Peter grinned briefly. “Credit me with some sense, Graystone. I have every intention of living to see my wedding night. I am not about to overset Augusta and thereby risk your wrath.” His smile faded. “In any event, I count Augusta a good friend, as well as a member of my future wife’s family. I have no more wish to see her suffer because of her brother’s dishonorable actions than you do.”
“Precisely.”
Half an hour later, after the hackney had made its way through the clogged streets of the more fashionable part of town, Harry alighted at the door of his town house. He bid Peter a good night and went up the steps.
Craddock, stifling a yawn, opened the door and informed his master that everyone else, including Lady Graystone, had retired for the evening.
Harry nodded and went into the library. He poured himself a small glass of brandy and went to the window. He stood gazing out into the shadowed garden for a long while, mulling over the evening’s events.
When he had finished the brandy he crossed to the desk and frowned as he glanced down and saw a sheet of foolscap lying squarely in the center. It had obviously been placed where he could not fail to see it. The plump, curving handwriting was Augusta’s.
SCHEDULE FOR THURSDAY:
Morning: Visit Hatchards and other booksellers to purchase books.
Afternoon: Observe Mr. Mitford’s balloon ascent in park.
There was a brief note scrawled beneath the short list of activities. I trust the above schedule meets with your approval.
Harry wondered glumly if the paper would singe his fingers if he were to pick it up. The thing about his volatile Augusta, he reflected, was that one always knew what sort of mood she was in, even when she communicated in writing.
A large crowd had turned out in the park to observe Mr. Mitford’s hot air balloon ascend into a cloudless blue summer sky. Meredith was enthralled from the moment she and Augusta arrived. She began asking questions at once and did not cease, although Augusta was hard put to answer most of them. That did not stop Meredith.
“What makes the balloon go up into the sky?”
“Well, sometimes hydrogen is used, but it is rather dangerous, I understand. Mr. Mitford is apparently using hot air today. The air inside the balloon is being heated by that big fire you see. The hot air will cause the balloon to rise. See those sacks of sand they are loading into the basket? Mr. Mitford will toss them overboard to make the craft lighter as the air in the balloon cools. That way he can keep traveling for an enormous distance.”
“Will the people who go up in the balloon get hot as they get closer to the sun?”
“Actually,” Augusta said, frowning slightly, “I have heard that they get quite chilled.”
“How very odd. Why is that?”
“I have no notion, Meredith. You must ask your father that question.”
“Can I go up in the balloon with Mr. Mitford a
“No, dear, I fear Graystone would object very strongly to that plan.” Augusta smiled wistfully. “Although it would be a very fine adventure indeed, would it not?”
“Oh, yes. Lovely.” Meredith gazed rapturously at the brightly colored silk balloon.
Excitement mounted steadily around the basket as the huge balloon was filled with hot air. Ropes trailed everywhere, tethering the craft to the earth until it was time for the ascent. Mr. Mitford, a thin, energetic man, leaped about, shouting orders and giving directions to several sturdy young boys who were assisting him.
“Stand back, everyone,” Mr. Mitford finally yelled in a commanding voice. He stood with two other people in the basket and waved the crowd away from the ropes. “Back, I say. Ho, lads, release the ropes.”
The colorful balloon began to rise. The crowd roared approval and shouted encouragement.
Meredith was thrilled. “Look, Augusta. There it goes. Oh, how I would love to be going with them.”
“So would I.” Augusta tipped her head back and clung to the brim of her yellow straw bonnet as she watched the balloon rise.
When she first felt the tug on her skirts, she thought someone had bumped into her in the packed crowd. When the tug came a second time, however, she glanced down and saw a small urchin gazing up at her. He extended a grimy hand and offered her a small piece of folded paper.
“You be Lady Graystone?”
“Why, yes.”
“This is for you.” The lad shoved the paper into her fingers and dashed off through the throng.
“What on earth?” Augusta gazed down at the slip of paper. Meredith had noticed nothing. She was too busy cheering Mr. Mitford’s bold crew.
Augusta opened the folded paper with a gathering sense of dread. The message inside was short and unsigned.
If you would learn the truth about your brother be in the lane behind your house at midnight tonight. Tell no one or you will never have the proof you seek.
“Augusta, this is truly the most wonderful thing I have ever seen,” Meredith confided, her eyes still focused intently on the rising balloon. “Where are we going tomorrow?”
“Astley’s Amphiteatre,” Augusta murmured absently as she dropped the note into her reticule. “According to the advertisement in the Times, we shall see astounding feats of horsemanship and some fireworks.”
“That will be nice, but I do not think it will be as wonderful as this balloon ascent.” Meredith turned to look at her at last as Mr. Mitford’s balloon began to move off over the city. “Will Papa be able to come with us to Astley’s?”
“I doubt it, Meredith. You know he has a great deal of business to attend to while we are in town. Remember, we are supposed to amuse ourselves.”
Meredith smiled her slow, thoughtful smile. “We are doing that famously, are we not?”
“Famously.”
Harry opened the door of his library as Augusta and Meredith swept into the hall of the town house. His eyes snagged Augusta’s and he smiled slightly.
“Did you enjoy the balloon ascent?”
“It was most interesting and very educational,” Augusta said coolly. All she could think about was the note in her reticule. She longed to rush upstairs and study it again in the privacy of her bedchamber.
“Oh, Papa, it was the most amazing thing,” Meredith enthused. “Augusta bought me a beautiful souvenir handkerchief with a picture of Mr. Mitford’s balloon on it. And she said you would explain why it is that the people sometimes get quite cold when they go up in a balloon, even though they are actually closer to the sun.”
Harry cocked a brow and slanted an amused glance at Augusta while he replied to his daughter. “She said I would explain it, did she? What made her think I would know the answer to that?”
“Come, now, Graystone,” Augusta chided. “You usually have all the answers, do you not?”
“Augusta—”
“Will you be going out again this evening, my lord?”
“Unfortunately, yes. I shall not be back until quite late.”
“We will, of course, not wait up for you.” Without waiting for a response, she started sedately up the stairs to her bedchamber. She glanced back over her shoulder and saw Meredith tug at her father’s sleeve.
“Papa?”
“Come into the library for a few minutes, Meredith. I will attempt to answer your question.”
Augusta heard the library door close. She picked up her skirts and ran the rest of the way to her bedchamber. As soon as she reached her sanctum, she sank down onto the chair behind the escritoire and yanked open her reticule. If you would learn the truth about your brother …
Perhaps, just this once, Graystone did not know all the answers. She would show him, Augusta vowed. She would produce the proof of her brother’s innocence and confound Harry with her cleverness.
After careful consideration, Augusta decided the safest way out of the town house and into the night-shrouded garden was through the window of her husband’s library.
The only other option was the back door, but that route would take her through the kitchens near the servants’ quarters. There was too much chance she might awaken someone.
It was no trick to open the window of the darkened library and slip out into the garden. She had, after all, explored the route in reverse on the fateful evening when she had paid her midnight call on Harry.
Looking back, she was still amazed that Graystone had wanted to marry her after that hoydenish act. His sense of honor had no doubt tipped the balance when it came to making his decision.
Augusta dropped down onto the ground, leaving the window open behind her for a quick return. She gathered her dark cloak around her, pulled up the hood, and stood listening for a moment.
When she heard no sound she went cautiously toward the garden gate. One had to be careful about this sort of thing, she warned herself. She must keep her wits about her. She would question whoever was waiting in the lane very thoroughly. And she would make certain he kept his distance. She could always yell for help if necessary. The servants or the neighbors would hear.
She paused before opening the gate, straining to detect any sounds out in the lane. There was not even a whisper or footstep to be heard.
Augusta unlatched the gate and opened it carefully. The hinges squeaked in protest.
“Hello? Is anyone out there?”
There was no response. Down at the end of the lane the lights were shining in all of Lady Arbuthnott’s windows, but the other nearby residences were in darkness. Carriage wheels clattered out in the street and moved off into the night.
“Hello?” Augusta peered anxiously into the deep shadows for a few minutes. “Please, are you there? I got your note, whoever you are. I want to talk to you.”
She took a step out of the safety of the garden and her toe collided with a hard object on the ground.
“What in the world?” Automatically Augusta glanced down and saw a square shape lying on the paving stones. She started to step over the object and then realized it was a book of some sort. She bent down and picked it up.
As her hand closed around the leather-bound volume she heard the sudden ring of hooves on stone at the far end of the lane. She whirled about in time to see a horse and rider disappear around the corner.
Someone had been watching her from the shadows, she realized with a chill. Someone had hovered there in the darkness, waiting until she had retrieved the book, and then he had vanished.
For some reason, Augusta was suddenly very afraid, far more afraid than when she had set out on this adventure. She jumped back into the garden and hastily closed and latched the gate. Clutching the thin volume in one hand, she flew toward the safety of the house. The dark cloak swirled around her and as she ran her hair came loose from its pins.
By the time she reached the library window, she was breathing quickly. She tossed the volume over the sill onto the carpet, planted both hands on the stone wall, and hauled herself
She froze as the lamp on the desk flared into life. “Oh, no.”
Harry sat back in his chair and regarded her with hooded eyes and an unreadable expression. “Good evening, Augusta. I see you are paying another of your unconventional calls.”
“Harry. Good God, I did not realize you were home. I thought you would be out late again tonight.”
“Obviously. Why do you not come all the way into the library, madam? It cannot be terribly comfortable sitting in the window in that manner.”
“I know what you must be thinking, my lord, but I can explain everything.”
“And you most certainly will do precisely that. From inside the library.”
Augusta eyed him warily as she slowly swung her other leg over the sill, arranged her skirts, and jumped down onto the carpet. She looked at the volume lying at her feet as she slowly removed her cloak. “I fear ’tis a rather unusual story, my lord.”
“With you, it always is.”
“Oh, Harry, are you very angry?”
“Very.”
Her heart sank. “I was afraid of that.” She stooped down and picked up the book.
“Sit down, Augusta.”
“Yes, my lord.” Dragging the cloak behind her in one hand, she went across the room to sit down on the other side of the desk. Her chin lifted as she prepared to defend herself. “I know this looks very bad, Graystone.”
“It does, indeed. It would be amazingly easy, for example, for me to jump to the obvious conclusion that you are returning from some illicit midnight rendezvous with another man.”
Augusta’s eyes widened in horror. “Good heavens, Harry, ’tis nothing of that sort at all.”
“I am, of course, relieved to hear it.”
“Honestly, Harry, that would be a perfectly ridiculous assumption.”
“It would?”
Augusta straightened her shoulders. “The thing is, my lord, I was conducting my own investigations.”