She held his gaze, evaluating, realizing he’d left her no option. Her lips tightened, but only fractionally. “Very well. If you truly think it necessary.”

“I do.” Absolutely, definitely necessary; if he thought he could get her to agree, he’d have half a dozen men about her. “I’ll be staying in London—Gervase should be back from Devon, and with luck Jack Hendon might have something to report.”

“If you learn anything, you will send word, won’t you?”

He smiled, a flash of teeth and resolution. “I’ll bring any news myself.” He studied her eyes. “If anything happens, Scully, the new footman, or Maggs, will get word to those watching—they’ll find me. I’ll come as soon as I can.”

For an instant, her expression remained serious, sober, the reality of the threat, the potential but unknown difficulty she and her family might have to face—that he and she both felt sure they would face—dulling the gold and green, then a smile softened her eyes. “Thank you.” Putting a reassuring hand on his arm, she held his gaze. “We’ll manage.”

Her “we” included him; that was clear in her eyes, in her inclusive smile.

His expression eased. He hesitated, then bent his head. Cradling her face in one palm, he kissed her, briefly yet… the link between them was now so strong, even that brief caress communicated volumes.

Raising his head, he stepped back. Saluted her. “Au revoir.”

Tony returned to Upper Brook Street to discover messages from Jack Hendon and Gervase Tregarth awaiting him. Both expected to have firm information by noon; Gervase suggested they meet at the Bastion Club. Tony sat at his desk and dashed off a note to Jack, giving him directions and a brief explanation—enough to whet his appetite.

After that he sat and mentally reviewed all he knew thus far. Action was clearly imminent; why plant incriminating evidence if not to expose it? How, by whom, and precisely when he didn’t know, but he could and did clear everything on his desk, all matters that might need his attention over the next few days.

Summoning Hungerford, he gave orders that would ensure, not only that his houses and estate would continue on an even keel were he to be otherwise engaged for a week or so, but also that the various members of his extended staff, some of whom did not fit any common description, were apprised of his intentions, and thus would hold themselves ready to act on whatever orders he flung their way.

At a quarter to twelve, he headed for the Bastion Club.

Climbing the stairs to the first floor, he heard Jack, already in the meeting room, questioning, clearly intrigued by the club and its genesis. He pricked up his ears as other voices answered—Christian, Charles, and Tristan were there, regaling Jack with the benefits of the club, especially as applied to unmarried gentlemen of their ilk.

“I’m already leg-shackled,” Jack confessed, as Tony appeared in the doorway.

“To a spitfire, what’s more.” Tony entered, smiling.

Jack raised his wineglass. “I’ll tell her you said that.”

“Do.” Unperturbed, Tony took a seat opposite and grinned at Jack. “She’ll forgive me.”

Jack mock-scowled. “I’m not so silly as to encourage her.”

Quick footsteps on the stairs heralded Gervase. He strode in quickly, brown curls windblown, the light of the hunt in his eyes. Every man about the table recognized the signs.

Christian, Charles, and Tristan exchanged glances. Christian made as if to rise. “We’ll leave you…”

Tony waved him back. “If you have the time, I’d value any insight you might have on these matters. For our sins, we’re all sufficiently connected with Dalziel, and Jack worked for Whitley.”

Gervase drew out a chair and sat. “Right, then.” He looked at Tony. “Who do you want to hear from first?”

“Jack’s been checking the specific ships.” Tony looked across the table. “Let’s start there.”

Jack nodded. “I concentrated on the sixteen vessels listed in Ruskin’s notes that we know were taken. Thus far, I’ve only been able to get a general picture of their cargoes—asking too many specific questions would attract too much interest.”

“Were they carrying anything in common?” Christian asked.

“Yes, and no. I’ve got word on six of the sixteen, and each was carrying general cargo—furniture, foodstuffs, raw products. No evidence of any peculiar item common to all ships.”

“Six,” Tony mused. “If there’s nothing in common between six, then chances are that’s not the distinguishing factor.”

Jack hesitated, then went on, “All the ships are still registered—there’s no hint of any insurance fraud. On top of that, all the ships I’ve got information on were owned by various lines, their cargoes by a variety of merchants. There’s no common link.”

Tony frowned. “But if you think of what’s lost when a ship is taken as a prize, rather than sunk…” He met Jack’s eyes. “The lines buy back their ships—it’s the cargo that’s lost irretrievably.”

“To this side of the Channel.” Charles looked at Jack.

“But aren’t cargoes insured?”

His gaze locked with Tony’s, Jack shook his head. “Not in such circumstances. Cargoes are insured against loss through the vessel being lost, but they aren’t covered if the goods are seized during wartime.”

“So it’s considered a loss through an act of war?” Tristan asked.

Jack nodded. “The cargoes would be lost, but there’d be no claim to worry the denizens of Lloyd’s Coffee House, no fuss perturbing any of the major guilds like the shipowners.”

“And if the merchants were unconnected individuals, and the losses varied and apparently random…”Tony paused, frowning. “Who would that benefit?”

None of them could offer an answer.

“We need more information.” Tony looked at Gervase.

Who smiled grimly. “It took a bit of persuasion, but I heard three separate tales from three unconnected individuals of ‘special commissions’ being offered in the Channel Isles. The contacts were all English, and all were miffed that these ‘commissions’ were being offered solely to, not specifically French, but only to non-English captains.”

Gervase exchanged a glance with Tony. “You know what the sailors in and about the Isles are like—they consider themselves a law unto themselves, and largely that’s true. It never was clear where they stood in recent times.”

Tony humphed. “My reading is that they’re for themselves, regardless.”

“Indeed,” Charles put in. “But I assume the links between our shores and the Isles, and the Isles and Brittany and Normandy continued to operate throughout the war?”

“Oh, yes.” Both Tony and Gervase nodded; Jack, too.

“Located as they are…” Jack shrugged. “It would be wonderful were they not the haunt of ‘independent captains.’”

Tony turned to Gervase. “Did you get any confirmation on those particular ships?”

Gervase shook his head. “None of my contacts had information on specific ships—they’d never been in the running for those ‘special commissions’ and it seems whoever was making the offer played his cards very close to his chest.”

Tony grimaced. “I could go over and scout about, but…”

Jack shook his head. “Aside from all else, there’d be more than a few who might remember one Antoine Balzac, and that not fondly.”

Tony raised his brows fleetingly. “There is that.” He reached into his pocket. “Which brings us to my discovery, which makes me even less inclined to go fossicking on foreign shores.”

He tossed the bundle of letters on the table; the others’ eyes locked on them. “Yesterday, a greasy-looking clerk in dusty black called at Mrs. Alicia Carrington’s house in Waverton Street while she and her sister were in the park, as might have been predicted, the hour being what it was. Said clerk insisted on waiting, and was shown into the parlor, but when Mrs. Carrington returned home, no sign of this clerk could be found.

“Later, when I searched the parlor, I found these, wedged behind books in a corner bookshelf.”

The others all glanced at him, then reached for the letters. Their faces grew more and more impassive as they read each, passing them around the table. Finally, when all five letters had been tossed back on the table, Christian leaned forward and looked at Tony. “Tell me why Mrs. Alicia Carrington cannot be A. C.”

Tony didn’t bridle; Christian was playing devil’s advocate. “She’s been married just less than two years—before that, she was Alicia Pevensey, and that’s been checked.” He gestured at the letters. “All five of these were written while she would still have been A. P.”

Christian nodded. “Her husband—what was his name?”

“Alfred.” Tony didn’t like pretending Alfred Carrington had ever existed, but life would be easier if he stuck to Alicia’s fabrication. “But he died nearly two years ago, so he wasn’t the A. C. who was continuing to seek and buy information from Ruskin. Further, the Carrington family have no connections through which they might have used such information, nor wealth enough to have played A. C.’s game. The payments, the system, are consistent throughout—we’re looking for one man, A. C., who’s very much alive.”

“And up to no good, what’s more.” Charles flicked one of the letters. “I don’t like this.”

Tony let a moment elapse, then softly said, “No more do I.”

After a moment, he went on, “However, the letters confirm that the track we’re pursuing is correct. They show A. C. did engage French naval captains and French privateers to capture ships, presumably using information Ruskin supplied.” He added his knowledge of the Frenchmen involved.

“Stop a minute.” Tristan said. “What have we got so far? How could a scheme based on what we’ve surmised work?”