He’d sailed directly from Cornwall to Dover after learning that a government courier had been ambushed and murdered. The courier’s pouch contained dispatches meant for General Lord Wellington in Spain, most important a schedule of impending gold shipments, detailing dates and locations of delivery to Britain’s European allies. Then, before the schedule could be changed, a wagonload of bullion worth nearly two hundred thousand pounds was stolen, all its guards killed, shot without mercy.

An urgent investigation had ensued, with agents combing every tavern and posting inn and dock, searching for possible leads. The man in custody had had the poor judgment to boast about knowledge of the theft, although he claimed to have no responsibility in the courier’s murder.

Lucian had come today with one of his best agents to continue interrogating the prisoner.

“You there,” the jailer said gruffly, “get to yer feet. You ‘ave visitors.”

The ragged blanket on the straw mattress moved, then moaned when the jailer kicked it. “This is Ned Shanks, milord.”

A hulking brute of a man crawled slowly out from beneath the blanket and climbed to his feet, clutching his ribs.

Shanks was clearly the worse for his imprisonment. In the lantern light, Lucian could see his grimy face was badly bruised and one eye swollen shut, while dried blood matted his greasy black hair.

A look of fear crossed his face when he saw Lucian’s colleague, Philip Barton, who was primarily responsible for the prisoner’s current damaged condition.

“Leave us, please,” Lucian said to the jailer.

When they were alone, Lucian eyed the prisoner for a long moment. As the silence drew out, Shanks visibly grew more nervous, until finally he exclaimed in a voice oddly high and breathless for so large a man, “Gor, I know naught, milord. I don’t even know why I been arrested.”

Lucian kept his voice gentle. “You have been arrested, Mr. Shanks, because a government courier has been murdered and his dispatch pouch gone missing. And because you have knowledge about how and why it happened.”

“I know only what I told that gent, I swear! That’s all I know.”

“Why don’t you repeat your tale to me? My colleague, Mr. Barton, believes it might be helpful to have another, fresh perspective.”

Ned flashed the silent Barton a fearful glance. “I ‘eard my friend Boots bragging about a job over an ale, saying ’ow ‘e was soon to be plump in the pocket.”

“At the Boarshead Tavern?”

“Aye, milord. Well, I followed ‘im to see who ’e planned to meet with. I stopped around the corner from the mews. It was dark so I couldn’t see much, and I could only ‘ear part of what was said.”

“But you could see his companion.”

“Some ‘at. ”E was a toff, for sure. Boots called ’im a lord. Lord Caliban, or some such thing.“

Although expecting to hear the familiar name, Lucian felt himself flinch. Caliban was the monster in Shakespeare’s The Tempest and the sobriquet of the ringleader the British Foreign Office had been seeking for months.

“And what did this Lord Caliban say?”

“ ‘E told Boots when the courier would come and what to do-where to lie in wait on the ’ighway. ”E wanted that courier’s bag bad enough to pay big. Boots was to get twenty quid if ‘e could deliver the bag.“

“I wonder if Boots realized what the pouch contained.”

“ ‘Pon me life, I don’t know anything more. Only what I ’eard Boots say.”

“Are you aware your friend Boots was found garroted in an alley two days ago?” Lucian asked even more gently. “The work of your Lord Caliban, I expect.”

Ned’s face went white.

“What can you tell me about this Caliban?” Lucian said finally.

“Not much. ”E wore a mask. And a fancy coat, like yerself.“

“What of hair color or physical build? Was he short or tall?”

“Medium, I guess. Taller than Boots. But ‘is ’air was covered.”

“Any distinguishing marks you can recall? Think, please, Mr. Shanks. It would be of great use to us to have even the slightest hint of Lord Caliban’s identity.”

Ned’s grimy brow furrowed. “No marks, but… come to think of it, ”e had a ring.“

“What sort of ring?”

“Gold. Wore it on ‘is left ’and. I remember it glittered red.”

Philip spoke for the first time. “You told me nothing about a ring before.”

Ned’s wary look held alarm. “I only just now remembered. Boots was going on about it, saying ‘ow it would be worth a fair plum if ’e could lift it.”

“Can you recall anything about the design?” Lucian asked.

“Something like a dragon’s head, Boots said. ”Ad red stones for eyes.“

“Rubies, perhaps?” Lucian asked.

“I guess, maybe. I really didn’t get near enough for a look.”

Contemplating the prisoner, Lucian was certain he had nothing more to offer. “Thank you, Mr. Shanks. You have been a great deal of help.”

“Milord?” Ned’s tone grew anxious as he sent Barton another fearful glance. “What will ye do with me? I ‘ave a wife ’oo will be wondering what’s become of me.”

“So do I,” Lucian murmured softly. “You are free to go, Mr. Shanks.”

“Go?” Ned looked astonished, as did Philip Barton to a lesser extent.

Lucian fished in his pocket and drew out a handful of guineas. “Here. In remuneration for your trouble.”

Accepting the offer reflexively, Ned stared down at the gold pieces in total bewilderment.

“If you should hear of any news,” Lucian added, “anything even remotely connected with Caliban or with your late friend Boots, I would hope you will inform the innkeeper at the Boarshead. He can get word to me.”

“Aye, milord, of course!”

At his eagerness, Lucian flashed a charming half smile. “You might also be interested to know a reward is being offered for the capture of this Lord Caliban. Two hundred pounds.”

Shanks’s mouth gaped open. It was still set that way when Lucian left the cell, followed closely by Philip Barton with the lantern.

Neither of them spoke until they were seated in Philip’s closed carriage and headed toward the inn where they both were staying.

“You think it wise to let him go?” the younger man asked.

“Wiser than frightening him out of his skin,” Lucian replied mildly. “Or beating him to confess knowledge he doesn’t have. Greed can sometimes prove a better method than pain.”

“I shall keep that in mind,” Philip said stiffly.

“That was not a criticism, my friend. You did an excellent job simply finding Shanks. Because of you, we are one step closer to unearthing our traitor. But Shanks can be more useful to us alive than dead. And this way, if he hears even a whisper about our chief nemesis, I expect he will jump at the chance to tell us.”

“You’re certain Caliban is the traitor you are looking for?”

“I’m certain of it,” Lucian said grimly.

He had a large score to settle with his elusive enemy. Murder, theft, treason only headed the list of crimes. Even more personally galling was Caliban’s practice of luring young bucks of the ton into betraying their country. Lucian’s grimmest task had been to kill one of his boyhood friends who had turned traitor at Caliban’s behest. The memory still haunted him.

“He must have an accomplice within the Foreign Office,” Philip muttered. “How else would he know when to intercept the courier?” He clenched his fists. “It rankles to know a traitor is directly under our noses and we cannot do a bloody thing to stop him.”

“Indeed,” Lucian agreed succinctly, feeling but not visibly displaying the same corrosive self-torment that was eating his subordinate inside.

Philip turned his troubled gaze to Lucian. “My lord, I would not blame you in the least if you were to dismiss me. I should have thought of changing the transport schedule. If I had, then the last shipment of gold would still be safe, the guards still alive.”

Lucian shook his head. Philip Barton was one of his brightest agents, but even the brightest made mistakes. And the young man was not entirely to blame. Lucian was suffering his own harsh brand of guilt, his own private anguish. Had he been in London instead of dallying in Cornwall, courting his bride, he could have acted when the courier’s murder was first discovered. In all likelihood he could have prevented the gold theft and the deaths of half a dozen more innocent men, a lapse in judgment he would forever have to live with.

Whether or not the shipment had been smuggled to France yet was anyone’s guess, for the trail had gone stone cold. Lucian had immediately sent men to Cornwall to scour the coast in the event that Sir Grayson Caldwell was involved, but he doubted Cornwall was the transfer point this time. The gold was likely in France by now, bankrolling Napoleon’s armies instead of those of the Triple Alliance-Austria, Prussia, and Russia.

Lucian was seething with helpless fury inside, his gut and heart both aching with dismay. But long practice at concealing his feelings behind a sophisticated mask allowed him to answer evenly. “If I dismissed you, Philip, then I would have to dismiss myself. I was off attending to my own personal affairs, I recall.”

“It is not the same thing, my lord. Your wedding nuptials should come before duty.”

“No.” His resolve hardened. “Nothing should come before duty.”

Lucian turned his head to gaze out the carriage window. Lusting after a woman, even his own wife, was no excuse for forsaking his grave obligations. A few vital infusions of gold into Napoleon’s military machine could prove pivotal in the outcome of the war-the difference between a Europe subjugated under a tyrant’s boot heel and the allies finally being able to crush him once and for all.