Banquet of Lies (29 page)

Georges turned his face to hers, looking like the very devil himself, delightedly watching the world come to a bad end. “I
took so long getting here because I had to find the duke. He was still at his club, playing cards. Right through the night he played, and into the morning. But I hunted him down, and impressed upon him the urgency and importance of the situation, and he agreed to go home, bathe, change and eat a light repast, and then come here to get you out.”

“But why did you stay, then? You didn’t need to get yourself locked in here with me.”

Georges shook his head. “Though I impressed upon him the severity of the situation, the English nobility . . .” He puffed out a breath. “They are sometimes like the eels, no? They wiggle out of their responsibilities, unless it is clear the alternative is much more unpleasant. The duke, he will not stir himself unless his own comfort is compromised—he is far too lazy. But with the best chef he has ever had locked up, and the prospect of no good lunch or dinner, or any food at all of my standard until this matter is taken care of . . .” He smirked. “Well, then. I think I can safely say we can expect the duke at any
moment
.”

Gertrude chuckled. An earthy, sexy chuckle that clung stubbornly to a few tattered scraps of innocence and happier days. “Monsieur Bee-say, you are a devil. The kind of devil a girl would be lucky to have on her side.”

Georges smiled back and gave a deep bow. “
Merci, madame
.”

A key scraped in the lock and the door opened. Gigi moved back a little, watching along with everyone else as Peterson and then Gilbert stepped through. Someone was
behind them, but until they were a few steps into the passage, she didn’t see who it was.

The shadow man. The dark, compact stranger who had followed her through the market this morning.

The sight of him froze her. She moved her lips with difficulty. “Georges, please tell me that is not the duke.”

“That is not the duke.” He frowned, then seemed to notice her fear. “This isn’t—?”

“The
stallu
himself.”

“You know this gent, Madame Levéel?” Gilbert was watching her with his sharp, clever eyes again, the broken light from the far window catching the red in his bushy sideburns. “Seems very keen to get you out o’ here and take you into his care.”

“He’s the man who was standing on the corner as you drove me out of Chapel Street.” She took another step away from the bars. “The man who is trying to kill me.”

“Yes, I thought I recognized him.” Gilbert turned sideways. “You were wearing a black coat earlier, but you’re the same man.” He tapped just under his left eye. “Never forget a face, me.”

Gigi finally saw the shadow man properly for the first time. Well-made, clean-cut features, a pleasant face. Hiding in the shadow of earnest decency.

“How did you find me here?” Gigi asked.

“I’m afraid Lord Aldridge’s butler doesn’t like you very much.” The shadow man’s lips quirked at the edges. “He was only too happy to talk about how you got your comeuppance.”

“Get his name and his office, Mr. Gilbert.” Gigi forced herself to retreat no further. She would not cower back. “There are sure to be men in Whitehall who will be very pleased with you if you do.”

“Come now, Gilbert. Are you going to be bossed about by a suspected spy?” The shadow man clicked his tongue. “Manipulated by a pretty face?” Some of his ugliness leaked out from beneath the shadow cloak. His countenance had a twist to it, as if he were struggling to control his temper.

Gilbert was a hard man to read. He was touchy. She couldn’t be sure if he’d rise to the shadow man’s taunts or turn against him for trying such an obvious ploy.

“
If
I let you take her, it will only be on receipt of your name and office.” He crossed his arms. “And you’ll give me those details even if I don’t let you take her.” Gilbert’s voice had turned decidedly cool.

“You’re insolent, Gilbert, and out of your league.” The shadow man drew himself up and stepped into Gilbert’s space.

Gigi shivered at the ugly rage she saw in his face. Gilbert seemed to shrink back, and the shadow man sent her a sidelong look of triumph. “Hand her over now, or you will be lucky to work on the street watch.”

Gigi forced herself to hold his gaze, and then Georges pushed forward in front of her. “You will have to go through me to get to her.” There was no give in his tone. She stepped to the side and saw the shadow man recoil at the sight of him.

“Who are you?”

“I am Georges Bisset.” He spoke as if no further explanation were necessary.

The shadow man turned away from them, his face tight. “You’re being played by a couple of Frenchies, Gilbert. I’m with the Foreign Office, and I am perfectly within my rights to demand you hand them over.”

“Both of them?” Gilbert had straightened again, and his tone was sly. “What’s the Foreign Office charge against Monsieur Bisset? You never mentioned him when you came in.”

The shadow man struggled to stay calm. “I didn’t know he was here then. But all right. Just the woman will do for now.” He narrowed his eyes at Georges. “What do you have him in for?”

“Oh, Monsieur Bisset isn’t a prisoner. He requested to wait with Madame Levéel until she is released. Seems quite concerned for her welfare.”

“Not a . . .” The shadow man took a nervous step back.

“That’s right. He’s within his rights to follow you out of here if you take his friend, and I don’t think you’d be easily rid of him.” Gilbert seemed to be enjoying himself, pitting two men he clearly did not like against each other. “Now, before we go any further, your name and office, please, sir.”

The shadow man hesitated, then shrugged. “John Miller, Department of Foreign Trade.”

“Well now, that was easy wasn’t it?” Gilbert jerked his head at Peterson. “Run down to the Department of Foreign Trade and ask after a John Miller. Be sure to get a physical description.”

For a moment, in the space of the blink of an eye, she saw the shadow man’s face blanch.

“You calling me a liar?” Miller, if that was his name—and Gigi doubted it—leaned into Gilbert again.

And just like that, she could see he was desperate. He reeked of it.

Coming here, openly trying to pry her from Gilbert’s grasp, was a desperate act. Even if he never gave his true name, his face had been seen. If he did manage to bully Gilbert into giving her to him, Gilbert would remember him. Remember everything if her body was found somewhere. And he hadn’t even factored in Georges.

That would have come as a nasty shock.

Georges was someone who would cause a fuss about his taking her, demand a search, hunt him down in whatever department he occupied in the Foreign Office, under whatever name, and point the finger.

She wondered why he was taking the chance.

Either it was critical that there be no delay in getting the letter, or the shadow man’s cohorts did not accept failure.

By coming into the station he’d put his career in jeopardy, and if he were caught, he’d hang. She could only imagine they’d threatened him with a painful and more immediate death if he did not succeed.

Whether it was the French, or some faction of the Russian court, they would make him wish he was dead before they killed him—and if he hadn’t thought of that before he took on their dirty work, he must surely be thinking of it now.

Peterson gave a nod and left the room, and Miller looked after him. Gigi couldn’t see his face.

“Just good procedure; I’m sure you understand.” Gilbert spoke gravely, stroking his left sideburn with one finger.

Miller rallied, gave a cool smile. “Well, while he checks it, perhaps you can release the woman to me and get the paperwork sorted.”

He would grab her and run, the moment she was within his reach. She could see it in the way he began to ready himself for a fight, tensing, his expression going still and flat, his arms loosening.

A commotion from the front office froze Gilbert’s reply, and they all turned.

“Where is my chef?”

The man at the end of the passage was tall, elegantly dressed and slouched against the doorframe. He looked in his early thirties, and there was a dissolute charm and slightly seedy handsomeness to him that he wore with careless arrogance. He had dark circles under his eyes, and when he walked forward, Gigi got the sense he was not quite sober.

“Now
that
,” said Georges, “is the duke.”

A
s Jonathan’s coach drove swiftly toward Queen Square Public Office, he cursed Edgars.

She’d been willing to tell him her secrets yesterday morning, he was sure of it. The way she’d nodded to him in the kitchen doorway had spoken of a decision made, no matter the consequences.

The thought that she had been so close to trusting him, only to have her come to harm under his own roof . . .

Damn Edgars!

The coach pulled up outside the building and he told the driver to wait, not knowing how long he’d be inside. He pushed through the door hard, and it took him until he was halfway across the main reception area to realize everyone’s attention was on an elegantly dressed man propped up in a doorway at the back of the room.

The man had his back turned, looking down a passageway, but Jonathan knew him immediately.

The Duke of Wittaker.

When they’d had their shouting match in the duke’s kitchen, Georges Bisset had promised to take Madame Levéel back to Wittaker’s mansion. And here Wittaker was—the duke had stirred himself to fetch her personally.

With a sinking dread that slowed every new step he took, he thought of the threat he’d made to Bisset that day, about calling the Alien Office to investigate, and wondered if Bisset thought he was behind this arrest.

If the burly cook had convinced Madame Levéel that he was, he might never see her again.

“You’ve locked my chef up!” Wittaker’s voice rose to a shout. “On what charge, sir?”

There was a murmur of response, and Wittaker took a step deeper into the room.

A clerk jerked in surprise to see Jonathan standing right beside him. “Can I help you, my lord?”

“I’m here to fetch my cook. I’m told you’re holding her here.”

“What?” The man seemed so taken back, Jonathan focused on him more sharply.

“I was told the senior constable would only release her to me. I’m Lord Aldridge.”

“She must cook a real treat.” The clerk leered.

“I beg your pardon?” Jonathan checked his step forward and turned back to stare at the man.

“No offense.” The clerk scrambled back behind his desk. “Just . . . you’re the fourth gentleman come for her since Mr.
Gilbert brung her in. There’s a tug o’ war going on in there over her now.”

Jonathan turned his attention back to the passageway, and stepped through.

It was very crowded.

A cell full of men was immediately to his right, and they were pressed up hard against the bars, straining to see as much as possible. At the far end of the passage, Wittaker stood with two other men. Just beyond them was a smaller cell and he could see Bisset standing up against the cell door, along with Madame Levéel.

She looked past Wittaker and saw him, and he held her gaze. There was relief in her eyes, and resentment, and a hot, well-stoked anger.

That shaken-bottle-of-champagne feeling came over him again.

“Lord Aldridge.” She called out his name so her words cut through the commotion, and for a moment, there was absolute silence as everyone turned to him.

Wittaker started in first. “I say, Aldridge, you having your cook arrested has caused me all sorts of inconvenience. I was about to take Harriford for his yearly allowance when Bisset interrupted me to come down and get her. What’s going on? According to my chef she’s an angel in the kitchen, and we’re taking her with us. So your loss. Ha-ha.”

Jonathan opened his mouth to reply and then stopped. And stared at one of the other two men.

He knew him. He’d seen him only a few days ago, and he’d felt an instant dislike for him.

Frobisher! The man whose rumor about Giselle Barrington had sent Dervish off to Stockholm.

“What on earth are
you
doing here?” He didn’t think he mistook the way Frobisher pushed back against the cold stone wall at the sight of him, or the wild-eyed look he’d been giving Wittaker before he noticed Jonathan.

“You know this man?” the final man in the room asked.

“Who are you?” Jonathan got the impression of someone quick and alert, before his gaze strayed back to Madame Levéel. She tightened her grip on the bars.

“Gilbert. Senior constable, Queen Square Public Office.”

Jonathan didn’t like the way he spoke; a sharp sliver of contempt scraped the edge of his words raw. When Jonathan swung back to him, Gilbert held his gaze with a cocky aggressiveness that held only the slimmest thread of nerves.

Jonathan was tired, and his coating of polite manners had been rubbed almost through. Under the gold plate were all manner of reactions no one here would like.

He had not fought and killed in Spain, become one of the most decorated officers in his regiment, by being polite.