Toby was slumped, eyes closed, in one of the armchairs.
Christopher grinned. He saw Toby’s long fingers, spread on the chair’s arm, twitch; his cousin was awake. “That tiring?” Christopher asked.
Toby opened his eyes and met Christopher’s gaze; Toby’s gaze was distinctly jaundiced. “Working for Drake usually is.”
“Ah.” Christopher sank into the armchair opposite, then frowned. “But why has Drake conscripted you as, I assume, a messenger?”
“Because”—Toby sat up and stretched—“he wanted to be sure the message reached you, and I was the only Cynster or Varisey he could lay hands on.” Toby looked at Christopher. “Drake has everyone he trusts out and about, running hither and yon, collecting information on his latest problem. I was in town to check on some sales at Tattersalls—he saw me and tapped me on the shoulder.” Toby sighed and leaned back. “You know how it is—Drake’s summonses really aren’t the sort one can refuse. Especially when his brothers and several of our cousins are already involved.”
Christopher humphed in understanding. Drake’s summonses invariably involved working for, as the saying went, queen and country. Drake, otherwise known as the Marquess of Winchelsea, had largely taken up where his father, the Duke of Wolverstone, had left off—managing a string of secret agents on foreign soil and generally stepping in whenever matters concerning the Crown or national security required investigating.
Given their fathers had all fought at Waterloo, the current generation, when called on, viewed assisting Drake as, in effect, their turn to volunteer and do their part in defending the realm.
“So what’s the message?” Christopher asked.
Toby took a moment to order his thoughts, then said, “Counterfeit notes have started appearing, not in London but scattered here and there across the country—even into Scotland. Not many—just a handful here, a few notes there. Drake believes that what he’s seeing is the result of trial runs testing a distribution system. Thus far, the number of fake notes surfacing isn’t large enough to create a serious problem, but assuming these are just trials, then subsequent releases are likely to be much larger—”
“And that would be a problem.”
Toby nodded. “So far, Drake’s managed to keep everything quiet—he, or more specifically the banks, can’t afford a panic. That’s why it’s taking so many of us to follow up where the fakes have come from. All inquiries have had to be made very quietly, so that even those being questioned weren’t aware of the true nature of our interest. However, through the combined efforts of many, Drake has established that all the fake notes that have appeared to date have come from the pockets of young, well-to-do gentlemen.” Toby paused, then clarified, “By young, we’re talking of twenty or so—thus far, the oldest found to be involved is twenty-two.”
Christopher frowned. “Where are they getting the fake notes? And if they’re not aware of being questioned, I assume they’re unwitting pigeons.”
“Exactly. The interesting point—and the reason I’m here—is that all these unwitting pigeons who’ve been sent into the wild with counterfeit banknotes in their pockets have one, and seemingly only one, recent activity in common. Every man involved has visited Goffard Hall over the past two months. It seems the lady of the place, which is apparently near here, runs card parties for her younger cousin, and he invites his friends, and many of them bring their friends—you know how it goes.”
“Goffard Hall?” Christopher pulled a face. “I know where it is—and yes, it’s not far—but I’ve never had anything to do with the family there, and I don’t think the parents have, either.”
“Be that as it may,” Toby said, “Drake’s asked if you can see what you can learn, but—and I’m supposed to stress and underline this for all I’m worth—whatever you do, don’t alert anyone to your interest in the place, much less the card parties.”
Christopher arched his brows. “Why such secrecy?”
“Because Drake being Drake, he has his eye on whoever’s behind the scheme. As far as I can make out, he’s hoping to pick up the trail at Goffard Hall and, in one way or another, follow it back to whoever is taking the money the counterfeit notes are substituted for. He’s assuming—for what reasons, he didn’t share—that the principal purpose of this racket is not to destabilize the currency and the country so much as to simply make money.”
Slowly, Christopher nodded. “All right. All I know about Goffard Hall is that it’s not an estate—a landholding. It’s just a large house—not even a particularly old one—set in its own grounds. The owner is a Mr. Kirkpatrick, an older gentleman who made his fortune in the City and bought the place about six years ago. As far as I know, he has no roots among the local families, no deeper connections within our county circles.” He grimaced. “Mama would likely know more, but she isn’t here, and in terms of Drake’s investigation, she’s not really contactable—not in time.”
“What about the staff?” Toby asked.
“That’s a thought.” Christopher rose and tugged the bellpull.
He returned to his chair and, when Pendleby arrived in answer to the summons, asked, “What can you—or any of the senior staff—tell me about the family at Goffard Hall?”
Sadly, Pendleby’s answer added nothing to what Christopher already knew. “And I’m sure,” Pendleby said, “that Mrs. Marsh and the others know no more. We sometimes encounter the Hall staff, of course, but they don’t tend to talk of the family—just as we don’t talk about the family here.”
Christopher acknowledged that with a grunt and thanked Pendleby, then looked at Toby. “You’ll stay the night?”
Toby nodded. “Please.” He grinned at Pendleby. “Dinner and a comfortable bed would be nice.”
Pendleby rose to the challenge. “Mrs. Marsh has already prepared your usual room, sir, and Mrs. Hambledon said she can be ready to serve dinner whenever it’s called for.”
Christopher caught Toby’s gaze. “You’re in the country now—half past six?”
Toby inclined his head. “My stomach thanks you.”
Christopher gave the order, and Pendleby left to ferry it to the dragon who presided over the manor’s kitchen.
Christopher sank back in the chair. After several moments of cogitation, he said, “It might pay to ask Montague for his opinion of Mr. Kirkpatrick of Goffard Hall.”
Toby dipped his head. “If you write a letter, I’ll take it with me when I hie back to town tomorrow. Then, after I drop in on Drake and confirm you’ll be investigating down here, it’s back to Newmarket for me.”
Christopher leaned forward. “These young gentlemen—are they noblemen’s sons or…?”
“Or,” Toby said. “According to Drake, all those he’s thus far identified as passing fake notes have been of the gentry. None have been aristocrats—and given aristocrats dominate at card parties in the capital, I suppose that fits with the sort of young gentlemen who would gather at card parties in the wilds of Kent.”