The rose garden proved to be a relatively small one, sunken and surrounded by high stone walls. At present, the old bushes were a riot of blooms, and their combined scent lay heavy on the air, even in the cool of the night. She led him along the central path to a stone bench, placed to allow occupants to look up the length of the garden toward the house, a section of which was framed by the entrance arch.
With a swish of her heavy skirts, she sat. Although the moonlight washed out colors, he thought the riding dress was a deep forest green with bronze ribbons and frogging. The offending feathers and ribbon rosette on her deep-green hat were also bronze.
She looked up at him, interrogatory inquiry in her expression.
He considered her, then turned and sat beside her. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, and stared up the path while he weighed how much—or rather, how little—he could get away with telling her.
She didn’t speak, just waited.
Eventually, he asked, “Did you notice the guests were using tokens to wager?”
“Those little round discs?”
He nodded. “What that means is that, for instance, when your Robbie arrives at the house, he exchanges money—real money—for the tokens, buying however many he wishes to risk in wagering over the evening.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw her frown. “Some of those young men had small mountains of tokens lined up on the tables before them.”
“Indeed. Some will wager much more than others. However, that’s not the point.”
“It isn’t? I thought losing money was the point of gambling.”
He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Generally, that’s the case. The thing about what’s happening at Goffard Hall is that the guests losing and the house winning isn’t what they want at all.” He glanced sidelong at her, unsurprised to find her frown had darkened. “You saw Tilly deliberately lose, not once but several times. I think we can be fairly certain Nigel was playing in the same way, as well as Mrs. Kirkpatrick herself—she’d sat down to act as dealer for another group.”
Slowly, Ellen nodded. “Is that why Robbie hasn’t lost much?”
“I suspect,” Christopher said, “that if you counted up his gains and losses over all his evenings at Goffard Hall, you might well discover that he hasn’t lost at all.”
“But why, then, are the Kirkpatricks holding these card parties? Purely to entertain all those young men?” She gave a cynical snort. “I would never have credited Mrs. Kirkpatrick with such an altruistic motive.”
It was too dangerous to keep the truth from her. If she made a comment to the wrong person, it might well reach the Kirkpatricks and warn them of the authorities’ interest. Christopher didn’t know enough to predict what the Kirkpatricks and the man they were presumably working for might do.
Suppressing a sigh, he said, “The authorities believe that the Kirkpatricks’ card parties are being used as a way of passing counterfeit banknotes into the hands of gullible young men, who then proceed to spread the notes hither and yon throughout the country.”
She swiveled on the bench and stared at him. “What?”
“At the end of the evening, when the guests exchange their tokens for banknotes, some of the notes they’ll receive will be very good fakes.”
When she didn’t immediately say anything, he glanced at her face. He watched her expression as she worked out how the Kirkpatricks’ system worked.
Then she blinked and caught his eyes. “How do you know about the fake banknotes?”
He’d hoped to avoid explaining that, but like a dog with a bone, she kept her questions coming until he’d answered every one. He even had to explain who, exactly, Drake was and what he did, not something Drake would be happy about.
Let Drake deal with her.
Indeed, by the time she finished wringing information from him, Christopher would have paid money to see what she would make of England’s spymaster.
Finally satisfied, as well she might be—Christopher didn’t think there was any fact or suspicion about the situation she’d failed to drag from him—she sat back and, apparently, thought. Then, faintly puzzled, she asked, “Why are the Kirkpatricks involved?” She glanced at him and met his eyes. “What do they gain from the arrangement? It would have to be something fairly major, surely, to lead them to become involved in such a crime.”
He arched his brows. “Money, I suppose.”
“From what little I’ve gleaned, Mr. Kirkpatrick is considered a very warm man.”
That tallied with what he’d heard as well.
“Perhaps,” she went on, “he’s not involved. He wasn’t in the drawing room tonight.”
Christopher straightened, recalling a sight he’d forgotten. “Kirkpatrick was working in his study, which is on the opposite side of the house from the room where the party was held—while I was checking around the house, I saw him behind his desk.”
Ellen nodded. “And he didn’t appear at the party, at least not while we were watching.”
Studying Christopher’s face, she saw his jaw harden and quickly stated, “We’ll need to learn who at Goffard Hall is involved in this scheme.” She paused, but he didn’t react adversely to her “we,” and she rolled on, “But I think the most pressing question before us is: How do these counterfeit banknotes reach Goffard Hall? If they’re brought in by smugglers, then to whom and how are the notes handed on? We suspect Mrs. Kirkpatrick and Tilly are involved, but who else is? Is Nigel definitely in on the scheme? What about the staff?”
Christopher nodded. “Those are excellent questions. How to learn the answers…”
Ellen thought, and she was sure he did as well, but neither came up with any brilliant way forward.
Eventually, Christopher glanced at his fair companion, saw she was still cudgeling her brains—and realized the danger. He drew in his legs and rose. “So now you know all, and I hope I don’t need to stress how important it is that you don’t share the information with anyone else—not even Robbie.”
She looked up at him and frowned, then rose to stand beside him. “I suppose he’s in no actual danger, is he?”
“No.” He tipped his head. “Indeed, he might end in greater danger if you warn him about the Kirkpatricks’ scheme—he would likely behave differently, and that might alert them to him knowing, which might not end well.” It was the best deterrent he could think of to dissuade her from warning her brother, and judging by the way she faintly grimaced, she’d accepted the argument.
Thank heaven.
Bad enough that he’d had to tell her his secrets.
They walked together up the central path.
Impulse struck—powerful enough to suborn his better judgment. At the end of the path, he paused under the arch, and instinctively, she halted beside him. When she looked up inquiringly, he bent his head and kissed her.
Again.
Not such a long engagement this time, but even sweeter as—it seemed entirely against her better judgment, too—she rose on her toes and, gripping his sleeve, met his lips with hers.
In a delicate, almost languid exchange—one of honey and moonlight and the wreathing scent of roses.