“What have you learned?” he asked his hulking employee.
It always took Partridge some time to ruminate, and he never spoke in haste, so Marcus wasn’t surprise when his silence lasted half a block as he marshaled his thoughts.
“Went to Aunt Dolly’s last night, and she gave me a few leads. Earl of Tiptree kept the Cashel woman, right enough, for twenty years odd. Last place he kept her was in some rented rooms near St. James’s Park, not fancy, but fine enough. He turfed her and the daughter out early last Season. He’s still renting the rooms, but he hasn’t gotten himself a new mistress yet, or if he has, he’s not housing her there.”
They walked on for another half block before Partridge continued. “Found Amelia Cashel. Wasn’t in St. Giles anymore. Seems her daughter got her a job. She’s the charwoman at the brothel where the daughter works in King’s Place. Daughter’s been working there nearly a year, but there wasn’t no job for the mother until now.”
“Quite a comedown for a woman being kept by an earl to charwoman in a brothel.” Though as parsimonious as Tiptree was said to be, Marcus doubted he’d lavished the woman with luxuries.
“But a step up from where she’d been, squatting in St. Giles and selling her few belongings for food. Seems she and her daughter had a falling out about the daughter becoming a doxy, sort of following her mother into the trade. Heard the mother said she was done making a living on her back, and she didn’t intend to have a daughter doing the same. Guess her pride only took her so far. She’s cleaning the fireplaces and emptying the slops in the brothel now, but at least it’s a roof and some food.”
This was a lengthy speech from Partridge, who was content enough to let others talk when possible, but he was good at getting to the heart of the matter with his reports when he had to. For such a large man, Partridge was also discreet. The former prisoner of war and army sergeant had never given a false report, and there had never been any bow spray coming back on Marcus or the War Department from him carving through investigative waters too quickly. He could move silently through the London underground, like a shark in the Thames.
“That’s good work. I have another task for you now.” They stopped at the curb for a brewer’s wagon laden with barrels to clop by. “His name is Lord Trelawney, and I’m having dinner with him next week. Probably Tuesday. I don’t want to put out feelers myself. I’ll gather what I can from him, take his measure at dinner, and hopefully start an acquaintance that will lead to learning more. Find out what you can about any dealings he might have that he might not want made public. Chat up his coachman at the local pub, see where he goes and when. He’s a political animal, so I would expect him to court me for his party’s agenda. Sir Noel is digging into his distant past, but I need to know his current comings and goings and liaisons.”
Partridge nodded.
“We might have to break into his house and his office in the City, but not just yet. It’s early in the investigation, and he’s only a person of interest thus far.”
“Can you be doing that now? The breaking in and the like?”
“Why not?” Marcus paused. He’d always done plenty of his own dark work. It was one of the things that had earned him the respect of his men, whether in the army or now in his current occupation—that he wouldn’t send them to do something he wasn’t willing to do himself. He was an excellent cracksman, if he did say so himself.
“You bein’ a duke and all. Was bad enough, you being a decorated officer and aristocrat born. What if you was to get caught now?”
Indignation wormed through him, tightening his muscles and bringing a scowl to his face. “I don’t get caught.”
“Not so far. You’re plenty good at the quiet stuff, but things are different now. You get caught, and it looks bad for everyone. You won’t be able to say why you was doing it. And you don’t want to have to silence anyone to keep the secret. Word got out a duke was picking locks and rifling files, it would be like setting off a spark in an ammunition bunker.”
How was he supposed to be a spy for his country if he couldn’t do the things a spy needed to do? Title notwithstanding, if any housebreaking or office-breaking was required, he would be the one to do it. He was skilled enough to keep his secret life secret. He’d done so up to now, hadn’t he?
“Get to work on Trelawney’s background. And be careful. We don’t want to jump a fence only to land on a caltrop. We’re looking for someone willing to murder the Prince Regent. We have to assume he or they will be willing to murder to cover it up.” Partridge nodded, turning away and letting Marcus continue toward Hatchards alone.
St. Clair was in his office, but he wasn’t alone. The Mary Wollstonecraft book was atop the bookcase, the signal that someone else was in the office with St. Clair. Marcus consulted his watch. If he had to wait long, he’d be cutting it pretty fine to get to the club and get into evening kit for the ball tonight.
But he couldn’t be caught loitering here either. St. Clair preferred his agents not know too much about one another unless absolutely necessary, so he requested them to take pains to avoid crossing paths in the bookstore if possible. Frustrated, he turned to go. Perhaps he’d find the time tomorrow to return.
Marcus had only gone halfway up the aisle of bookshelves when the front door opened and a woman stepped in. A bonnet shaded her face, but she turned toward him, and he found himself smiling.
Lady Charlotte Tiptree.
He removed his hat and stepped forward. “Lady Charlotte. How nice to see you again.”
And it was. The cold air had colored her cheeks, and her smile in response to his greeting changed her face in that dramatic way he’d noticed last evening. Her green eyes lit up, and the light from the front windows gave the color depth and complexity.
“Are you here to purchase a copy of Hoyle’s Treatise on the Game of Whist? To brush up on your card skills?” he asked.
She laughed, and the clerk behind the counter looked up.
“Sir, I might wonder if you were here on the same errand?” She tucked her muff under her arm, her reticule dangling from her wrist. She had no gloves. Odd with the weather so brisk today. Perhaps she’d forgotten them at home. He’d noticed the same on the night he’d rescued her. “If I remember correctly, I had to do most of the work in our pairing at last night’s tournament.”
“Touché. Actually, I frequent Hatchards bookshop quite often. I can never resist browsing the books. Quillington here can vouch.” He indicated the clerk, who brushed his moustache with thumb and forefinger while nodding. “My account alone probably keeps Hatchards in the black.”
“His Grace can always be talked into purchasing the latest publications.” The clerk’s eyes twinkled.
Lady Charlotte gave Marcus a searching look. “And do you read them, or are they merely to fill your shelves in order to impress your guests?”
The question was refreshingly impertinent, but he found he didn’t mind. “If you were to ask my mother, my reading habits are one of my many faults. Not that I purchase books I don’t intend to read, but that I am always reading and not paying enough attention to other responsibilities she considers more pressing.” He guided her away from the door as another patron entered. “Are you book shopping as well, hoping to add to your library, or did you duck in to warm up?”