“Fine.” She went to the shelves and studied the spines of the books until she found a set of ledgers. She took several from the shelf and moved to the desk where she could use the light to study their contents. Ambrose was back to picking locks as the drawers to the desk were all closed and latched. Once again, she felt the pressure of time ticking away, but she forced herself to study the ledgers and concentrate. This sort of work was tedious and time-consuming, but she knew what information she sought—irregular payments to one or more men for nondescript services.
Ambrose managed to open one drawer and rifled through it. He took out a box and picked the lock on it, whistling softly when he opened it. Margaret glanced over and raised her brows. “That’s a hell of a lot of blunt,” she said.
“Yes, it is.” He closed the box again and started on another drawer.
They worked quietly for a time. Margaret finished the ledgers she’d carried to the desk, returned them, and brought another stack. “Anything?” she asked, watching Ambrose flip through papers.
“Not yet. You?”
“I started with the earlier ledgers. Nothing there. These are the most current, I think.” She glanced at a tall case clock against one wall. “It’s just past four. We have at most one more hour before the first members of the staff wake and begin work.”
“Then let’s find what we need and go.”
Another ten minutes passed before Margaret turned a ledger toward him. “This is it,” she said.
“Is that the household ledger or one for his business?”
“I looked at the household ledgers. Nothing. This lists payments and income from one of the Liverpool factories.” She turned back several pages. “You see the regular transactions in and out. A few irregularities, probably bribes to city officials. And then last year, several payments listed assecurity. He already has regular payments for security. These are in addition, and the amount paid steadily increases. And take a look at this.” She pointed to the last payment.
Ambrose leaned over the book, checked the date. “That’s the day before I was attacked.”
“This payment is for security to M. Golden. If that’s his real name, that’s your assassin.”
“Fifty pounds?” Ambrose pointed to the notation. “Is that all I’m worth?”
“I would have done it for forty. Do you think Golden is his real—”
They both stiffened at what sounded like a cry from the foyer. Their eyes met, and Margaret could read the question in her husband’s. Silence followed for several minutes, and Margaret leaned close to him. “A bird?”
“Still too dark for birds. One of the servants having a nightmare?”
“Possibly. I planned to copy several pages with names we might investigate.”
“I think you’d better just take the ledgers. I feel...”
He trailed off, but she knew what he felt because she felt it too. A prickly sensation crawled up the back of her neck, making the hairs there stand on end. Something wasn’t right. She might have tried to convince herself she was scared and imagining things, but she’d been taught to trust her instincts. “Let’s go,” she said, gathering the ledgers she wanted. But just as Ambrose stood, they heard a key turning in the lock to the outer door.
***
MAGGIE MOVED QUICKLY. She shuttered the lamp and pushed Ambrose back down then joined him under the desk. It was a spacious desk, but they were not short people and both of their heads bumped against the underside. Still, he didn’t move, and Maggie was so still he couldn’t even hear her breathe. She held the ledgers against her chest, one of the edges poking his arm.
The door to the study opened. The hinges were well-oiled, and there was no sound, just a change in the feel of the atmosphere in the room. Presumably, someone stepped inside, and Ambrose heard the door close again. It made a quiet thud as though it had been pushed closed as an afterthought. Beside Ambrose, Maggie stiffened. He had probably done the same. Whoever had just entered wasn’t worried about being heard. Was that because it was Vanderville himself who’d entered or someone else?
Ambrose thought about the cry, the boy at the door. And then a sliver of light crept across the floor. Whoever had entered had brought a lamp or a candle.
“I know you’re here,” a low male voice said. “I can see the smoke in the air from the lamp.”
Maggie grasped Ambrose’s wrist tightly. She was urging him to stay still. If her training had been anything like his, she’d practiced striking as one rather than separately. Two against one was hardly fair, but agents didn’t fight like gentlemen.
And yet, Ambrose couldn’t quite put that part of him aside. Maggie wasn’t just an agent; she was his wife. He had to keep her safe.
“Come out now, and perhaps I won’t kill you.” The voice was moving and presumably so was the man. He was edging toward Ambrose’s side of the desk. Ambrose pushed Maggie back and sprung out, striking at the voice but missing when the man jerked out of reach. The man twisted back to face him, no weapon in hand but on the balls of his feet, ready to fight. He was a short man and slim. His face was all angles with a dark mustache making a slash across his lip. His face registered recognition at the same time Ambrose’s did.
“You,” Ambrose said.
“Well, if it isn’t Viscount Holyoake,” the assassin answered. “Back from the dead.”
“If you thought the scratch you gave me was enough to kill me, you have a lot to learn.”
