“Dear God, man, you don’t mean…” CB simply stared at him, speechless. A near impossibility until now.
“Our journal is in the hands of the most frequented bookshop in London?” Col dropped his head into his hands. “I’m going to be sick.”
“How the devil didourjournal end up at Hatchards?” Sythe used his imperious barrister tone, the one that had other barristers shaking in their boots.
Ath simply rolled his eyes.
“I’ll tell you how,” Col said as he raised his head and stared daggers at him. “Cheddars. That doddering old fool—”
“Leave off, Cheddars. This isn’t his fault.” Ath massaged the back of his neck. Didn’t help. His head had begun to pound in rhythm with his heart. “The journal was on the floor next to the box of books. He assumed I intended it for the bookseller with the others.”
“Thatbookhas sat on that stand in that exact spot since you took these rooms after we finished at Cambridge. Cheddars has seen it there every damned day.” Sythe stood and began to pace the room.
“You’re assuming Cheddars can see. The man is three days older than God, for Christ’s sake.” CB, his color a bit better, leaned forward and ran his hands up and down his thighs.
“It isn’t Cheddars’s fault,” he almost shouted. Save for the three men in this room, Cheddars was the only person in the world who gave a damn for him. He’d been a part of his life since the day Ath was born and had served as his valet for more than half of the twenty-eight years since. Before that Cheddars had been his grandfather’s valet.Grandfather. Not a subject for today’s thoughts.
“Not his fault? Your ancient retainer has made a mistake set to land us all in every scandal rag in England. Whose fault is it precisely?” CB asked.
“The scandal rags are the least of our worries. There is enough in that book to land us all in crim-con court for years.” Sythe glanced at CB. “Or worse.”
“This is a disaster,” Col muttered. “A complete and utter disaster.”
“More lives than ours will be ruined should that book land in the wrong hands.” CB looked up at Ath. “How long has it been missing?”
“He visited Hatchards just before closing yesterday. I noticed the book was gone when I arrived home this morning. Cheddars went out to try and retrieve the book. I sent for you the moment Cheddars returned from Hatchards.”
“He’s already been to Hatchards at this time of day?” Col sat up and rested his head against the back of the settee.
“Not everyone lays abed until noon, Col.” CB caught the cushion Col flung at him and tucked it behind him in the desk chair.
“Who gives a damn about the time? Did your valet fetch the book back?” Trust Sythe to cut to the heart of the matter.
He had let them carry on because in all their lives together bickering and accusing was how the four of them generally worked through whatever trouble their antics landed them in. Their current trouble would require far more than bickering and accusing.
Time to deliver the bad news. “Not exactly.”
Once more he had their undivided attention.
“Which means?” CB gave him a look which indicated anticipation of the worst.
“Which means no.” Col slumped over the arm of the settee. Ath couldn’t blame him. The man had a stellar reputation as a Runner. The contents of their little journal might well end his career.
“Not exactly.”
“On my oath, Ath, if you say that one more time I shall kick you in the bollocks, drown you in your own chamber pot, and wait until dark to drag you down the back staircase and throw your carcass in the Thames.” Sythe glared at him, unblinking.
There was nothing for it. He’d have to tell them everything and hope Col and CB did not join Sythe in enacting the retribution the barrister had just described.
“Where is Cheddars? Let’s have the explanation from—”
“No. You will not subject my valet to your inquisition, Barrister. He’s napping at the moment. He’s had an upsetting morning.”
“He’shad an upsetting morning?”
“Stop squawking like a fishmonger, Col. For God’s sake, Ath, get to the damned point.” CB appeared to be at the end of his tether. He wasn’t the only one.
He took a deep breath. “The journal is no longer there. The book buyer found the contents too filthy to be sold at Hatchards.” The four of them shared a brief and somewhat juvenile grin. Probably their last one once he told them the rest. “The pontificating old prude told Cheddars he sold the journal to a shop in Holywell Street. Cheddars traced the sale to Whitcombe’s.”
