“Tried to ride his horse full pelt across a fast-running, rocky stream. The horse stumbled, your brother fell and broke his neck—he was drunk at the time, of course.” There was a short silence, then he added, “The horse had to be put down. Damned shame—it was a fine beast.”
Cal snorted. What an irony. Henry had lived almost the whole of his life leading a sybaritic life in the fleshpots of London, while Cal had been sent off to fight for his country at the tender age of seventeen. If anyone had been expected to die young...
Radcliffe leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. “So if you’re not here to resign your commission, why did you come?”
Just then the clerk came in with the tea and ginger biscuits. Cal waited until the man had left. “Well?” Radcliffe prompted.
Cal sipped his tea. Hot, strong and sweet, just as he liked it. He took a biscuit and crunched through it, enjoying Radcliffe’s tension. “I’m pretty sureEl Escorpionis English.”
“The Scorpion isEnglish?” Radcliffe stiffened. “No! He can’t be! Are you certain?”
Cal grimaced. “Not certain. Just a feeling I have.”
“Afeeling.” Radcliffe snorted, and sat back. “Really.”
Cal wasn’t annoyed by Radcliffe’s skepticism. He’d be impatient too if one of his officers, after hunting a notorious assassin for two years without success, came to him with nothing more than a feeling in his bones. But vague and insubstantial as it was, Cal felt that he was finally onto something. “This last killing, as he raised his rifle to shoot, I saw him silhouetted against the night sky and—”
Radcliffe leaned forward. “You recognized him?”
“No, he was too far away. But later, when I was mulling it over, I realized there was something familiar about his action.”
“Hisaction?”
Cal nodded. “I fought alongside men of the Rifle Brigade a number of times during the war, and something about his stance and the way he brought his rifle up to shoot reminded me of one of those fellows. I know I’ve seen him before. I can’t tell you his name, I probably wouldn’t recognize his face, but I’m as sure as I can be that he’s English and was a sharpshooter during the war. I think he’s using a Baker rifle too; if he can shoot a man in the head from more than two hundred yards away—well, not many weapons have that capability.”
Radcliffe nodded thoughtfully. “It’s possible, I suppose. And you think he’s returned to England?”
Cal shook his head. “I don’t know. He’s gone to ground, as usual—could be in any one of a dozen countries. But Ithought I’d go to Rifle Brigade headquarters, get a list of sharpshooters who’ve left the regiment and see what they’re up to now. It’s not much to go on, but it’s—”
“More than we’ve had so far,” Radcliffe said with satisfaction. He drew a pen and paper toward him. “I’ll draw up your leave papers.”
Cal blinked. “Leavepapers? But I’ll be working.”
“You have personal matters to sort out—a title and inheritance to deal with, papers to sign, matters to arrange. Personal matters.”
There was no point pushing him. Radcliffe enjoyed being enigmatic. At school he’d had been brilliant, but devious, and even then he had a reputation for collecting information—all kinds of information, political and personal. It made him perfectly suited for his current position, sitting at the center of a web of intrigue that stretched from London halfway around the world, directing things from behind a desk.
Radcliffe completed the document with a flamboyant signature and dusted it with sand. He reached for his official seal, without which the papers would be invalid, pressed it into a blob of hot scarlet wax then handed it to Cal.
Cal glanced at it. “Four weeks’ leave? I hope it won’t take that long.”
Radcliffe gave a faint smile. “I recommend you call on your lawyer first.”
***
Cal headed straight for the office of Phipps, Phipps and Yarwood, his late father’s lawyers. The news that he was now Lord Ashendon had rocked him. But he was determined it would not make any significant difference to his life.
Grand estates and great wealth brought responsibilities with them, and with the title came other duties of the kind Cal, as younger son, had never been prepared for. And absolutely didn’t want.
He’d always done his duty, been a good soldier, even though he’d hated the waste and destruction of war. Now, in peacetime, he’d discovered that working through tangled European affairs on behalf of his country suited him.Napoleon’s activities had erased borders and smashed alliances. A new Europe was forming and the intrigue was endless. And fascinating.
Cal went where he was ordered and did the jobs that Whitehall, in the guise of Gil Radcliffe, sent him to do. His current task was to track down and capture or kill the assassin known as the Scorpion.
And after the Scorpion had killed Cal’s friend Bentley, the hunt had become personal.
He didn’t need—or want—any distraction from that.
***
