“. . . A friend?” she finished. Beneath her powder, her cheeks colored. Mistresses might well be accepted fact amongst the elite, but ladies seldom discussed them with gentlemen in mantua makers’ shops.

“I am alone,” Bram answered.

Except for the ghost, added Livia.

Can’t very well say that to her.

Lady Maxwell frowned in puzzlement. “This seems an odd place for you.”

He shrugged. “I own that such establishments are not my usual domain. Yet of late I find myself greatly missing feminine company. Thus my presence here.”

“Fie, Lord Rothwell.” Lady Maxwell tapped his sleeve with her fan. “You never want for female companionship.” Though she was some eight years his senior, Lady Maxwell was yet a handsome woman, well-maintained, and not above fashionable flirtation.

“Perhaps it is particular female companionship I seek.”

Her brows rose. “You are roguish, sir.” Yet she sounded breathless, intrigued. He knew that tone well.

“No offense was intended, ma’am.” He bowed, noting how her gaze lingered on his calf, then rose higher up his leg. “Might I apologize more profoundly—in private?” He tipped his chin toward the back of the shop, where curtained rooms awaited women for changing and fittings.

Lady Maxwell hesitated. She glanced at him, then at the other patrons. Her maid studiously looked blank.

Is she so corruptible? Livia asked.

Almost everyone is. Especially amongst our set.

Finally, Lady Maxwell said in a theatric tone, “I believe my garter needs retying. Do excuse me.” She hurried to one of the changing rooms, stepped inside, and then, with a pointed glance at Bram, drew the curtain.

She’s rather maladroit at this assignation business, Livia said.

Her usual lover is away on the Continent. She’s out of practice.

Fortunately, she has you as a tutor.

I’m here for a purpose. Bram slipped back toward the curtained room. And it is not Lady Maxwell’s charms, seasoned though they might be.

He stepped through the curtain, and the sounds of the shop grew muffled. The lady in question whirled around from readjusting the small velvet patch on her cheek in the mirror. She took a step toward him, then stopped and narrowed her eyes.

“You’ve never shown an interest before, Rothwell.”

“Always your affections had been engaged elsewhere. With Mr. Sedgwick absent, I thought I might press my advantage.” He narrowed the distance between them, and took her hand.

She gasped, whilst Livia snickered.

“Lady Maxwell. Mary. Expecting you to accept my sudden suit would be a gross insult. If any offense was taken, I beg forgiveness. ’Tis my hot blood, I fear, that makes me importunate.”

With her free hand, Lady Maxwell opened her fan and began to cool her face. “I might pardon you. Perhaps.”

“Let me come to you,” he continued, still clasping her hand. “Allow me to plead my case.”

“Where might you do such a thing?” Her pupils were wide, her breath quick. Mr. Sedgwick was twenty years older than Bram, and Lady Maxwell’s longtime lover. His heated protestations and avowals likely ended over a decade past.

A handsome young suitor such as you? What woman could remain indifferent?

No need for ridicule, Madam Ghost.

I’m not being sarcastic, was Livia’s intriguing reply.

Bram realized Lady Maxwell waited on his answer. “At your home. When your husband is out during the night. I’ll come to you then.”

“Lord Maxwell seldom attends evening amusements.”

“He’s a man of no little influence in Parliament. Surely he has meetings at night.”

A pleat of worry formed between Lady Maxwell’s brows. “He might . . . I don’t know . . .” Her gaze darted to the side, precisely the sort of movement Whit would call a tell.

“Mary.” Bram moved to catch her gaze, and he gave her a long, slow smile. “How can I come to you if I don’t know the particulars of his schedule? I’d hate to spoil our pleasures before they had even begun.” He stroked his thumb across her wrist, back and forth. “Tell me when and where his next political gathering is to be.”

At last, she said, “Tonight. A gathering at Camden House in Wimbledon.”

The country estate of the king’s advisor. Surely that meant that Maxwell and the others in the cabal planned on meeting there to discuss and strategize against John. Wimbledon lay ten miles from the heart of London.

Far away indeed for any sort of business. It had to be a secret council.

So secret that John won’t know of it?

He’ll know.

Having gained the information he sought, Bram wanted nothing more than to bolt from the little curtained room, out of the mantua maker’s, and out into action. But he had a role to perform, and so adhered to the script.

“Tonight, then.”

“But—”

He bowed over Lady Maxwell’s hand and pressed a kiss there. “Until then.”

Before she could say anything further, he strode from the dressing chamber. He gave just a hint of knowing smile response to the curious looks he received.

She might yet tell her husband that you asked about the meeting, Livia pointed out.

Donning his hat, he stepped out into the street. Though the day was at its height, the Strand remained eerily quiet, the numbers of men and women out shopping dramatically thinned. He paced quickly to where a crossing sweep held his horse and threw the boy a coin.

Swinging up into the saddle, he thought, She won’t. To do so would mean admitting to her husband that she was planning an assignation. He kicked his horse into motion.

For a soldier, Livia said, you’re quite adept at subterfuge.

There are many ways to win a war, he answered.

Locating John was their goal—and Lady Maxwell had been gracious enough in her infidelity to provide the details of where Bram would find her husband. Where Lord Maxwell was, John would be, as well. A gathering of his enemies made a perfect target.

John would act against them, though the how of it was yet unknown.

But we will be there to stop him, Bram thought, urging his horse to greater speed as he headed for Wimbledon.

Day faded to twilight, color leeching from the world as the sun dipped below the horizon. He crossed the river at Putney Bridge, and the Thames made a dark, slick shape beneath, empty of watermen ferrying passengers in their skiffs. The land felt emptied, derelict, as he pushed further south of London. Hardly any lights burned in the windows of scattered homes. The village of Putney was deserted, its streets dark, and so it went, the further Bram rode into the night, passing few people in the gloom of night.

Full darkness enveloped the countryside. At last, the stately form of Camden House appeared out of the shadows. It stood in the middle of a sprawling park. Crisply modern, it rose up two stories, proudly displaying rows of symmetrical windows in its brick and pale stone façade. In contrast to the darkness, lights blazed from the windows, an announcement that more than servants occupied the house.

Not especially discrete, Livia noted.

No one within believes they have anything to fear. Not tonight.

Where is John?

No bloody idea. But he’ll show.

Weary though his horse was, the mare responded to his urging for more speed. It galloped across the wide, open parkland. Camden House drew closer. Men’s sober voices drifted in muted waves across the park. No signs of disturbance or trouble.

He could be in hiding nearby, Livia said above the pounding hoof beats.

Movement in the darkness snared his attention. He turned his head, every sense on alert.

Bram, Livia cautioned.

Shapes detached from the shadows. Large forms, nearly the size of his horse. They moved with a loping shuffle, drawing nearer. They made hoarse, guttural sounds.


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