Chapter Twenty-Three
Jackson stared down at the folded parchment Mrs. Dove-Lyon had placed on her desk between them. He wasn’t foolish enough to reach for it. “What is this?”
“A name and a gift,” she said, the jet beads stitched along her dark veil catching the lamplight as she sat back in her chair.
Jackson crossed his arms over his chest. “Another favor you wish to thrust upon me? No, thank you.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s veil shifted at the delicate tilt to the woman’s head. “Need I remind you how the last favor worked out? A man so clearly in wedded bliss need not be so stingy with his praise.”
Jackson grinned. No, he did not. “Your matchmaking prowess is unparalleled, madam.” He unfolded the foolscap and smoothed it open.
There, indeed, was a name written in delicate script:
Mr. Charles Bogart.
The man who’d come into the office after him not two hours ago.
Jackson flipped the page over. Nothing but blank space. He sent Mrs. Dove-Lyon a raised eyebrow. “I do believe a hint is in order. Is this man in need of a wife as well? I confess, if you are looking for me to refer your services, not everything I relay will be flattering.”
“The man is a criminal, Your Grace. One for whom I believe you’ve been searching, going so far as to interrogate every maid, bouncer, and tiger within my employ.”
He pasted on a smile. “I have no idea to what you refer, madam.”
“No?”
Jackson dropped the act. “You know of the counterfeiting?”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon raised her chin to regal effect. “I know a great deal more than that, sir.”
“I am rife with anticipation,” he said.
“That is the real name of the man known as The Printer.”
Jackson’s gaze shot back to the single name, memorizing every loop and letter as his mind raced. The Black Widow of Whitehall had handed him the identity to the counterfeiting leader. Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s spy network had to rival the Home Office to uncover such a closely guarded secret.
“How did you manage to find his real name?” Roberts had combed every brothel, tavern, and gaming hell in London.
“Simple,” she said. “I asked.”
She didn’t mean asked, like inquiring after a recipe—Jackson paused, a moment in which he seriously questioned the extent of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s authority and the Home Office’s decision not to welcome the proprietress into the fold.
He ran a hand over his face. It didn’t escape him that Mrs. Dove-Lyon hadn’t asked for a price for her information; if the name proved legitimate, she could have bartered for the crown jewels.
“Thank you,” he said and meant it. “It is quite a gift.”
One he’d repay. Twice over.
“That is but the man’s name,” she said, a smile in her voice. “What a sad excuse for a parting gift if my offering were to end there.” Another pause. This one for dramatic effect.
Jackson raptly awaited the final curtain.
The teacup lifted to her mouth. Stopped. “The man is currently in the hell. Not four doors down.”
Jackson’s fingers clenched on the arms of his chair, his first instinct to track the man down and see him secure. But he relaxed his hold on the upholstery. “I take it this Mr. Bogart is in no danger of vanishing into the night?”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon tutted. “Why would he when he is receiving the best hospitality my wolves have to offer?”
Wolves. The only hospitality the great brutes who guarded the Lyon’s Den showed were smiles accompanied with claws and teeth . . . or a chokehold. Little worry Mr. Bogart would make a single step toward the exit. Jackson’s lips curled upward. “A lucky man.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s own smile was a slash of red lips through the mesh of her dark veil. “Nothing but the best for a man who thought to cheapen my business by funneling money less valuable than the paper it was printed on.”
Jackson took back every nasty thought he’d ever had of the woman. Mrs. Dove-Lyon was a jewel, a well-polished gem surrounded by equally precious stones. “Any chance your sources would be willing to change employers?”
A delicate laugh followed by a steely response. “Not even for a devil as handsome as you.”
Jackson shrugged. At least he’d tried.
He stood and straightened his cuffs. “I do believe I should relieve your men from their host duties.” He offered a bow of his head to a worthy opponent. “The least I could do after such a generous gift.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon waved him on. “Last room at the end of the hall. Knock four times in quick succession or you may find yourself at the mercy of Titan’s good manners.”
Jackson donned the hat he’d refused to relinquish at the door and bowed. “An absolute pleasure, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. I hope nothing but kind gratitude is conveyed when I say I wish to never be on the receiving end of your hospitality ever again.”
She laughed. “Tell Sidmouth, the next time he sends one of his dogs to my den, more than the man’s bachelorhood will be up for the gamble.”
Jackson shook his head, no longer surprised at the woman’s connections. Criminals, spies, now the Home Secretary. If someone were to whisper in his ear that the Widow of Whitehall had a direct line to the Prince Regent himself, it wouldn’t be without precedent.
Another tip of his hat, this time to a masterful surprise ally. “Good day, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”
“Good day, Your Grace. Do leave the door open on your way out. I am expecting another wayward soul in need of my attentions.”
Jackson grinned and opened the door, where, indeed, a young man stood waiting with the same woman attendant from before, this time in a sky-blue turban.
For the third time, Jackson touched the brim of his top hat and offered his best advice to the other man. “Do yourself a favor and don’t resist.” After all, he’d been soundly defeated and all the happier for it.
Whistling, he strolled down the hall to see to his consolation prize.
“A fine job wrapping up this case,” Home Secretary Sidmouth said.
Jackson twirled the glass of whiskey the secretary had handed him and sat in the red leather chair in the man’s office. “You can thank Mrs. Dove-Lyon for the arrest and Roberts for the rest.”
The older man chuckled. “You are too modest, Your Grace. I have it on good authority it was your quick thinking during the pub operation that saved the duchess’s life.”
Jackson raised a brow. “You’ve been keeping tabs on my investigation. I think I’m insulted.”
Sidmouth leaned back in his chair behind his desk, a grin on his white-whiskered face.
“Don’t take it too hard, my boy. It wasn’t you I was watching.
I see you are confused.” The man barked a loud, “Come in.” His gaze on Jackson, he said, “Let me introduce you to our newest recruit. A man who just passed his last test.”
The inner office door opened, and a young man in a ridiculously high top hat stepped inside.
Tall, reddish hair, dark-blue eyes: Jackson knew the man on sight.
William Greene, Viscount Brixby.
“You look well for a missing man,” Jackson said. He turned in his chair to give the Home Secretary a hard look. “If you’d informed me, I would not have wasted men on the case.”
Sidmouth shook his head. “Given the nature of Lord Brixby’s assignment, no one was to know.” The assignment being covertly observing Jackson’s case, clearly. “Bow Street was warned off, the press was bought off, and all other inquiries were shut down.”
Jackson snorted. “Thorough.” Except for one minor detail. The man clearly hadn’t prepared for one lock-picking duchess.
Jackson found his feet and reached out a hand to shake his brother-in-law’s hand, his tone congenial when he said, “Even a pig farmer would leave his loved one a note.”
Lord Brixby took his hand and smiled. “Are you calling me a swine handler, Your Grace?”
Jackson’s grip tightened. His responding smile bared his teeth. “I do believe I was implying you were lower.”
To his credit, Lord Brixby didn’t wince. “How strange. I’m sure I left my darling sister word that I was to be out of the country for a few weeks.”
Whatever Lord Brixby’s contribution to the Crown, it clearly wasn’t his ability to lie.
And yet Roberts hadn’t uncovered Lord Brixby’s involvement with the Home Office in the two weeks he’d been on the case; there was a more cunning and manipulative mind beneath that bad hat than William Greene wished anyone to see.
Jackson was happy to hear it, but that didn’t mean the man was forgiven. “I would be remiss if I did not invite you to supper at the house. My darling wife will surely give you a king’s welcome.”
This time, Lord Brixby flinched. “A kind invitation. I will, of course, come. I’ve but a short errand to run beforehand.”
“Excellent. Six sharp.” Jackson clapped the man on the arm, harder than necessary. “Make sure you aren’t late.” He smiled again. “I’d hate to have to hunt you down.”
Lord Brixby’s smile shifted into something genuine and feral, and Jackson had the unsettling feeling William Greene may have been the more dangerous of the siblings. “Not to worry, Your Grace. I’ll be there. I never turn down good company.”
“Nor a bloody brawl,” Jackson said.
William Greene, war hero and now agent for the Home Office, laughed, as if Jackson’s quip were the funniest thing.