Chapter Seven #3
Lord Marksman laughed. “I adore your spirit, my lady.”
Audrey paused briefly, looking at him, attempting to draw a bit of his measure, before resuming her stance. “Shall we begin again, my lord, or do you require more time to reclaim your breath?”
He grinned, and Audrey briefly returned to the idea of how exceedingly handsome he was when he smiled. With a nod of agreement, he again extended the arm holding his weapon. “As you wish, my dear.”
Once more, their rapiers clicked and tapped out a rhythm as both she and Lord Marksman executed a variety of moves, but none provided either him or her the advantage.
With a maneuver she had learned at the hands of Thomas Riley, a man who had once served as her uncle’s closest ally, she managed to send his lordship staggering backwards—off balance—a whole pace and a half, but before she could claim the advantage, Lord Marksman pulled himself together, using his height and weight to overshadow any skill she possessed.
She managed to avoid his attempt to catch her arm and wrench away her sword, and they fell apart yet another time. His lordship’s expression had changed: Some admiration remained, but frustration dominated. Yet again, they circled—around and around—now more aware of each other’s defenses.
It was then she noticed it. A trickle of blood marked his cuff. “You are injured, my lord,” she declared, not in triumph, but rather in concern.
He glanced to the nick marring his broken skin. “It is nothing. It is not important if I do not win your trust.”
Her eyes remained on the cut as the first drop of blood hit the floor.
“Tell me why,” she demanded. Audrey had never actually injured another, even by accident.
She could not seem to pull her eyes away from where his blood dripped from his body.
“Tell me why,” she repeated, but this time she spoke in a whisper.
Lord Marksman lowered his sword. “Promise me, you will not prevent me from sharing the full story.”
She took several steps back. “I promise.”
Beaufort had, quite literally, spent the day at the Lyon’s Den.
After a meeting at the Home Office, he had told Duncan, “If I am required for an important vote in the Lords this evening, send someone for me. Otherwise, I will be poring over the stacks of banknotes set aside as being suspicious by Miss Li-Na at the Lyon’s Den or taking my turn at watching Amgen House. ”
“Should I send someone to assist you?” Duncan asked in tones of concern. “You appear quite exhausted.”
“Not sleeping well of late,” Navan admitted. “Two hours here. Three hours there.”
“Hartley can take a turn or two at the watch house,” Duncan assured. “Hell, so can I, especially as we are only watching a single woman who has been ordered not to leave the house.”
Navan would not wish to miss those few precious hours he had spent each night with Miss Moreau.
Those hours had been the only time in longer than he cared to consider that he knew hope to be a reality.
After all, even a man of his nature, one who looked forever at the negative side of every issue, had to know happiness in life if one in Miss Moreau’s situation wished the world a sprinkle of magical fairy dust.
“I am well. I had nearly five hours of sleep last evening. The house on Amgen Street is quiet with Honfleur’s absence.”
Three quarters of an hour later found him entering the back of the Lyon’s Den through what was known as the musicians’ entrance.
Casually, he made his way across the gaming room.
There were only a few patrons in the hall at this time of day, and he simply observed how those working the tables were handling the cash passing through their fingers.
This was the third time he had been asked to observe and refresh his lessons on how to spot a forged note.
“Good day, my lord,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said as he approached where she waited.
“I have asked the other dealers, as well as Titan and Li-Na, to join us in the ladies’ dining room, which is, generally, not in use at this time of day.
My concern is many of my dealers do not appear to recognize the necessity of this mission.
They expect Li-Na to be the gatekeeper.”
“Then you wish me to read them the riot act?” he asked.
The lady appeared to smile, but her veil kept him from knowing assurances. “Well, not the actual riot act, but something similar. I specifically asked for your return, for, as you have already assumed, a large number I employ are Irish.”
He had come to realize Mrs. Dove-Lyon was not one to ask for assistance unless she had a motive. “I am at your disposal, ma’am.”
“Then, come this way. In addition to Titan and Li-Na, I have asked the three bouncers from the gaming floor to attend, along with eight of my eleven dealers.”
“Lead the way, ma’am,” he instructed. Within minutes Navan was standing at the front of the room, as if he were presenting a lecture at a university.
“First, permit me to say I appreciate all you have completed in not only Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s name, but also in this effort to bring the culprits to justice. ”
“You mean bringing poor single women to the gallows for attempting to feed their families?” said one of the dealers that Navan did not know asked.
“I understand your complaints, but breaking British law only makes the British government more bitter regarding the Irish,” Navan countered.
“How do you know I was speaking of the Irish?” the man argued.
“Simple,” Navan said while presenting the man a deadly stare.
“I am Irish. I know what many say against both me and my countrymen, for I hear the same sentiments in the House of Lords, mostly to my face, but quite a few remarks behind my back. An bhfuil sé sin soiléir go leor duit? For those of you who do not speak Irish Gaelic, I asked your friend if what I said was clear enough. I see no sense in continuing the bickering.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon motioned for her dealer’s silence.
“Many within these walls are Irish and enjoy the safety we offer each of you. Yet, the walls only remain impenetrable as long as the British government chooses to look the other way regarding our existence. If we are shut down, I can no longer protect you. You, too, will be on the street. However, the government has offered us some level of, how shall I say this, some level of blindness. If we are to survive, we must cooperate.”
Navan was impressed by how the woman presented her wishes. Mrs. Dove-Lyon had built herself a community where everyone was not only responsible for himself, but for all involved.
“First, permit me to say,” Navan continued, “I am sympathetic with those of you who believe the Bank of England should be actively seeking the inimitable bank note. A country as powerful as the United Kingdom should be introducing a note that is impossible to forge rather than making piecemeal adjustments to its notes. However, no one is likely to listen to an Irish earl.”
“Or a maimed soldier,” Titan added.
“Or a woman who is both a widow and a former… Well, we all know my history,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said with an audible laugh.
“Let us come to some givens,” Navan suggested.
“One issue is how country banks have been more aggressive in creating new note designs. Some have added double-sided printing and even color. Naturally, the notes are generally used in the community surrounding that particular bank, but many make it to London, along with foreign currency. All of which is accepted for payment and honored by the Bank of England. Therefore, someone might think a forged note is not actually one, but rather one of these oddities.” He handed such notes to those on either end of the rows to examine and pass on to the others to study.
“Unfortunately, we are still using the same techniques used in the fifteenth century to print our banknotes. Yet, not all is lost, for there are obvious advantages of keeping tradition. It means we can still replicate the late seventh century cursive writing indicative of that time period, which is used on all legitimate notes. It is what we commonly call Gothic style. You may not have known its name, but you are accustomed to reading it. For example, on our banknotes, there is a uniform flow of the lower strokes that rest on a baseline, with a lengthened end stroke or dash turning to the right.”
“Might you point out these specifics for us, my lord?” Titan asked. “Even I was not aware of all you just mentioned.”
“Absolutely. Such was what I planned for today. I might finish by saying that using the same method for so long provides us considerable continuity—finished plates covered in ink and the itaglio printing on a copperplate press. The problem we face that enables forgers to know success is the government must now print notes more quickly than they did before the institution of the policy of Bank Restriction.”
“How do we recognize the forged notes?” Titan asked. “We all should know this so even a shopkeeper does not pass on a bad note to us in our everyday dealings.”
“We have previously looked at the quality of the ink,” Beaufort explained, “and we should continue to do so. Now, we must also look at the quality of the paper being used. The Bank of England’s watermark changed from straight lines to wavy ones to make the notes more difficult to duplicate.
There is also a thin wire sewn into the paper mold.
The newly formed paper is left to dry over the wire.
“Most of the other necessary tools required for a forgery are easy to find—all, in fact, except for the paper. So let us examine the paper of several legitimate notes and compare them to a handful of forgeries—some quite skillful attempts and others who should be ashamed of their efforts.”