Chapter 9
James
James crushed the sheet of paper and tossed it into the hearth.
A small puff of ash rose and vanished. Tonight’s meeting “under the branches of the big oak” was imminent, and he still had not uncovered the location.
He had reached out to every associate he had in London, including Jimmy and others who knew the city’s darker corners, but no one had any insight.
This was his best chance to find Henry’s killer, and it was going to slip through his fingers. He was going to fail Henry. Again. Anger flared hot within him.
How could he have been so foolish? The trap had cost Henry his life and James his friend and confidant. He pictured himself at last standing over the man responsible. He forced himself to cling to that vision. Whoever the man was, he would pay for what he had done. James would make sure of it.
He rose from his leather chair, stretching his muscles as he strode from behind his study desk toward the bay window. The bustling street below stood at odds with the stillness in his study. The rumbling of carriages over the cobblestones punctuated the quiet afternoon.
He braced his shoulder against the window frame and stared out at the street without truly seeing it.
His mind was fixed on reflections of the past. Two months earlier, he and Henry had an assignment to meet with a new informant, someone who claimed to have information about a smuggling ring.
But the night had ended in disaster, and James was left with a hollow ache that would not go away.
His fingers strayed toward the token in his pocket.
Since Henry’s death, James had recklessly chased every improbable trail across England, barely escaping death more than once.
In hindsight, he could not blame Westmarch for sidelining him.
If he hadn’t, James might be in a grave himself by now.
Yet for all his efforts, he had learned almost nothing about the man responsible for taking Henry’s life.
Until now. He had one name at least: The Sentinel. He had a list of possible associates. And he had tonight’s meeting, which might bring him to all of them, but only if he could crack this blasted cipher. This was the unexpected break he thought would never come.
James turned from the window and the leaden skies outside and dropped onto his sofa, tapping his fingers rhythmically on his leg.
He drew a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket and stared at his hastily scrawled notes of French words and half phrases.
He had written down everything he remembered of the library conversation, but it was not enough.
Normally, he would have sent the message through Westmarch to Raven, the code specialist in his circle.
He was likely some reclusive scholar tucked away in a cluttered chamber at Whitehall or a withered man buried beneath a mountain of parchment, but he could draw meaning from fragments no one else could decipher.
This anonymous ghost had saved his life with vital intelligence a dozen times over, but James had never met him and had no way of contacting him directly.
A light knock on the door interrupted his thoughts and his valet, Stephens, entered, carrying the tea tray. James had spent the day locked away with no company but his own morose thoughts.
“Thank you, Stephens. You may place it on the side table.”
“Yes, my lord. May I assist you with anything else? Do you have plans I can prepare for?”
“No, I will be staying at home this evening. You may have the night off.”
A flicker of surprise crossed his valet’s face.
“Very good, my lord. In that case, I shall pay my mother a visit.” His valet bowed and exited, the door closing softly behind him.
James poured himself a cup of tea and carried it to his desk, setting it down on a stack of ledgers before taking a seat.
The encounter reminded James how badly he had neglected his mother and his sister, Alice, in recent weeks.
He had not even written to them since informing them about his failed proposal.
Alice’s debut would not occur for a few years, but perhaps she and their mother would enjoy spending part of the Season in town.
Alice had always admired Kate and would no doubt delight in spending time with her.
Kate had become impossible to dislodge from his mind, and he was plagued by memories of her lingering warmth, the scent of citrus and lavender, and the feeling of her in his arms. He tried to banish the distractions, but like every other time, the effort proved useless.
He needed a distraction. Determined not to put off writing to his mother any longer, he opened the top drawer of his desk to retrieve a piece of stationery.
He dipped a quill in the ink, the scratch as he wrote across the page familiar and oddly comforting.
When he was finished, he sealed the letter and left it for the servants to send.
If his mother agreed to visit London, he would need to write to her favorite inn and reserve a room for her.
She always preferred to stay at The White Oak when she traveled from her sister’s home.
James’s hand stilled. The White Oak. What if the meeting location referred not to a tree at all, but to a sign? A tavern’s noise and bustle would better conceal a shipment than a tree in an empty park. James stood up, ledgers and papers falling unheeded to the floor.
He had been hunting a tree when he should have been hunting a signboard.
He paced between the desk and the sofa. His mind spun.
No innkeeper would call his establishment simply “The Oak.” It would be paired with something else.
What word had the man in the library used?
Grand. Large. But the word could also signify something else.
Importance or authority, perhaps? He needed help.
He pulled the cord for Stephens, and his valet entered a few minutes later.
“Stephens, how familiar are you with taverns and inns in London?”
His valet looked at him quizzically. “As much as the next fellow, my lord.”
“Can you tell me every one you can think of with the word oak in the name?”
Stephens stared at him, no doubt thinking his new employer had lost his mind. “Of course, my lord. If I may suggest, there is The Three Oaks just outside of town and The Oak to do nothing was impossible. And he was confident this path would finally lead to Henry’s killer.
He watched the fire burn low in the hearth. As the room filled with evening twilight, a smile of anticipation curved his lips, the decision made.
James William Campbell, the Earl of Brenton, was going to do something truly reckless.
The familiar thrill returned as James slipped out of the servants’ entrance, thick fog swallowing him.
He made his way down the dark cobbled street and pulled his shabby wool coat tighter against the brisk wind.
At least the rain had ceased, though he lamented the garment’s lack of proper buttons.
Hopefully both he and his threadbare coat would make it home in one piece.
He did not want to have to explain to Stephens why he was wearing such a coat or, even worse, why he needed it mended.
Casually glancing around to ensure he was not being followed, James headed east toward the notorious rookery where The Crown & Oak stood.
Excitement raced through him from head to toe as he anticipated what lay ahead, but doubt caught at him.
What would Kate think of his dangerous trade?
Would she think it scandalous or daring?
She had always welcomed an adventure when they were children.
It didn’t matter what she thought, though.
She could never be allowed to know, not when it would put her in danger.
A startled yell from a dark alleyway dragged his mind back to his surroundings. St. Giles Rookery was no place for a man lost in a daydream, and his thoughts of Kate—no matter how enticing—were a deadly distraction.
He kept to the edge of the pavement to avoid the eerie glow from the oil lamp on the corner. Any passerby would dismiss him, with his shuffling gait and homespun garb, complete with threadbare elbows and patches, but he could not take chances.
He wove down alleys and backstreets, taking a circuitous route. He knew when he was nearing The Crown & Oak. The closer he came, the louder the noise and the stronger the stench. More than once, he fought the urge to gag.
Refuse littered the street, and raucous laughter and angry voices spilled out from the crowded slums. He kept his head down and exaggerated his broken gait. No one cared about a half-drunk man here.