Ethan went directly from the soiree to the upper-class Belgravia address belonging to Fred Felbrigg, the commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. Taking the stolen evidence to Felbrigg was a logical choice, since he had both the authority and incentive to bring the Home Office conspirators to justice.
When Tatham’s and Jenkyn’s crimes were brought to light, a great deal of unpleasantness would ensue: arrests, resignations, select committees, hearings, and trials. But if anyone could be trusted to do the right thing, it was Felbrigg, a devoutly religious man who prized order and routine. On top of that, the police commissioner despised Jenkyn. It was no secret at Scotland Yard that Felbrigg was appalled by the spymaster’s unauthorized position at the Home Office, and the unsavory intelligence-gathering methods of his handpicked agents.
Disgruntled at having to leave his bed in the middle of the night, Felbrigg came down to his study with a dressing robe thrown over his nightclothes. With his ginger whiskers, short, spindly build, and the flaccid nightcap with a tasseled end dangling over the back of his head, he looked like an elf. An irate elf.
“What’s this?” he asked, scowling down at the pages Ethan had set on the desk of his study.
“Proof of an operational link between the Home Office and the Guildhall bombers,” Ethan said quietly.
As Felbrigg had sat there in shocked silence, Ethan proceeded to tell him about the Home Secretary’s safe and the records of secret government funds diverted to known hostiles and radicals.
“Here’s an entry concerning the missing shipment of explosives from Le Havre,” Ethan said, nudging one of the pages closer. “The dynamite has been supplied to a group of London-based Fenian activists. They were also given cash money, and an order for admission to the visitors’ gallery at the House of Commons.”
Pulling off his nightcap, Felbrigg blotted his perspiring face with it. “Why would they want to visit Commons?”
“It’s possible they were reconnoitering.” At the commissioner’s blank look, Ethan added in a matter-of-fact tone, “For a potential attack on Westminster.” It was no wonder, he thought privately, that Jenkyn kept outmaneuvering this man over and over again. To call him a plodder wouldn’t have been entirely fair, but neither would it have been inaccurate.
Felbrigg bent his head over the pages, reading slowly.
Something nagged at Ethan as he watched the commissioner pore over the evidence. He was certain Felbrigg would never look the other way if he had any inkling that Jenkyn was conspiring to kill the innocent citizens he’d sworn to protect. Felbrigg hated Jenkyn. He’d suffered more than his share of slights and insults from the man. Felbrigg had every reason, personal and professional, to use this information against him.
Still, Ethan’s instincts were jangling unpleasantly. Felbrigg was sweating, tense, nervous, and while that could easily be attributed to having been taken by surprise, his reaction didn’t feel right. Ethan had expected some clear signs of outrage and perhaps a hint of triumph at being given the instrument of his enemy’s downfall. But Felbrigg’s white-faced quietness unnerved the hell out of him.
The move had been made, however. There was no way to take it back. Something had been set in motion, and whatever it was, the only choice now was to keep to the shadows until Felbrigg had taken action.
“Where will you be tomorrow?” Felbrigg asked.
“Out and about.”
“How will we be able to communicate with you?”
“You have enough evidence for investigations and subpoenas,” Ethan said, watching him closely. “I’ll communicate with you when it’s necessary.”
“The account ledgers are still in Lord Tatham’s safe?”
“Still there,” Ethan said, neglecting to mention that he’d changed the combination. He kept his eyes on Felbrigg, who found it difficult to hold a shared gaze for more than one or two seconds.
What aren’t you telling me, you bastard?
“This matter will be handled properly and swiftly,” Felbrigg said.
“I knew it would be. You’re known as a man of honor. You swore before a justice at Westminster to execute the duties of your office ‘faithfully, impartially, and honestly.’”
“And so I have,” Felbrigg retorted, visibly annoyed. “Now that you’ve ruined my night’s rest, Ransom, I’ll bid you good night, while I deal with the damned mess you’ve set before me.”
Which made Ethan feel slightly better.
He returned to his flat and changed into a workingman’s clothes: cotton trousers, an open jacket, a workshirt, and short leather boots. Taking a moment to wander through the spare rooms, he wondered for the first time why he’d lived like a recluse for so long. Bare walls, hard furniture, when he could afford a fine home. But he’d chosen this place. His job required anonymity, isolation, with Jenkyn as the hub of his existence. He’d chosen that, too, for reasons he didn’t understand and didn’t want to examine.
Stopping in front of the monkey engraving, Ethan stared at it closely. What would Garrett make of it? It was an illustration for an advertisement, with the product name cropped off. A grinning top-hatted monkey, pedaling circles in front of onlookers who kept their distance. Its eyes were melancholy—or maniacal—Ethan couldn’t quite decide. Was there a ringmaster just out of view, who’d dressed him up and set him to his task? Was the monkey allowed to stop when he was tired?
Why had Garrett asked him to bring this damned picture to her? She thought it would reveal something about him—which it didn’t, by God. He resolved she would never set eyes on the thing—he’d be bloody embarrassed to show it to her. Why had he left it on the wall? Why had he even mentioned it to her?
It would be better for both of them if he disappeared tonight for good. He could go to the other side of the world, change his name, become someone else. God knew it would increase his life expectancy. Garrett would achieve even greater renown, perhaps build a hospital, teach, inspire. She might marry and have children.
But for Ethan, she would live as a dream in the shadows of his memory. Certain words would always make him think of her. So would the sound of a police whistle. And the smell of violets, and the sight of green eyes, and a sky full of fireworks, and the taste of lemon ice.
He started to reach for the picture, swore quietly, and jerked his hand back.
If he went to her . . . God . . . the possibilities filled him with fearful wonder. And hope—a deadly emotion for a man of his profession.
What was one night worth? What would it cost each of them?
Garrett came to the drowsy awareness of tender warmth brushing her face, like sun-warmed petals falling onto her skin. A soft breath rushed hotly over her cheek. Ethan. She smiled and stirred, experiencing the delight of waking in another’s presence for the first time. He smelled like night air and mist. With a sleepy murmur, she nudged upward into the velvet caresses, catching at a firm, sweet mouth. Beneath the covers, her bare toes curled.
“I didn’t hear you,” she whispered. She was a light sleeper, and her floor creaked—how had he reached her so quietly?
Ethan was leaning over her, his hand smoothing her hair. She had gathered the long, curling locks into a single bunch at the back of her neck and tied them with a ribbon. His heavy lashes lowered as he glanced down her body, clad in a simple white nightgown with little pleats at the bodice. Gently he settled his hand over her chest, the tip of his middle finger touching the hollow above her clavicle, where her heartbeat thrummed visibly. His gaze returned to her face.