“If you will excuse me, I have a great deal to do to prepare for the upcoming debate in Parliament.” John scraped back his chair. “I shall be gone for most of the day.”
“Oh, don’t worry about us. Scottie and I have plans to tour the British Museum. And then we shall do a bit of shopping at bookstores and toy emporiums off Bond Street.” His sister shooed him off with a cheerful wave. “But remember, all work and no play makes for a very dull existence, John. Do try to relax and have some fun while you are in London.”
Tactics and strategy. John drew in a calming breath. Both called for a cool head and dispassionate judgment, he reminded himself.
Pulling his hat down lower, he shifted his stance, trying to avoid the worst of the mud pooled within the sliver of alleyway. He had managed to put the uncomfortable breakfast interlude out of his head, but in truth he was still seething inside from last night’s encounter with the duke and his crony.
However, any seasoned soldier knew that uncontrolled emotion was dangerous.
Right made might. He intended to use logic and rhetoric as weapons in his fight against the forces of greed and self-interest.
Assuming he could ever manage to meet the elusive thinker known as The Beacon.
The fellow was proving perversely difficult to track down. Yet another of his notes had gone ignored. So this morning he was determined to gird on his sword, so to speak, and take action. A talk with one of the clerks had elicited several key bits of information. The newspaper’s weekly essays were always due on this day. And The Beacon was notoriously late, waiting until the very last moment to deliver the finished piece.
Shifting deeper into the shadows cast by the overhanging eaves, John tried to still his impatience. He had been watching from his hidden vantage point all morning, but aside from a delivery of linseed oil and lamp black for ink, the printing shop had received no visitors.
Damn. Surely he couldn’t have missed the dratted fellow. And yet, a quick glance at his pocketwatch showed that there were only a few minutes left until the place shut down for the midday meal.
Baffled, he frowned and tried to figure out where he had gone wrong. The plan had been perfectly reasonable…
At the sound of hurried footsteps scuffing over the cobblestones, he flattened himself against the grimy brick and edged to the corner of the building. An angled look across the street showed Hurley himself opening the door and admitting the cloaked figure.
Bloody hell. What was Miss Olivia Sloane doing here again? The delivery boy for her newspaper must be the laziest imp alive. Or else…
No. Impossible.
His head said one thing, but war had taught him to listen very carefully to his gut feelings. And at the moment, their shouts were drowning out the voice of reason.
Of course, if he were wrong, he would appear a bloody idiot.
A short while later, Olivia emerged, head down, from the shop and began briskly retracing her steps. John waited until she had rounded the corner before slipping out from the alleyway and following at a discreet distance.
To his surprise, she didn’t head back toward High Street, but instead turned in the opposite direction. After winding through several small side streets, she glanced over her shoulder before darting down a narrow cartway that cut between the walled gardens of two brick townhouses.
John counted to ten and then did the same.
Halfway down the shadowed path, Olivia paused and fumbled with the lock of a thick wooden gate. The hinges creaked as it swung open for a moment, and then fell shut behind her.
He hesitated, suddenly embarrassed that he might have trailed her to a lover’s assignation. Retreat, he told himself. Reason called for a tactical retreat. And yet some strange force impelled him to move forward. Moving lightly, he silently crossed the rutted ground.
The latch had not quite caught, and he was able to ease the weathered oak open without making a sound. Through the narrow crack, he spied a jungle of thick bushes, their dark, glossy leaves shading the narrow gravel path that wove in and out of the dappled sunlight. Thick vines of ivy hung heavy on the brick wall behind them, adding to the play of shadows.
Squinting into the glare, John needed a moment to pick out Olivia’s cloaked figure among the muted colors of the ornamental grasses and shrubs. Her back was to him, and as he watched, she suddenly stopped short and punched a fist in the air.
“Look into your heart, I say, and ask yourself what you see.” A rustling whispered through the branches as her voice rose to a near shout. “Is it an oppressive black cloud, heavy with the weight of the past? Or is it a gleam of pale, pure light?”
He stayed very still, waiting for a reply. But no other voice sounded from the shrubbery.
“This is no time for slinking in the shadows of self-interest. We must rise…” Her palms slapped together, the sudden gesture causing her cloak to slip off her shoulders. Kicking it aside, Olivia continued, “Rise high and reach for our better nature.”
A sparrow chirped.
“Yes, you’re right,” she said loudly. “That’s laying in on a bit thick. Let me think for a moment.” Clasping her hands behind her back, she began pacing back and forth.
Any lingering doubts disappeared as it became obvious that she was alone. John pressed his lips into a tight smile. Ha. The Beacon’s light was no longer hidden under the proverbial bush.
Shouldering his way into the garden, he swiftly cut a path across the mossy verge.