Georges detested such pointless heroism. These stupid English, with their mad German king and their corpulent prince. They should have risen up and lopped off their ruler’s head years ago, as his brothers in France had done.
Georges sighed and huddled deeper into his greatcoat. Defeat left a bitter taste in his mouth and there wasn’t even a decent bottle of wine to be had in this piece-of-shit country to drown it out. It would be a pleasure to return to France, even if he’d have to tell Savary about his failure to find the Hampden bitch.
—
It took Heloise another few hours to translate the remaining coded messages, but they were no more helpful than the others, and she returned to her room and sank onto the bed, battling an overwhelming sensation of anticlimax. She plucked at the fringed cover of the bedspread. If only she could have done more, discovered where Kit was being held. But life was never that convenient, or that kind.
According to Scovell, Raven had gone to try to locate a contact who might have heard of the man called Alvarez. She had little hope that talking to his informants would yield any results. Alvarez was surely an extremely common Spanish name.
He hadn’t needed to be sobossy,either. Her irritation grew as she thought of his high-handed order to stay. As if she were a good little dog. Now that there were no more codes to read, she’d outlived her usefulness. No doubt Raven was wishing he could send her packing, on the next ship home. But of course he wouldn’t do that, because of his own perverse, self-appointed role as her protector.
A whisper of defiance unfurled in her chest. Raven had no right to order her around. She’d done everything he’d asked of her. Come with him to this godforsaken place. Translated his codes. Faced her worst fears in order to cross that dratted river.
The rest of her staid, conservative life stretched ahead of her like a prison sentence, an eternity of dutiful acquiescence and good, proper behavior. The faces of Lord Collingham and Lord Wilton floated in her mind and her defiance coalesced into resolve. She was not under arrest. She’d come here of her own free will. Sort of.
This was her last chance for an adventure.
She found Scovell in his study, deep in a weighty tome on linguistics. He glanced up with an absentminded frown.
“Well then, my dear, what can I do for you?”
“I’ve been thinking I might visit the caves at Altamira. With your permission, I’d like to borrow some men to escort me.”
“Would Lord Ravenwood mind, do you think?”
Heloise tossed her head. “Lord Ravenwood has no interest in seeing the caves.” That, at least, was perfectly true. “Since there are no more messages to translate, I’ll be returning to England shortly, and I would like to see the caves before I go. I want to see whether there are any visual similarities between these pictograms and Egyptian hieroglyphs.”
Scovell gave a genial shrug. “What an interesting idea. Well, I suppose they aren’t too far. Only a few miles. If you leave now you’ll be back before sundown.” He gave her a twinkling, paternal smile. “And I’m sure the men would be more than happy to oblige you. Squiring a pretty lady around the place is bound to be far more popular than guard duty,” he chuckled.
Heloise’s escort turned out to be the skinny youth who’d served them tea, whose name was Private Canning, and his superior officer, an enormous Irishman with twinkling eyes and a nose that was permanently squashed to the side, called Sergeant Mullaney.
She smiled in delight as they rode out of the city gates, reveling in the open air, and quashed a twinge of guilt at disobeying Raven’s orders. He’d been exaggerating the danger to frighten her into obedience, and besides, she had two strong, armed men with her.
She turned to her escorts, curious to learn more about people so far removed from her own usual social circle. “So, Private Canning? How long have you been in the army?”
The young man jumped in surprise at being directly addressed and she watched in amusement as a tide of red crept up his neck and over his cheeks. His voice cracked a little as he spoke.
“ ’Bout a year, miss. Joined up right after Waterloo, I did.”
His accent, she noted, was pure East London. “And what did you do before you were in the army?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “I were a palmer, miss.”
Heloise frowned, mystified. “What’s that?”
Canning looked down sheepishly. “A pickpocket,” he mumbled.
Heloise laughed in delight. “Oh! Were you really? How fascinating! I’ve never met a pickpocket before.” She really should have included something like this on her list.Make disreputable acquaintances whenever possible.
Canning had clearly anticipated disapproval because he looked a little surprised at her enthusiasm. “I never stole from anyone who’d earned their money,” he defended quickly. “Only rich bucks too stupid to hide their cash. Flaunting it, come to town to blow their allowance. They could afford it. All they lost out on was a new cravat or an extra bottle of claret. I needed the blunt for the doctor, ’cause me mum was sick.”
Heloise bit back a smile. He was just like Raven, with his warped sense of morality. Both had dubious notions of right and wrong, but an oddly pure code of ethics. It was an intriguing contradiction. Besides, who was she to disapprove of someone trying to care for their sick family? She’d probably have done the same thing.
“I weren’t one of ’em sneeze lurkers, neither.” Canning wrinkled his nose in disdain. “That’s them wot throws snuff in a mark’s face. I had skills, me.” He held up one thin hand and wiggled his fingers. “Lightest touch in St. Giles.”
His cockney accent became more pronounced as he reminisced.
“What did you steal?”