He dried himself and rubbed his hair briskly with a towel.
During his years in the army, he’d grown to appreciate a douse of cold water. It helped banish fatigue. But tiredness because of consistently poor sleep didn’t stay away for long. He applied shaving soap to his jaw and picked up his razor. His eyes stared back at him groggily. He hadn’t slept well since Waterloo. Every night when he rested his head on the pillow, his thoughts took him back there.
Reade brushed his teeth, acknowledging that he did not join with others to relive the battle stories or to glorify the dethroned monarchs and victorious generals. It was the men who had died that he remembered—some who had been with him for years.
He shrugged into his dark gray coat and settled the tall beaver on his head. Pulling on gloves, he walked through to the bay-fronted drawing room. Minshull rattled crockery in the small kitchen. Sometimes he wished for more space but resisted moving into the London house. This suited his needs. It was comfortable enough but provided no sanctuary from his troubled dreams. But nowhere could. While he yearned to put up his feet and read the books piled on his dresser, he doubted he would ever feel peaceful enough to do so.
Reade strolled to the inn a block away in Piccadilly for breakfast. The dining room filled with the aroma of roasting coffee, warm patrons, and hops, and he washed bacon and eggs down with a mug of ale while perusing the newspaper.
Beyond the window, the street was busy, men wending their way home from a late night at their clubs, women shopping with their maids, a hawker selling clocks. One of Reade’s men, Wallace, walked into sight. He raised his hand in welcome and entered the inn dining room.
Reade gestured to a seat. He sawed into his bacon. “Anything new to report?”
“Apparently, Mrs. Virden danced with a Mr. Dalrymple at the Lisle’s masked ball.”
Reade paused as his stomach muscles constricted. “Dalrymple?”
“Yes, Mrs. Virden seemed on friendly terms with him…” Wallace began.
Reade waved his fork. “I heard you. Let me think.” He had not met Dalrymple. But according to his daughter, the lovely Miss Joanna, he was a shopkeeper from Marlborough. It was unlikely there’d be another Dalrymple at the ball. How the devil did the fellow who had been in London for less than a month, according to Miss Dalrymple, meet Mrs. Virden? Or had he known her for some time? “Friendly, were they?”
“Yes. Seemed more than acquaintances.”
How had Miss Dalrymple’s father come to know the Virdens? Letty had befriended the Dalrymple’s and might have some knowledge of them. He pulled out his watch. She was unlikely yet to have risen, and Cartwright, if he had any sense, would be with her. Reade swiftly banished seeking her opinion. She was too astute not to want to know the whole. And that he was not about to tell her.
“There’s one other thing,” Wallace said, interrupting his train of thought.
“What is it? Out with it, man,” Reade demanded, ignoring that he’d motioned him to be silent a moment earlier.
“Yesterday afternoon, they followed Virden to a house in Upper Brook Street, Mayfair, owned by a Lord Pleasance.”
“Don’t know the fellow. I will look into it, Wallace,” he said. “Any further news, bring straight to me.”
Wallace stood and saluted. “Right, Captain Reade.”
“Don’t salute me,” Reade said irritably.
Wallace flushed. “Sorry, sir. Served under you. Old habits die hard.”
“You are now engaged in undercover work,” Reade said, relenting. “Make it a habit not to go blathering a man’s name about. There’s a good fellow.”
When the man hurried away, Reade called for a coffee.
As he drank, his thoughts returned to Miss Dalrymple. Was it possible she could be in danger? What might the Virdens want with her father? Was he an innocent man caught in their web? It chilled Reade to think it. While he wasn’t ready to question Dalrymple, he’d make it his business to find out more about him.
He finished his drink, rose, and tossed coins onto the table. He had an appointment to keep.
Chapter Seven
On Friday, Jo and Sally went to view the Prince Regent’s return to Carlton House from parliament after reading the king’s speech. While the sky was overcast, there’d been no sign of rain. Hopeful for fine weather, they positioned themselves on the pavement near Saint James’s gardens, crushed in among a rowdy crowd. Jo tried to ignore the unpleasant smell of unwashed bodies. Someone elbowed her