Mistress of Sins (Dredthorne Hall #3) - Hazel Hunter Page 0,59

as her bonds, but she made furious sounds and struggled under the heavy wool.

“Be silent and still, and you may live to hate the English another day,” Greystone told her. “Keep fighting, and I will finish what Jennet started at the hall.”

He rode to a livery in Cheapside that did much more than hire out carriages and horses, and gave the burly stable hand who came to meet him his passcode. The station to which he reported was not his usual stop when he came to London, but as soon as he explained himself to the chief officer he was provided with fresh clothing and a carriage with an armed driver. The last he saw of Catherine was when she was marched back to one of the cells hidden behind the stalls to await transport to prison. They had kept her hands tied behind her back, but removed her gag.

She glanced back over her shoulder at him, her pretty face smeared with dirt and her eyes dull with defeat. Then she spat in his direction.

Greystone felt a curious sense of seeing his own fate, had it not been thwarted. If not for Jennet, that would be me.

From the station, the carriage took Greystone to Whitehall, and the Horse Guards building across from St. James’s Palace. Soldiers and certain members of government were permitted into the old red brick building, which most of London regarded as a barracks and stable for the most senior Army regiments. The Secretary at War and his staff encouraged this illusion.

Guards stopped Greystone at five different checkpoints before he was permitted access to the war room, where his superiors worked tirelessly to gather and analyze the latest reports to advise Wellington and Parliament on the war effort. Today he found three older statesmen with one of the general’s most trusted spymasters, a quartet wryly known among their agents as the Four Horsemen.

He wasted no time after greeting them as he placed the cipher onto the map table. “Gentlemen, Arthur Pickering died last night to protect this from French agents on English soil. I was obliged to deliver it myself. I hope it was worth his life.”

The spymaster, a reedy man with little hair and flat eyes, picked up the book and skimmed through it.

“We shall see to it that it is.” He glanced at the other three men, who abruptly left the room, and then regarded Greystone. “My station chief advises that you captured and brought in Ruban as well. Quite unsettling for me to learn that he is actually an Irish woman.”

Reporting on what he had learned from Catherine Tully, Greystone also recommended they collect her parents and the other three agents from the magistrate in Renwick before any of them managed to get word out of their capture.

“Yes, that will keep the French using the same cipher for some weeks yet, until one of their more intelligent generals works out that we have it.” The spymaster smiled a little. “This, along with the elimination of Ruban, could very well turn the tide of the war to our favor. You are to be commended, Raven, even if I can never do so officially.”

“Thank you, sir.” He suppressed the sudden urge to lunge at his superior. “I should like to return to France as soon as may be arranged.”

“I am afraid that Arthur Pickering did not share your opinion.” The older man pocketed the cipher. “I received a report from him last week concerning your fitness for duty. For many reasons, including your inheritance of the barony, he felt this operation should be your last. I am inclined to agree.”

Greystone shrugged. “I liked Pickering, but he was just a courier. I am more than willing to continue serving.”

“We do not always inform our agents as to who they work with, or what their real responsibilities are,” the spymaster chided. “Arthur was my most trusted analyst, and evaluated for me the performance of all our overseas operatives.”

So Arthur had had other motives for bringing him to Renwick. Greystone didn’t know what to say in his defense. All he could think was what the vicar had said to him just before they had routed Catherine’s men.

The spymaster took out his pocket watch to check the time. “I am due to brief the Prime Minister and the Secretary at War within the hour, so I must keep this brief. In a few days we will let it slip that Arthur Pickering was the Raven, so the French will believe