brandy in it. There was, however, brandy on the sideboard, and she poured two—her own quite stiff—before Mary could bring Richard in.
The Duke was a big, broad-shouldered man with bark-colored hair that might once have been blond, or brown. He swirled the brandy in the glass and tasted it, then watched as Garrett took two large sips of her own. Mary, clearing the tea things, vanished in her thin brown manner, as if she were just another stick of furniture, but Garrett never forgot she was there.
"Don't worry," she said dryly, after Mary had left the room, "he's not turned me into a vampire, Richard."
Richard set his glass down and frowned. "How can you trust him?"
"Because he's trustworthy." She finished her drink and poured another. "Have you come to denigrate my friends, or would you like to stay to supper?"
It made him laugh, which was what she wanted. "Actually, I came with news. Before Eliot heard it. And to ask what you've learned regarding the Goodwood murder."
"Sheridan," she said. "Goodwood was an alias. He was Colm Sheridan. What's your news?"
Richard paused, considering what she'd said in all its implications, and then silently handed her a telegram. The flimsy paper crackled as she unfolded it. Unlike the ones she'd been perusing before tea, it was brief.
MY SISTER EXPECTING HEIR STOP PLEASE INFORM OUR FRIEND STOP HENRY END
Garrett's control was legendary. The paper didn't crumple in her fist. It barely trembled. Prince Henry's 'sister' was his sister-in-law, Anne of England. If he was confident enough to send Richard a telegram, even an oblique one, then a sorcerer-midwife had confirmed that the child was healthy and male. If it was born alive, Henry would no longer be his brother's heir.
It changed so many things.
"Oh," she said. "May I keep the telegram?"
Richard nodded. "I thought you might wish to."
She pleated it carefully and tucked it into her neckline, where the paper rustled against her skin. "Is that all?"
He shook his head. "Mayor Eliot is a major shareholder in the Goodwood Patent Shoe Company."
Garrett poured more brandy. His had vanished as unaccountably as her own. "I'll have his finances checked."
* * *
She would have preferred he left by the time Sebastien arrived, but it was not to be. The sun set a little after six. Sebastien's carriage crunched to a halt in the street while twilight still lingered.
At least the Duke's coach was still in evidence at the side of the house. His rival's presence would not take Sebastien by surprise.
He returned the courtesy. Garrett had long granted him liberty of her house, but this time Mary preceded him, bearing a salver upon which rested two visiting cards. One was Sebastien's, the familiar slightly-greasy parchment. The second was crisp white linen-finished cardstock, and read Mr Jonathan Priest, 184 Jardinstraat, New Amsterdam.
Garrett wondered if that was his real name. "Show them in," she said. Mary winked on the side away from Richard, but her frown never broke.
As Garrett had anticipated, she did not approve.
She ushered the new arrivals in, however, and set about fussing with the fireplace, as if the four of them were children or testy dogs who could not be trusted to maintain standards of behavior. But Richard gave her the lie, greeting Sebastien with excruciating politeness, and Sebastien responded with a bow that was well-nigh medieval in its elaborations. He then turned to introduce Mr. Priest—"my assistant."
That minefield navigated, Garrett poured the young man a drink and replenished her own glass. Richard was not yet in need, and Sebastien could stomach no alcohol. Nor anything else but living blood, if it came right down to it.
When the unpleasantries were dispensed with, Garrett cleared her throat and said, "His grace has told me something interesting."
Richard cast her an apprehensive glance, but didn't interrupt. "It seems the Lord Mayor has a financial interest in Goodwood Patent Shoes. And I've learned that the Goodwood Patent Shoe company has blood links to the Fenians." Quickly, she explained about the Sheridan connection.
Sebastien smiled faintly through it, looking directly at Garrett rather than Richard or Mr. Priest. Garrett let the silence linger, shocked at herself. She should not be keeping Mr. Priest's secrets for him.
There were, she temporized, sound reasons why Mr. Priest, as Sebastien's associate, might infiltrate New Amsterdam's Irish underground. And they were not reasons that Richard—as Sebastien's rival or as the Duke of the City in his own character—would be inclined to appreciate.
These things were true. But the fact of the matter was that if Garrett