both potatoes to roll from his desk and hit the floor. Mr. Kettle ignored the potatoes, picked up one of the treats, and took a large bite. “No more, Mrs. Honeycutt,” he said through a mouthful of tart that was indeed melting in his mouth. “You have caught me at a particular moment that will be rectified this evening,” he said, eyeing one of the potatoes. “I will not be bribed.”
“No, of course not, Mr. Kettle,” she said, and rose gracefully from her seat. “Good day.” She walked out of his tiny office. The man with the large hands followed her without a word. But Adonis winked at Mr. Kettle before he followed after his mistress.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The news that Lord and Lady Chartier, lately of Bibury, have determined to stay on in London through the twelfth day of Christmas has been received with great joy by friends and family alike. Lord Justice Tricklebank will fete the couple and his family at his home on Christmas Day. Lord and Lady Chartier are expected to resume their place in society and attend several soirees intended to celebrate the formal end of the peace negotiations between Alucia and Wesloria. The final accord is expected to be signed this week.
Ladies, with Christmas only days away, Milloy and Drake Company is offering printed invitations on embossed and scented paper. Sir Henry Cole has a selection of Christmas cards for posting to your loved ones during the Christmas season. They are offered for one shilling each.
—Honeycutt’s Gazette of Fashion and Domesticity for Ladies
MAREK, HOLLIS, and Donovan dined at a restaurant in Belgravia to discuss what Mr. Kettle had revealed. Donovan was flatly against either of them going into Hackney Wick.
“But Hackney is lovely,” Hollis said.
“Where your friends reside, aye, it is,” Donovan said. “But not all of it. Not Hackney Wick.”
“I prefer to go alone,” Marek said.
“But you’re not familiar with Hackney—”
“I will learn it,” Marek said briskly before Hollis could argue her way into this. “If they are there, I’ll have better luck alone, Weslorian to Weslorian.” He wanted to be free to talk to these soldiers on his own terms, in his own way, and to take as long as the task required. He didn’t think he could accomplish that with a woman in tow—no offense to Hollis, certainly—but he knew how men were. He didn’t want Donovan, either. A reasonable man on foreign soil might suspect Donovan of being with an authority they didn’t want to encounter.
Quite a lot of discussion ensued, particularly as Hollis was dismayed that neither of them thought it safe for her. At last, she conceded when Marek promised her he’d come straightaway to Mayfair to tell her everything that he had learned.
He meant to keep that promise when he walked away from the restaurant. But events had a way of unfurling when a person least expected it.
It was easy enough to find Mr. Rangold’s town house. The area was home to people who worked hard for their living, judging by the women who trudged down the street with small shopping baskets, and the men in worn suits striding purposefully across the bowling green.
The Rangold house, he discovered, was a nondescript, redbrick town house identical to the other town houses on that block.
A woman selling apples thought nothing of it when he offered her two shillings to point him in the right direction. He took his apple, and made his way to the street she’d indicated. Once there, Marek intercepted a gentleman, who pointed to a faded door near the end of the block. No one paid him any heed as he walked up to the door and used the tarnished knocker to rap.
A woman eventually came to the door. She looked as harried as the rest of the people on the street. Her gown was brown, her hair gray, and she wore a dirty apron and a lace cap. She wiped her palms on her apron as she peered at him, as if she thought she might know him. When she spoke, it was a language he didn’t know. Polish, perhaps? “Do you speak English?”
She blinked. “Who are you?” she asked in heavily accented English.
“A friend.”
She did not look convinced.
“Is Mr. Rangold in?”
“No.” She moved to close the door, but Marek quickly put up a hand to stay her. “I am Weslorian,” he said. “I’m looking for my friends. I understand they are housing here, with Mr. Rangold.”
She eyed him suspiciously.
“I have important news for them.”
“No one home