Page 28 of Tales of a Society Nothing

Ambrose let out a laugh. “No, she hasn’t.” He looked at Maggie. “Mr. Slorach says Vanderville is dead. He and another agent killed Vanderville last night when he attacked them and tried to kill Lord John’s son at Pembroke Lodge.” Pembroke Lodge was the prime minister’s residence in Richmond Park, just outside of London.

“I hope Lucy doesn’t look as bad as you,” Maggie said, coming inside the drawing room and taking a seat.

“I’m fine.” Slorach shrugged and couldn’t quite hide a wince. “Baron has ordered me to assist you and to collect as much evidence against Vanderville as possible. I’d like to go to his residence and take a look before anything has a chance to disappear.”

“As I said,” Maggie continued, “you’ll want to study the ledgers. Holyoake and I hadn’t time enough to study the transactions thoroughly, but we saw evidence of Vanderville’s payments to the assassin and suspicious payments for security to his men in Liverpool.”

“I’ll need to study those and track down the recipients. Vanderville acted alone last night, but if there are others working with them, we need to know who they are and bring them in for questioning.”

“I’ll go with you,” Ambrose said. “I think it’s best if we search Vanderville’s files and bring everything we need back here. Less interference from local officials that way.”

“Baron would like to keep this quiet, so if we can avoid having to explain ourselves to every magistrate and constable, that would be best.”

“Send a note when you are on the way, and I’ll make sure tea and sandwiches are waiting. I’ll have the staff ready the dining room. We can spread out there.”

Again, Ambrose wanted to order Maggie back to bed, but she had as much right to close the investigation as he did. She had proved herself. She’d saved him as much as he’d saved her. She could fight and defend herself as well if not better than most other agents he’d worked with.

If only Ambrose could rid his mind of the image of her with the assassin’s knife at her throat. Every time he thought of it, and that was once every minute or so, he felt physically ill. He could have lost her. He could have watched the blade slice across her lovely neck and been powerless to stop it. His mind conjured the image of red spilling from her throat, and he standing there watching, inept and being incapable of saving her.

“Ambrose?”

He blinked and focused on Maggie. She was frowning at him.

“I asked if you wanted to walk or if I should call for the coach.”

“The coach,” he said, thinking of the bruises he had seen just above the line of Slorach’s cravat. The man had been in an even more perilous battle than they the night before. No need to make him walk to Vanderville’s when they had a long day ahead of them and all of them were sleep deprived.

When the coach was ready, Maggie walked with them to the conveyance. Ambrose leaned close to her, pretending to kiss her cheek, and instead whispering, “Please go lie down.”

She smiled. “Please? How can I say no when you ask so sweetly?”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

“Go and search, and I’ll be here when you return.”

She waved as the coach pulled away, and Ambrose turned away from the window and sighed.

“You’re a lucky man, my lord,” Slorach said. “There’s not an agent at the Farm who doesn’t think Miss Vaughn—er, Holyoake—is one of the best we have.”

“I saw that for myself last night.” Ambrose stared out the window, trying to ignore the vision of the assassin with the knife at Maggie’s throat. “Are you married, Mr. Slorach?”

“No, my lord.”

“Call me Holyoake. I always think of lords as men parading about at court and in the ballrooms of Mayfair. I haven’t been in a ballroom in years.”

“Neither have I.”

“Do you miss them?”

Slorach smiled. “Not a whit. You?”

“Sometimes.”

Slorach cleared his throat, pressing a hand to it gingerly. “If you don’t mind me asking, how long have you been married?”

“Seven years—no, almost eight now.”

Slorach’s eyes widened, and he gave a low whistle. “Any advice for a reformed rake?”

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