Page 11 of King's Man

“Ha! Well. Perhaps one day MacLeod will take a tour of his Carolina plantations, and then we’ll have him, eh?”

“I think that unlikely.” John MacLeod would never set foot in America again if it posed any danger to his person. “Why risk himself when he has men like Farris to scurry around on his behalf?”

“I dare say. And perhaps it’s for the best. The fewer Tory bastards infecting American minds the better.”

Nate bowed to avoid replying and tried in vain not to remember gentle, gray eyes and a warm, wide smile. Or to wonder where in the world their owner might be. Ironically, hunting Loyalists was an obsession Nate shared with the colonel — with respect to one specific Loyalist, at least.

Sam Hutchinson was the principal reason Nate had volunteered to accompany Talmach to London, although his search had proven fruitless. Not least because nobody in the city’s sizable community of exiled Americans would give an agent of the Continental Congress the time of day. And this pointless sojourn to MacLeod’s estate would eat up the rest of his time. He shifted restlessly, unable to refuse the colonel’s order yet afraid his last chance of finding Sam was slipping through his fingers.

If Sam was alive.

If he was in London.

If he wanted to be found.

“I should go,” Nate said, abruptly. “I need to draft this damned contract and Farris will be unforgiving if I keep him waiting.”

“Very well. Meet me at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, at Salter’s. We’ve an appointment with the man who will assist you in retrieving MacLeod’s list of traitors.”

With that, Nate was dismissed. But despite his need to rush, he found himself lingering once he reached the dark street outside Talmach’s lodgings. Thoughts of Sam and news of Farris’s plotting made him heartsick, the night-time clatter of London scraping against his raw nerves. The damned city never stopped, was never quiet. Evenings here lasted until dawn and Nate didn’t think he could bear to spend another one in the company of Paul Farris.

Dare he escape to his own lodgings instead and deliver the contract tomorrow? One of the few benefits of visiting London had been discovering its many book shops, and Nate had recently come across a copy of a scandalous new novel, Les Liaisons Dangereuses. The thought of spending a few hours alone, reading, was almost enough to tempt him into abandoning Farris for the night. But Farris was a man who measured loyalty in fingers of brandy, and Nate couldn’t risk alienating him. Not now they had a means to entrap him.

No, he didn’t have a choice. Enough families, friends and — God help him — lovers had been torn apart by the war. He’d be damned before he let Paul Farris undermine everything for which they’d fought. The revolution came first.

The revolution always came first.

Chapter Three

Salter’s was a gentleman’s club. But Tobias Salter was no gentleman, nor were most of his patrons. It was Hal Foxe’s favorite place to do business, however, even though he rarely ventured into the club himself. Bad blood of some kind between himself and the proprietor, Sam had heard. Not that he cared; he went where he was instructed and asked few questions.

Nonetheless, he liked Salter’s. The building was subtly impressive, located on St. James Street not far from the famous White’s. But unlike White’s, Salter’s didn’t advertise its location or membership to the fops ofle bon ton, and the two discreet footmen on the door discouraged any unknown faces from approaching.

They knew Sam, however, and opened the door for him with a silent bow. Pausing inside, Sam blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light and let another footman take his coat and hat.

“Mr. Foxe has reserved the Blue Room,” the footman said, face impassive beneath his impeccable powdered wig.

“Thank you,” said Sam. “Much obliged.”

That earned him an uncertain look. Sam still wasn’t used to the English habit of treating their servants like furniture, and he hoped he never would be. So what if it betrayed his gauche colonial roots? To his mind, if a man did an honest job, he deserved to have it acknowledged.

With a parting nod, he took the stairs two at a time and stalked down a well-lit corridor, stopping outside the Blue Room. He took a moment to run his hands over his hair, straightened his coat, and knocked.

A deep American voice answered — not one he recognized. “Come.”

Telling himself the sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach was relief, Sam set his expression and opened the door.

Inside, a man sat before a brightly dancing fire, struggling to rise with the aid of a cane as Sam entered the room. He had strong features and dark hair, pulled back severely, which matched his austere black coat and breeches. “My name’s Talmach,” he said. “I’m afraid my associate appears to have been delayed.” From Talmach’s stern expression, Sam suspected that he didn’t tolerate tardiness. He made a mental note; it was never a good idea to irritate Hal Foxe’s clients.

“I’m Hutchinson,” Sam said, offering a polite bow. “Mr. Foxe sent me, sir.”

Talmach’s eyes glittered as he surveyed Sam. Nothing about his scrutiny was suggestive, he appeared rather more like a hawk eyeing a rabbit. “You’re an American,” he observed at last.

“Yes, sir.”

“From which state?”

Not a fellow refugee, then, to use that word. “In these circumstances,” Sam said neutrally, “it’s best if we know as little as possible about each other.” He bared a pointed smile. “I understand you have need of a lockpicker.”

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