Page 12 of King's Man

Talmach’s gaze didn’t waiver for a long, silent moment. When he’d looked his fill, he eased himself back into his chair, leaving one leg out straight in front of him. “Very well, Mr. Hutchinson, take a seat and we’ll discuss business.”

There were three chairs around the fire and Sam took the one opposite Talmach. On a low table between them sat a coffee pot and three cups. He ignored them, leaned forward, elbows on knees, and said, “I assume you want something stolen.”

“A document.”

“From where?”

“Marlborough Castle.”

Sam puffed out a breath, flexing fingers that had clenched in his lap. “I…don’t know it.” Which was odd; his time with Foxe had given him a working knowledge of all London’s principle houses and their occupants.

“It’s the seat of John MacLeod.” Talmach sat back, smoothing a hand over the pristine fabric of his breeches. “The Baron Marlborough.”

Now that was a name Samdidknow and it was one often followed by bitter epithets; Marlborough did not treat his servants well, and ill-used servants talked freely. Sam folded his arms. “And where’s his castle?”

“In the north.”

“Of London?”

Talmach’s lips sketched a thin smile. “Of the country. Near the port of Liverpool, I understand.”

Sam let out a low whistle. Not far short of two-hundred miles to the north, if his English geography could be relied upon. “That’s a week on the road at least, just to get there. Aren’t there any lockpickers in Liverpool?”

“I’mnot in Liverpool,” Talmach said. “And this is not a matter to be conducted by proxy.” His eyes gleamed bright as a bird’s. “I cannot overstate the importance of secrecy and stealth. Lord Marlborough must not know that the document in question has been removed. Do you understand? Nothing can be disturbed.”

“I understand. I assume you’re meeting the cost of the journey?”

“The cost is not —”

A knock at the door.

“At last,” Talmach muttered under his breath. Then, louder, “Come.”

Sam twisted in his seat and watched as the door behind him opened. “Is this your associ — ?” That was all he managed before his throat seized up, before his heart stopped beating, before the world staggered to a halt.

Frozen in the doorway, stood Nate Tanner.

Nate fucking Tanner.

Impossible.

He stared at Sam, eyes impossibly dark against his ashen face, lips parted as if to speak. Stiffly, like moving through a nightmare, Sam rose. Was this the moment where he was denounced?Tory. King’s man. Traitor. He’d meet it on his feet, at least. But Nate said nothing, his colorless face a blank mask.

Ah.

Sam understood. It would be worse for Nate to acknowledge his connection with a Tory than to expose him. Tanner was nothing if not a political creature and he’d grown ashamed of their friendship long before he’d ended it. Clearly that hadn’t changed.

“Don’t dither, man,” Talmach grumbled. “You’re late enough as it is.”

Nate jerked his gaze from Sam. “My apologies, sir. The traffic in this wretched city… And the mud!” A man who knew him less well may have missed the high tension in his voice. “Almost lost my damn shoes.”

Talmach snorted. “Then wear boots, man. Not those dancing slippers.”

Moving like an old man, Sam managed to sit back down and fix his gaze on the fire. Bile or rage or grief clogged his throat, making it impossible to swallow. All he could hear was the rush of blood in his ears. All he could see was Nate’s beautiful, startled face.

He hated that his pulse was racing.

He hated that his breath was short.

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