Page 4 of The Wayward Duke
A polite cough pulled Julian back into the present. Habit had his expression smoothed to indifference before he turned. Mattias Wentworth, an operative Julian knew at the Home Office, observed the paintings with intensity, shoulders straining against his tailored jacket. The man was built for violence, though he hid it well under expensive trappings.
“A masterful work,” he said, his voice almost reverent.
Julian tamped down the riot of emotions clamouring for release. “Indeed. Are you here for the gallery, or following me?”
Wentworth smiled slightly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Both, actually,” he said. “I have an appreciation for art, as well as for discretion. And you’re the most discreet man I know.” Wentworth sobered, tone sharpening. “I require your expertise.”
“Mm.” Julian looked back at the painting. “I’ve thought a lot about the last time you required my expertise and why you travelled all the way to Vienna for it.”
Julian had often interacted with diplomats and ambassadors in his social circles, aware that many of their public-facing roles hid more unsavoury activities in spycraft. And among Her Majesty’s operatives, he’d developed a reputation for his aptitude in languages and cryptography.
“I’ve always liked you, Julian,” Wentworth said. “You’re clever. And even better, you know how to keep your mouth shut. A rare characteristic among men.”
Julian glared at him, then gestured with one hand. “Give it.”
Mattias pulled out a folded sheet of paper from his coat. The paper was creased and the ink smeared, but the letters and symbols were still legible.
Julian rubbed it with his fingers. “How many people have tried to solve this?”
“Enough for me to resort to a duke in an art gallery,” Mattias said, his words dry. “What do you see?”
“A letter written by a man of French extraction with sloppy penmanship and a fundamental lack of cryptographic skill. Amateur work, practically a child’s practice cypher.” Julian pursed his lips in annoyance as he handed the note back. “Give me the actual thing you want me to solve, or get out.”
Mattias let out a low laugh as he withdrew another paper from his coat. “Will this do?”
This one was pristine, not a single crease, and the ink was fresher – written by a different hand. Gone were the uneven strokes of the first attempt. Julian studied the rows of figures and letters. He reached for the patterns lurking beneath, the hidden mathematical structure on which the code was built.
“Do you know who wrote this?”
“Not the specifics,” Wentworth said. “But it’s imperative that we develop a way to crack his messages.”
“How imperative?”
Wentworth’s jaw tightened. “The man who wrote it is dangerous and already responsible for two mass casualty events to assassinate his specific targets. I’m taking a risk trusting you with it.”
Julian studied the cypher once more, the rows varied and different. This unknown man had a clever mind.
“I may be able to break this, but I’ll need more of his writings to compare it against. As much as you can secure me.”
Wentworth gave a nod. “I’ll deliver it to your apartments.”
Julian pressed his teeth together. “Stafford House. I’m in residence there for the rest of the month.”
A knowing gleam entered the other man’s eyes. “Reconciling with your wife, then?”
Caroline was right – everyone had noticed the diligence with which they maintained their separation. Eight years with no ducal heir had drawn attention.
“I’ve no interest in discussing my personal affairs.” Julian folded the cypher and slid it into his pocket. “Excuse me.”
Four more weeks. He need only endure four more weeks entangled in the thorny disaster of his marriage to Caroline.
In four weeks, he’d be able to breathe again.
3
Ravenhill, 1865
Nine years ago
