Page 100 of Marry in Secret
Thomas whirled around.
Wilmott lifted his teacup, sipped genteelly, set it down and let fly a flood of the filthiest gutter Arabic Thomas had ever heard: a torrent of creative, fluent abuse. If Thomas didn’t know better he’d swear that a genuine street Arab was hiding under the table.
Wilmott finished his tirade, smiled blandly at Thomas and reached for another ginger biscuit.
It surprised a long hard belly laugh out of Thomas. Ashendon joined in. Wilmott crunched on his biscuit and Radcliffe looked smug. “Never underestimate my men,” he said.
“But how?” Thomas asked. “How does an Old Harrovian learn to speak like the veriest street beggar?”
“Oh, I speak perfect cultured Arabic, too, and I read and write it perfectly,” Wilmott assured him. “Also Persian and French. If I need to converse with the caliph or the sultan, I won’t shame you, I promise.”
“But how do you know all this?” Mention of both the caliph and the sultan heartened him. It sounded as though Wilmott might know something of the political setup in Mogador, as well.
“My mother is an Arab,” Wilmott explained. “Her father, my grandfather, is a cunning old devil who was determined his grandson wouldn’t grow up to be an effete Englishman. I spent half my childhood with him in his palace in Alexandria, where he had me properly educated in the finer aspects of Arabic culture—history, poetry, mathematics, music and so on—and let me run wild the rest of the time. And during plague season, he placed me with the Bedouin, who educated me in their ways. I adored my times with him and have not yet decided which will become my chosen culture—I can fit seamlessly into both, you see.” He dusted crumbs from his fingers. “So, do we have an agreement?”
Thomas held out his hand. “We do.”
“Excellent,” Radcliffe said. “Now I hate to move you chaps along, but...”
They thanked him and left. His assistant conducted them to a nearby empty office where Thomas briefed Wilmott thoroughly, giving him the details pertaining to each man and anything else Thomas could think of that might be useful. Wilmott asked questions from time to time and noted everything down in a little red leather notebook in a script that Thomas saw was neither Arabic nor English.
They then made arrangements for him to collect the gold that would be used to buy the men’s freedom. “And of course, you must take a percentage—” Thomas began.
“Nonsense,” Wilmott said. “Grandfather would disown me if I took a penny for releasing men from slavery. He has no time for Barbary pirates and despises slavery of all kinds. Besides, I’m not going to Mogador just for you; Radcliffe has another assignment for me there.”
Going home in the carriage afterward, realizing his men really did have a good chance of being rescued by Wilmott, it was as if a weight had lifted off Thomas’s shoulders.
He looked at his brother-in-law sprawled comfortably in the corner of the carriage, staring out of the window, looking slightly bored. “I have to thank you, Ashendon, for arranging that. I can barely believe that such a man could exist.”
Ashendon huffed a laugh. “Radcliffe is a collector of men with extraordinary skills. If he doesn’t know the kind of man you need, he’ll know a man who knows a man who’ll know another man who can do it.”
Thomas laughed. “What exactly is Radcliffe’s job?”
“Making life interesting for the rest of us,” Ashendon said dryly. “And don’t you think it’s time you called me Cal?”
“Cal?”
“It’s what family and friends call me, Thomas. You’re family now.”
“Since when?”
“Since you put my sister before your heart’s desire.”
“Your sisterismy heart’s desire.”
“I suspected as much.”
And why could he say such a thing to Rose’s brother when he hadn’t yet said it to her? Had the terror he’d experienced at the prospect of losing her shaken his reluctance to speak the words loose?
A little uncomfortable at the intimate direction the conversation had strayed into, they each stared out of their respective windows. After a while Thomas said, “Any sign of the swine who shot her?”
“No. Nor any progress on the investigation into the marzipan poisoning.”
“I’ve been giving some thought as to who this mysterious enemy might be, and I’ve come to the conclusion that, aside from some random madman, it must be either the duke or Cousin Cornelius; the duke in revenge for us ruining his wedding plans, in which case it’s not clear whether the intended target is Rose or me. I suspect either would satisfy him. Cousin Cornelius’s motive is both more obvious and more likely. He wants me dead so that he can return to being the Earl of Brierdon.”
“Your reasoning is sound. Of the two suspects, my money’s on Cornelius.” Cal leaned forward. “So, do you have a plan?”
Thomas grimaced. “Not exactly. But I’m not going to stay in London, waiting for whoever it is to try again. As soon as Rose is able to travel comfortably I’m taking her to the country. In London every second person is a stranger, and there’s no telling who they might be or what their intentions are. In the country, everyone knows each other and any stranger will stand out.”
