Page 14 of Devoted to the Spanish Duke
He frowned. What a foolish question. He was Spanish and a Catholic; he went every week. Even on board the ship bound for England, he had asked the captain to conduct a small Sunday morning service for the crew and himself.
His friend might be onto something.
Everyone in Spain goes to church on Sunday. And when you are not at home, you find a place to worship. Could it be that simple?
Rising from his chair, Lisandro met Stephen’s gaze. Today was Saturday. Tomorrow, all of the major Catholic churches in London would be full of worshippers, including Saint James’s church in Spanish Place. Any good Spaniard who happened to find himself in the English capital would be attending the Sunday morning mass.
From his time in London during the war, Lisandro had formed a close friendship with the parish priest, Father Hurtado. If anyone new had started attending Saint James’s on a Sunday, Father Hurtado would know.
Lisandro pointed a finger in Stephen’s direction and grinned. “I have a sudden desire to go and stretch my legs. All the way to the other side of Manchester Square, and St James’s church. And there I may seek out a priest. Care to join me?”
Stephen smiled back. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Chapter Seven
Lisandro and Stephen arrived early for Sunday mass the following morning. After their visit to St James’s the previous day, they now had a plan in place. Every attempt to blend in with the rest of the parishioners had been made; both were dressed in regulation black suits with white linen shirts. Their morning coats did little however to hide their well-toned physiques and more than one young lady batted her eyelashes at them.
After taking their seats several rows back from the altar but to one side, they sat quietly, heads facing forward, and waited.
The aging Father Hurtado shuffled in, coming down to the front of the pulpit and stopping in front of one of the deacons. They exchanged a few words, after which the priest nodded his welcome to various parishioners as they made their way into the church and found a space in the pews.
Lisandro watched the Father’s gaze as it swept over the gathering. When Father Hurtado put his hands together and held them to his lips, Stephen cleared his throat. “That’s the signal.”
The priest dropped his right hand and touched the front of his robe five times. With his left hand, he brushed away an invisible piece of lint eight times. As he turned and headed back toward the pulpit, his gaze locked with Lisandro’s for the briefest of moments.
Right-hand side of the aisle, which makes our man on this side. Five rows back from the front. Eight seats in from the aisle.
Adrenaline coursed through him. Señor Alba was here in the church. The man who had helped kidnap Maria de Elizondo was sitting a matter of feet away.
He let out a shaky breath, knowing that while he would dearly have loved to step out and make his way over to where Señor Alba sat, seizing him violently by the throat, it wouldn’t help Maria. If the kidnappers were any sort of professionals, they would have protocols set in place. If Alba didn’t return from church, they may well have standing orders to kill their captive.
Stephen coughed. Then coughed again. Lisandro reached out and patted him gently on the back. “Are you alright?”
“I’m trying to find a reason for us to leave. A coughing fit seems as good as any,” he replied.
The spluttering grew louder, and the people around them made not-so-subtle noises about the disturbance. With a dramatic shake of the head, Stephen pointed to the aisle and got to his feet. He and Lisandro beat a hasty retreat out the front door.
Outside in George Street, Stephen made a miraculous recovery. “What did you see as we left?” he asked.
Lisandro pulled a notebook out of his coat pocket and jotted down some pertinent details. Short, tidy moustache, and well dressed. Middle-aged, if the kiss of gray hairs at his temple was any indication.
“From the respectable gap between him and the next group of people in his pew, he appeared to be alone. I didn’t get a long look at him, but he seemed comfortable in his skin. You wouldn’t pick him as being a man who had stolen a young woman from her home,” replied Lisandro.
“Damn. I was hoping we might get someone who looked furtive and out of place. The fact that he feels confident enough to risk venturing out into society tells us a great deal about the sort of people who have Maria,” said Stephen.
For the next hour they stood on the opposite side of the street, waiting for Sunday mass to conclude. A little before midday, the first parishioners began to file out of St James’s church. Lisandro took a step forward, intending to cross over and stand outside the church, but Stephen seized him by the arm. “Let me do this. I blend in better than you.”
Lisandro narrowed his eyes at him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you look like a Spanish gentleman. If you start following him, he might try to engage you in conversation. Then the game will be up. If I tail him, all he will see if he checks behind him is another pasty-faced Englishman out for a Sunday stroll.”
Lisandro nodded, annoyed with himself that Stephen seemed to have a stronger grip on managing things than he did. Lisandro wasn’t one for playing second fiddle, but with so much at stake, his pride would simply have to endure it.
Stephen leaned in close. “Just remember you are the one who is going to have to get Maria de Elizondo home to her family. Springing her from her prison in London may be the easy part. Getting the two of you back to Spain is going to be fraught with danger.”
Lisandro didn’t even want to think about the journey home. All that mattered was finding Maria and then figuring out the best way to rescue her.
“Here we go,” said Stephen.
