Page 4 of Better Off Wed

“And you think I am such a man? Wouldn’t a field agent be better suited to the task?”

As Scott well knew, Jeremy’s skill set lay elsewhere—which was to say, alone with his books.

Then again, he had been struggling to unlock a cypher that others had risked their lives to secure—the most important assignment with which he’d ever been entrusted.

Perhaps Scott had lost faith in his code-breaking abilities. Perhaps this strange new mission was intended as a sort of retraining.

“It will do you good to spend more time in the fresh air, Captain Addison,” the general said, an oblique reference to the dark spaces and secret work of the Underground. “You’re too pale. Besides, I haven’t a field agent to spare.” Scott fixed him with a pointed look. “They’re being drawn into the greener pastures of wedded bliss at an alarming rate.”

Fighting an unaccustomed urge to fidget, Jeremy instead smoothed and folded the newspaper until it was a neat square, no larger than a letter, and slipped it into his breast pocket. “No need to worry about me, sir,” he said with a crisp bow of his head.

There would be—could be—no true Lady Sterling.

Not while he was alive.

And as for the one who called herself Lady Sterling? Just a thief with a flair for irony. Scott’s order was a chance to unmask the woman, to put an end to speculation, gossip, his sister’s teasing—and the sharp pang behind his ribs that accompanied every reminder that he was destined to end up alone. “I suppose I should begin by tracking down her last victim. Who is this Lord P— the paper mentions?”

“Roderick Penhurst. Resides on Brook Street, near Hanover Square. By all accounts, the man is pockets to let—and apparently desperate enough to gamble away what little he had left in the vain hope of improving his fortunes.”

Though unfamiliar with Lord Penhurst, Jeremy had recognized the name of Pandemonium. The streets near the Underground were thick with gaming establishments, some reputable, most not. Not so long ago, he had been tempted to pay one or two of them a visit, given his skill with numbers. Only fear of a greater loss—the respect and trust of his mama and sister—had brought him to his senses.

Scott’s lips parted, as if he were weighing his next words carefully. “You should also know that Penhurst has a reputation as a scoundrel—and I don’t mean the sort of dashing chap one finds in the pages of one of my wife’s Robin Ratliff novels.” Another pause. “From what I can determine about her victims, Lady Sterling preys on predators, perhaps with the intention of making such men pay for their past crimes.”

Purity—of motive, if not always of method. “A sort of avenging angel, you mean?” He made no effort to hide his skepticism.

Scott nodded insistently. “Just so. But that is only speculation—and Penhurst is sure to deny all wrongdoing. If you speak with him, you must be delicate in your handling of the matter. Subtle. Fools rush in, as the saying goes.”

Jeremy bristled. “I’m no fool, sir.”

“If you were, you would not be here,” Scott agreed, rising.

Though he felt no clearer about matters than he had when the summons to Scott’s home had arrived, Jeremy recognized the signs that their conversation was drawing to a close. “Colonel Millrose said you’re leaving town, sir.”

“Yes, first thing in the morning. I’ve promised my wife a long-overdue holiday in Brighton.”

Jeremy tried to picture the general strolling along the strand in a straw boater. When his imagination failed him, he glanced around the spacious room instead: warm wood, dark green walls, deep leather chairs, neatly arranged bookshelves. Nothing at all like General Scott’s office near Whitehall, yet a reflection of the man who inhabited it.

Whether a truer reflection, Jeremy would not at present hazard a guess.

When he had left the Underground, the morning sun had been almost painfully bright, but through a pair of velvet-framed windows he now spied darker clouds gathering on the horizon, a harbinger of autumn’s gray skies and rain. He hoped the general’s holiday would not be spoiled.

“I wish you and Mrs. Scott safe travels,” Jeremy said with a deeper bow of leave-taking.

“Thank you, Addison—or should I say Sterling?” The hint of a smile that played about the corners of the man’s mouth was indecipherable, even for a master code breaker. “And I wish you good luck, though I cannot think you’ll need it.”

“Thank you, sir.” In spite of himself, his voice rose, striking a doubtful note. Whatever he felt in the moment, it was not gratitude. “I will try to reward your faith in me.”

As he crossed once more into the foyer, he could’ve sworn he heard Scott chuckling behind him.

* * * *

The door of Penhurst House opened to his knock, revealing what was surely the gangliest footman in Mayfair, who stammered when he said he would have to see if Lord Penhurst was at home. After several minutes, the young man returned, told Jeremy that Lord Penhurst would see him, and led him to a study as unlike General Scott’s as it was possible for two otherwise similar rooms to be.

In place of the more usual landscape, the mangy, stuffed head of an enormous stag hung over the fireplace. From one broken-tipped antler dangled a confection of lace and ribbon—a lady’s garter, Jeremy realized, and jerked his gaze away. The mingled odors of cheroot smoke, whiskey, and sweat stung his nostrils. The drapes were tightly drawn, and it smelled like no one in the household had dared to open a window for some time.

From the center of the dimly lit room, slung across an upholstered chair that had seen better days, Lord Penhurst watched him survey the space. “Who’re you?” he demanded, not rising. A cut-crystal tumbler dangled from the fingertips of one hand.

“Captain Jeremy Addison, my lord.”