He had no need for the temptation of a house party.
“Oh, that’s too bad. I hear it will be quite fun and Lady Grafton and her daughter Lady Eunice have a number of activities planned. I think Lord Grafton intends to have a shooting contest, as well.”
None of that would tempt Hunt as much as Diana would every minute of every day during the house party. “I am sorry, my dear, but I don’t think I will make it.”
She shrugged, but he saw definite disappointment on her face.
“There you are!” Lady St. John walked up to them and tapped Hunt on his arm. “It is almost time for our dance.”
He sighed inwardly. The last thing he wanted to do was spend the next twenty or so minutes dodging Lady St. John’s wandering hands. At least, due to his diligence, the dance coming up was a cotillion and not a waltz.
Before he walked off with Lady St. John, he reached for Diana’s dance card. The supper waltz was open. Had she saved it for him? Hoping they would meet at this event? He quickly scribbled his name next to the number and offered her a slight bow.
He glanced back at her as he led Lady St. John to the dance floor. Diana was staring at the dance card with a slight smile on her face.
The next morning, Hunt entered the breakfast room still out of sorts after the night before. The waltz with Diana had been torturous. He wanted to pull her against him and feel the curves he’d witnessed in the portrait. She’d felt so very right in his arms. They even grinned at each other like a couple of love-sick fools. Hopefully, no one noticed. The last thing he needed were rumors.
After taking his seat, he snapped open the freshly-ironed newspaper sitting next to his plate and folded it to the front page. He reached for his cup of tea, and his hand stopped halfway there. He blinked several times to make sure his eyesight hadn’t failed him. There was no mistake. The morning newspaper headline remained the same.
Mallory Art Gallery burned to the ground
Owner, J. D. Mallory dead
Before he even had the chance to read the story, one of his footmen entered with an envelope resting on a salver. “This just came for you, my lord.”
Hunt took the envelope, broke the seal, and opened it. From the Home Office.
My Lord,
Your presence is requested this morning at ten o’clock.
Sir Phillip DuBois-Gifford
8
Sir Phillip DuBois-Gifford received a salary from the Home Office and bore the title Covert Agent, but to Hunt’s knowledge, no record of his employment existed anywhere. He worked on difficult cases that the Crown felt were far too delicate or sensitive to be handled through normal channels. It was generally Sir Phillip who summoned one of the Rose brothers for help.
Hunt entered the modest, indistinct house in a lower-class neighborhood that served as Sir Phillip’s office. The man himself was nondescript in his bearing, looks, and manner of clothing. No one seeing Sir Phillip on the street would take him for more than a typical resident of the area. A lower income worker.
Hunt was convinced DuBois-Gifford lived a totally different life elsewhere in London. Since he was so unnoticeable, there was a good chance Hunt had seen him when out and about and never recognized him. He’d learned from the beginning of their relationship to keep his questions to himself.
Sir Phillip stood and shook Hunt’s hand as he entered the small, stuffy office in the house. “Thank you for coming, my lord. Please have a seat.”
Hunt sat and rested his booted foot on his knee. “How can I be of service, Sir Phillip?” Even though they’d worked together on more than a few projects, they’d never gotten past the formality of the aristocrat and the commoner.
“Are you familiar with the
J. D. Art Gallery?”
Hunt sat up, his heart taking an extra thump. “Yes.” No point in offering more than necessary.
“It burned down last night.”
Hunt nodded, still cautious. “I read that.”
DuBois-Gifford picked up a paper weight sitting on his desk and rubbed his thumb over it. “Mr. Mallory’s body was found in the burned-out building. However, he did not die from burns or smoke inhalation. He’d been shot twice at close range.”
Hunt did a good job of hiding his surprise. “It is believed to be a murder?”