he’d spent a good deal of time at his offices, trying without success to distance himself in some measure from Brynn. He had yet to determine what to do about her lies. She still hadn’t told him of her pregnancy, which only served to underscore the shaky foundation of their marriage and rekindle his misgivings.
Adding to his disquiet was his recurring death dream. The nightmare had become more vivid and powerful than ever-of Brynn watching him die, perhaps even causing his death. What the significance of that grim image held, Lucian wasn’t certain, but it did nothing to allay his growing fear that he couldn’t trust her.
Realizing suddenly that he wasn’t alone, Lucian looked up from his desk to see Philip Barton standing in the doorway. Lucian forced a smile and invited his subordinate to enter.
To his surprise, rather than taking a seat as usual, Philip remained standing, his expression tight-lipped, his fingers agitatedly working the brim of his beaver hat.
Finally Philip spoke. “I greatly regret disappointing you, my lord. If you wish me to resign, you have only to say so.”
Lucian heard the misery in the younger man’s tone, but had no idea what might have caused it. He raised an eyebrow in puzzlement. “What the devil are you talking about? You haven’t disappointed me, as far as I know.”
“You didn’t trust me enough to divulge your changing the date of the latest gold shipment.”
Lucian felt a cold chill squeeze his chest. Events had been quiet of late, perhaps too quiet. Two shipments of gold bullion had been safely delivered to the allies on the Continent, and nothing had been heard from the treasonous Lord Caliban.
“I never changed the date,” Lucian said slowly. “Suppose you explain yourself.”
For the first time his subordinate looked confused. “But the letter…”
“What letter, man?” Lucian demanded impatiently.
“The letter you wrote authorizing the change in schedule.”
“I wrote no such letter.”
“My God…” An expression of horror seized Philip’s features. “The gold is gone, then… It was retrieved yesterday, on your order.”
Lucian rose to his feet, feeling dread boil up inside him. “I think I should see this letter.”
Delivering gold to fund the war effort was not a complex process: the London mint issued gold coinage, which was conveyed to the Bank of England and then shipped out under heavy guard to the Continent to meet troop payrolls and make payments to the countries of the Triple Alliance so they would continue to fight on Britain’s side. The transfer process had rarely failed until now.
The bank manager was unnerved to see Lord Wycliff and alarmed to think the gold had been consigned into the wrong hands. “But… but the l-letter of authorization seemed absolutely g-genuine,” he stammered.
“Allow me to see it, please,” Lucian demanded tersely.
With a murmur of distress, the manager signaled for an underling to fetch the letter. When it was presented in short order, Lucian grimly scanned the contents.
For purposes of national security, I am authorizing a change in date of the next scheduled shipment of gold. My agents will call the morning of October 5th at ten A.M. to receive the strongboxes.
Lucian Tremayne, Earl of Wycliff
His stomach roiling, Lucian passed the letter on to his subordinate. There was no question in his mind, though. The shipment was gone. Three strongboxes of new sovereigns-over a hundred thousand pounds’ worth-stolen effortlessly, without a drop of bloodshed or strife. No bloodshed yet, Lucian amended, his mouth tightening with fury. Such a sum would permit Napoleon’s armies to continue their slaughter of the allied forces for weeks.
“This does appear to have been written by you, my lord,” Philip said, his tone flat with dread.
“Yes,” Lucian replied through gritted teeth. “An excellent forgery.”
The manager wrung his hands in misery, looking as if he might cry. “I confess I thought the change odd, my lord, but the letter seemed to be in order- and it bore your seal.”
Taking the letter back, Lucian inspected the now-broken wax wafer, which had indeed been imprinted with the Wycliff seal. An imprecise warning thought teased the back of his mind, but before he could make sense of it, the manager launched into a spate of profuse apologies.
Brusquely Lucian thanked him and dismissed the man with a curt wave.
“Do you suppose it is the work of Caliban?” Philip asked when they were alone.
“Who else?” Lucian retorted grimly. “But he obviously had assistance from someone within our offices. Only two people besides you and myself knew when the next shipment was to take place, and I would trust both of them with my life.”
“Then who could have gained access to the schedule? And pulled off such a precise forgery?”