Beyond Seduction (Bastion Club 6)

Christian snorted. “Symbols of his greatness.”

Dalziel nodded, then came to his feet in a rush of nervy energy. “He’ll want that cargo. After all this time, all his planning, waiting for his moment of triumph—he’ll be fixated on regaining his treasure.” He smiled chillingly. “And fixated men make mistakes.”

He looked at Gervase. “Regardless of what happens here today, I’ll be on my way to Cornwall this afternoon.”

Gervase’s face hardened. “Madeline and I won’t leave here until we find Ben.”

Dalziel nodded. “I’ll help in whatever way I can, but this might be our last chance at catching this man and I can’t let it pass.”

“We’ll have to find Ben first,” Madeline said.

Dalziel nodded again, more curtly. “I’ll put all the forces I can muster at your disposal before I leave—”

“No, you don’t understand.” Her voice held a hint of suppressed humor, enough to make Dalziel frown at her.

“What don’t I understand?”

She knew she was supposed to be intimidated by that voice, by his chilly diction, but she now had his measure. She held his gaze calmly. “The Lizard Peninsula is large—you won’t be able to watch all the beaches, nor will you be able to monitor access to the peninsula itself—there are too many ways to reach it, including by sea. To catch your last traitor, you’ll need to know which beach he’ll be heading for. And until we find Ben, you won’t know that.”

Dalziel’s frown didn’t lift. “But we know which beach the brooch came from.”

She nodded. “Indeed. But as Edmond—another of my brothers—pointed out, it’s more than likely Ben will lie.”

The frown evaporated; frustration took its place. After a moment, Dalziel flung himself back into his chair. “Haven’t you taught him not to lie?”

She inwardly grinned at the disgruntled grumble. “I have, but the lessons don’t take well with Ben. Perhaps when he grows older. Regardless, at present, he lies quite beautifully—he’s so…”—she gestured—“fluent, even when I know he’s not telling the truth, he makes me think I might be wrong.”

Dalziel stared at the floor, then grimaced. “All right.” He lifted his head; his eyes pinned Christian, then moved to Gervase. “So how are we going to locate the whelp?”

Suppressing a smile, Madeline turned back to the desk. She completed the last of Christian’s notes while around her a wide-ranging discussion of how to scour London, especially the slums, raged.

Dalziel was making plans to contact various commanders in the Guards as she laid the last note on the pile. She glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes to twelve. She turned to Christian, intending to suggest he send for the footmen they’d told her Gasthorpe would provide, when the knocker on the front door was plied—not just once or twice but with persistent, repetitive force.

The three men broke off, turning to the door. It was shut, muting sounds from the front hall below, but the knocking had stopped.

Ears straining, Madeline listened…heard a light, piping voice politely ask…

She was out of her chair, past Dalziel and flinging open the library door before any of the men could blink. Sweeping to the stairs, her heart in her mouth, she paused on the landing, looking down into the hall, to the group before the front door. Then she grabbed up her skirts and rushed headlong down.

“Ben!” She couldn’t believe her eyes, but there he was; she saw the relief that washed over his face as he glanced up at her call, disbelieving her presence as much as she had his.

Reaching him, she swept him into her arms, hugging him wildly, only just remembering in time not to lift him from his feet, bending over him and clutching him to her instead, her hands patting over him.

“Are you all right?” His clothes were dusty and disarranged, rumpled and soiled, but not torn or filthy.

He nodded; he was clutching her quite as fiercely as she was clutching him. But then he pushed away; reluctantly she forced herself to ease her hold. He looked up into her face. “There was this man—”

He broke off as he noticed Gervase, who had come down the stairs, Dalziel and Christian at his back. Ben smiled, a trifle shy. He nodded to Gervase. “Hello, sir.” His gaze traveled on to rest on Dalziel, then Christian; his eyes widened, then he looked up as Gervase neared.

Smiling, Gervase laid a hand on Ben’s shoulder and lightly squeezed. “You’ve no idea how glad we are to see you. But how did you get free—and how did you know to come here?”

Ben looked into his face. “You told me, remember? When we were fishing, you told us about your club in London. You said it was in Montrose Place. When those horrid men pushed me out of the carriage in an awful street”—he glanced at Madeline—“it was smelly and dirty and the people looked mean, I found a hackney cab.”

Turning, he pointed to the heavyset, frieze-coated individual watching the proceedings through the open front door. “Jeb’s hackney. I told him I was a friend of yours—Lord Crowhurst of Crowhurst Castle—and if he brought me to your club in Montrose Place, then the people here would pay him twice his fee.”

Looking up at Gervase, Ben made his eyes huge. “You will pay Jeb double for bringing me here, won’t you?”

“Not double. Triple. With a tip.” Dalziel moved past Gervase to the door, fishing in his coat pocket. “Indeed, quadruple the fare is not too much in the circumstances.”