“Come on.” His arm around Leonora, Tristan straightened away from the tree and started off in the man’s wake.
They passed Humphrey; he didn’t look up but Tristan saw that he’d produced a sketch pad and pencil and was rapidly drawing, a somewhat incongruous sight.
The foreigner didn’t look back; he seemed to have swallowed their little charade. They’d hoped he would head straight back to his office rather than into any of the less salubrious areas not far from the park. The direction he was taking looked promising. Most of the foreign embassies were located in the area north of St. James’s Park, in the vicinity of St. James’s Palace.
Tristan released Leonora, then took her hand, glanced down at her. “We’re out for a night of entertainment—we’ve decided to look in at one of the halls around Piccadilly.”
She opened her eyes wide. “I’ve never been to one—I take it I should treat the prospect with enthusiam?”
“Precisely.” He couldn’t help but grin at her delight—nothing to do with any music hall but the result of pure excitement.
They passed Deverell, who’d got to his feet and was brushing himself down preparatory to joining them in following their quarry.
Tristan was an expert at trailing people through cities and crowds; so, too, was Deverell. They’d both worked primarily in the larger French cities; the best methods of the chase were second nature.
Jeremy would collect Humphrey and they’d return to Montrose Place to await developments; Charles would be there ahead of them with Duke. It was Charles’s job to hold the fort until they returned with the last, vital piece of information.
Their quarry crossed the bridge over the lake and continued on toward the
environs of St. James’s Palace.
“Follow my lead in all things,” Tristan murmured, his eyes on the man’s back.
Just as he’d expected, the man paused just before the gate leading out of the park and bent down as if to ease a stone from his shoe.
Sliding his arm around Leonora, Tristan tickled her; she giggled, squirmed. Laughing, he settled her familiarly against him, and continued straight past the man without so much as a look.
Breathless, Leonora leaned close as they continued on. “Was he checking?”
“Yes. We’ll stop a little way along and argue about which way to go so he can pass us again.”
They did; Leonora thought they put on a creditable performance of a pair of lower-class lovers debating the merits of music halls.
When the man was once more ahead of them, striding along, Tristan grasped her hand, and they followed, now rather more briskly as if they’d made up their minds.
The area surrounding St. James’s Palace was riddled with tiny lanes and interconnecting alleyways and yards. The man turned into the labyrinth, striding along confidently.
“This won’t work. Let’s leave him to Deverell and go on to Pall Mall. We’ll pick him up there.”
Leonora felt a certain wrench as they left the man’s trail, continuing straight on where he had turned left. A few houses along, she glanced back, and saw Deverell turn off in the man’s wake.
They reached Pall Mall and turned left, ambling very slowly, scanning the openings of the lanes ahead. They didn’t have long to wait before their quarry emerged, striding along even more quickly.
“He’s in a hurry.”
“He’s excited,” she said, and felt certain it was true.
“Perhaps.”
Tristan led her on; they switched with Deverell again in the streets south of Piccadilly, then joined the crowds enjoying an evening stroll along that major thoroughfare.
“This is where we might lose him. Keep your eyes peeled.”
She did, scanning the throng bustling along in the fine evening.
“There’s Deverell.” Tristan stopped, nudged her so she looked in the right direction. Deverell had just stepped into Pall Mall; he was looking about him. “Damn!” Tristan straightened. “We’ve lost him.” He started openly searching the crowds before them. “Where the devil did he go?”
Leonora stepped closer to the buildings, looked along the narrow gap the crowds left. She caught a flash of grey, then it was gone.