The Lady Chosen (Bastion Club 1)

“There!” She grabbed Tristan’s arm, pointed ahead. “Two streets up.”

They pushed through, tacked, ran—reached the corner and rounded it, then slowed.

Their quarry—she hadn’t been wrong—was almost at the end of the short street.

They hurried along, then the man turned right and disappeared from view. Tristan signaled to Deverell, who started running along the street after the man. “Down the alley.” Tristan pushed her toward the mouth of a narrow lane.

It cut straight across to the next street running parallel to the one they’d been on. They hurried along it, Tristan gripping her hand, steadying her when she slipped.

They reached the other street and turned up it, strolling once more, catching their breaths. The opening where the street the man had turned down joined the one they were now on lay ahead to their left; they watched it as they walked, waiting for him to reappear.

He didn’t.

They reached the corner and looked down the short street. Deverell stood leaning against a railing at the other end.

Of the man they’d been following there was absolutely no sign.

Deverell pushed away from the railing and walked toward them; it only took a few minutes for him to reach them.

He looked grim. “He’d disappeared by the time I got here.”

Leonora sagged. “So it’s a dead end—we’ve lost him.”

“No,” Tristan said. “Not quite. Wait here.”

He left her with Deverell and crossed the road to where a streetsweeper stood leaning on his broom midway down the short street. Reaching under his scruffy coat, Tristan located a sovereign; he held it between his fingers where the sweeper could see it as he lounged on the rails beside him.

“The gent in grey who went into the house across the way. Know his name?”

The sweep eyed him suspiciously, but the glimmer of gold spoke loudly. “Don’t rightly know his name. Stiff-rumped sort he is. ’Ave ’eard the doorman call him Count something-unpronounceable-beginning-wif-an-eff.”

Tristan nodded. “That’ll do.” He dropped the coin into the sweep’s palm.

Strolling back to Leonora and Deverell, he made no effort to keep his self-satisfied smile from his lips.

“Well?” Predictably, it was the light of his life who prompted him.

He grinned. “The man in grey is known to the doorman of the house in the middle of the row as ‘Count something-unpronounceable-beginning-wif-an-eff.’”

Leonora frowned at him, then looked past him at the house in question. Then she narrowed her eyes at him. “And?”

His smile broadened; it felt amazingly good. “The house is Hapsburg House.”

At seven o’clock that evening, Tristan ushered Leonora into the anteroom of Dalziel’s office, secreted in the depths of Whitehall.

“Let’s see how long he keeps us waiting.”

Leonora settled her skirts on the wooden bench Tristan had handed her to. “I would have assumed he’d be punctual.”

Sitting beside her, Tristan smiled wryly. “Nothing to do with punctuality.”

She studied his face. “Ah. One of those strange games men play.”

He said nothing, simply smiled and leaned back.

They only had to wait five minutes.

The door opened; a darkly elegant man appeared. He saw them. A momentary hiatus ensued, then, with a graceful gesture, he invited them in.