“Indeed?” Vale tilted back his head to stare at the ceiling. “Did he have any other interesting characteristics that might make him recognizable?”
“Tall, quick, knew how to use a knife.” Reynaud shrugged. “Not much else, I’m afraid.”
“The color of his hair?”
“Brown.”
“Ah.” Vale considered for a moment. “I’ll send another letter to Munroe. We need him here.”
Reynaud frowned. “You think the attack on me is somehow related to what happened seven years ago?”
“I do.”
“Why?”
“Look here.” Vale sat forward in his chair, no longer the lazy aristocrat but a man of intense intelligence. “I’d thought we’d hit a dead end in finding the Spinner’s Falls traitor. And then you arrive home, and in the space of little more than a week, two attempts have been made against your life. This is extraordinary!”
“Glad to bring you some joy,” Reynaud muttered.
Vale ignored the sarcasm. “I’m more convinced than ever that you have important information that will either expose the traitor or make him vulnerable in some way.”
“Then you’ve entirely cast off the idea that St. Aubyn was behind the attacks?” Reynaud had already come to this conclusion, but he wanted to hear Vale’s thoughts.
The other man shook his head. “Blanchard is a pompous blowhard, but he has enough brains not to make an attempt against your life. Besides, I know you dislike the man, but he’s never struck me as so thoroughly lacking in morals as to hire an assassin.”
Reynaud scowled. “That’s—”
“Besides, why would Blanchard risk killing you when you gave the gossips such lovely fodder the other night?”
Reynaud swung to glare at his friend.
“I sympathize.” Vale shrugged. “But you must admit your antics on the dance floor did nothing to help your cause.”
“We’re talking about Blanchard—”
Vale waved a hand, interrupting him. “Blanchard’s not the point. We’re getting closer to the Spinner’s Falls traitor. How I’m not sure, but we must be, judging by these attacks on you. If we can get Munroe down here and put our heads together, maybe we can figure this thing out, once and for all.”
“Very well,” Reynaud said slowly. “But perhaps we should send a messenger. A rider would get to Scotland before the mail. Or would you rather go yourself?”
“We’ll send a messenger with a letter.” Vale jumped up and went to rummage in a desk as if intending to write the letter that very moment. “As it happens, I don’t want to leave London at the moment.”
Reynaud looked at him inquiringly and was astonished to see a flush climbing his old friend’s cheeks.
“My wife is, ah, expecting the sixth Viscount Vale,” the other man muttered. “Or perhaps merely an honorable miss—not that I care a whit in either case. I just want a babe with all its toes and not looking too much like its pater.”
Reynaud grinned. “Congratulations, man!”
“Yes, well.” Vale cleared his throat. “She’s a bit nervous about the whole thing, so we’re keeping the matter quiet while we can. You understand?”
“Of course.” Reynaud frowned. Melisande looked healthy enough, but so many things could go wrong in a pregnancy.
“And in the meantime,” Vale said as if happy to drop the subject, “while we wait for Munroe, I think it prudent to make some inquiries regarding your attackers. London is an enormous place, but there can’t be that many walleyed assassins for hire.”
“Thank you,” Reynaud said, and for the first time in many, many, years, he felt like a friend had his back.
Now if he could only keep Beatrice safe.
“TELL ME A story,” Beatrice said. She was in bed—the fourth day of lying abed to “rest”—and she was bored beyond reason. She wore a comfortable day dress and sat up against her pillows, but she was definitely confined to her bed.