“Indeed?” Tony raised his brows. “And did he also happen to mention that my orders in this matter come from Whitehall?”
Sprigs drew himself up. “Be that as it may, my lord, the information we’ve received—’deed, the people we received it from—well, we couldn’t hardly ignore such, Whitehall or no.”
“What information?”
Sprigs pressed his lips together, glanced at Alicia, then ventured, “That Mrs. Carrington here had hired some villains to do away with this man Ruskin, on account of she was in league with the French. Word had it that if we searched this house thoroughly, we’d find evidence enough to prove it.”
“From whom did this information come?”
Again Sprigs hesitated; again the stretching silence forced him to answer. “Brought to us indirect, it was.” He saw Tony’s welling contempt and rushed on, “From the gentlemen’s clubs. Seems a number of the high-and-mighty heard the story—wanted to know what we were doing about it. Questions were asked. They even had the commissioner himself in to explain.”
Sprigs glanced at Charles and Christian, then looked at Tony. “It’s treason we’re talking about here. Don’t suppose toffs like you care all that much, but if you’d served in the recent wars—”
“I wouldn’t suppose quite so readily, Inspector.”
The voice, languid, even soft, chilled. Everyone looked toward the front door. They’d left it partially open. A gentleman stood just inside; he walked forward as they stared.
His dark eyes remained fixed on Sprigs. Alicia had grown used to Tony’s elegance—this man was equally impressive, moving with innate grace, slim, dark-haired, dressed in dark clothes that exuded that same austere style, a reflection of bone-deep confidence, of their assurance in who they were.
There was one difference. While Tony’s tones could cut, whiplike, this man’s voice projected a patently lethal threat, quietly efficient, like a scimitar slicing, unhindered, into flesh.
Suppressing a shiver, she glanced at Tony, then at his friends, and realized the newcomer was both known to them and accepted by them. An ally, definitely, yet she sensed he was someone around whom even they trod carefully.
Sprigs swallowed. He glanced at Tony. Behind him, the sergeant and his other two men were rigidly at attention.
“Dalziel.” The newcomer answered Sprigs’s unvoiced question. “From Whiteha
ll.” He halted at Tony’s side and looked the unfortunate Sprigs in the eye. “I’ve already spoken with your superiors. You are to report back to Bow Street immediately, taking all your men, leaving this house in precisely the same state as it was when you, so unwisely, entered. You will not remove so much as a pin.”
He paused, then continued, “Your superiors have been somewhat forcefully reminded that, together with Lord Whitley, I am handling this matter, and that contrary to their suppositions, Bow Street’s mandate does not extend to countermanding or interfering with Whitehall’s actions.”
Sprigs, now all but at attention himself, nodded. “Yes, sir.” He sounded strangled.
Dalziel let a moment pass, then murmured, “You may go.”
They went with alacrity. At a nod from Sprigs, the junior stuck his head into the drawing room and summoned his companion; in short order, the five men from Bow Street were clattering down the steps, routed by a superior force.
All four gentlemen—Tony, Dalziel, Dearne, and Lostwithiel—stood in and about the front door and saw them off, watched them go. Trapped behind, screened from the sight by their broad shoulders, Alicia waited, somewhat impatiently. She knew the instant they all let down their guards.
Tony and Dearne visibly relaxed.
“Importunate devils,” Lostwithiel quipped.
“Indeed,” Dalziel replied.
They all started to turn inside—
Then paused.
Along with the others, Tony watched two carriages come clattering up, one from each end of the street. Both carriages pulled up before the house. The carriage doors swung open. Tristan sprang down from one carriage; from the other, Jack Hendon stepped down to the pavement. Both turned back to their respective carriages; each handed a lady down.
Kit, Jack’s wife, and Leonora, Tristan’s wife.
Barely pausing to shake out their skirts, both ladies swept toward the house—and saw each other. At the bottom of the steps, they met, exchanged names, shook hands, then, as one, turned and, beautiful faces decidedly set, swept up the steps.
On the pavement, Jack and Tristan exchanged long-suffering glances, and followed in their wakes.
All four men at the door gave way.