Tearing open the wafer he quickly scanned the contents. Relief broke out across his face. Wakeford was in London. He begged Avers’ presence at his offices this morning.
Standing up so quickly he sent his chair flying backwards into the wall, Avers strode to the bed and began to yank on the carefully laid out jacket. He thrust his legs quickly into the matching breeches, fastening the buttons at the knees, and turned to check himself in the mirror. He waved a hand of dismissal at the visage before him, horrified but uncaring of the missing cravat, but deciding he could not go out with his hair in such disarray.
Raking his fingers through it savagely, he fastened it quickly with a ribbon and turned towards the door.
“I’m going out—never mind the bath, Simmonds,” he threw over his shoulder, reaching for the door handle.
“My Lord!” said his valet, appearing with a towel over one arm and a sponge in the other hand from the adjoining room. A scandalised gasp escaped the faithful retainer when he took in the sight of his master thus attired. “You cannot leave the house in such a state.”
“And yet, I must perform the impossible,” Avers quipped, not in the least concerned over his servant’s perturbation.
“My Lord, just think of my—that is your—reputation!” cried Simmonds. “I beg of you to at least let me dress your hair and find a fresh cravat. What will be said of you?”
Avers was on the brink of ignoring the strictures and striding out the door when he thought better of it. There was no need to attract talk by gallivanting around London half-dressed. That was not the modus operandi for such a delicate situation.
Not only that, but Simmonds had inadvertently cracked this case, so the least Avers could do was submit to his valet’s ministrations. A short time later, presenting an unmentionable appearance to the public, he rose to leave. Simmonds still tried to do more, offering his master a mouche, but that was where Avers drew the line—there was no need for powder and patch in his mission.
Picking up his hat and cane he strode from the room, bellowing for his footman to call a chair. Before half an hour was up, he was at Wakeford’s London offices, bursting through the door to find his friend and tell him the whole.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
“Shut the door behind you,” Wakeford commanded, unperturbed by Avers’ abrupt entrance into his office.
“When did you arrive in England?” Avers asked, doing as he was bid.
“With last evening’s tide. I was quick, though not as quick as you,” Wakeford replied. “This is Lancelot.” He gestured to the person standing beside him, a man in his early thirties, fair hair, athletic build.
Avers nodded to the stranger.
“He’s assisting our investigations on the Marquis in London.”
“Dartois is staying at the French consul’s residence,” Avers said. “He has Mademoiselle Cadeaux with him against her will.”
“Against her will—how do you know she’s not complicit?” Lancelot asked, missing a warning look from Wakeford.
Avers bridled at the man’s question, struggling to hold his temper. “Because I saw her at Lord and Lady Peregrine’s masquerade two days since and she told me as much. Wakeford may not have told you, but it’s thanks to her help we found the papers at all, and that we knew Dartois was fleeing across the Channel with them.”
“He mentioned her aid, but her travelling with the Marquis appeared—” Lancelot stopped, seeing the warning light in Avers’ eyes. “I understand your concern over the woman, but our main focus is—”
“My main focus is her safety. She’s an innocent caught up in this mess and thanks to our bungling she’s at risk of… of…”
Avers didn’t want to say out loud what he feared. Somehow, it felt as though, if he said it, the worst may come to pass. Dartois might take advantage of Mademoiselle Cadeaux. He might even kill her.
Avers squashed down the fears and concentrated on the hope brought by his revelation about the water bearers. “There’s something I need to tell you, Wakeford.”
“Innocent?” Lancelot interjected, brow furrowing. “Isn’t she a—”
“Don’t!” said Wakeford quickly. “The man’s in love with her.”
Surprise took over Lancelot’s expression and any words he had intended to say were stalled.
Avers, too, was rendered speechless at this blunt statement. He hadn’t admitted that fact yet—even to himself.
After taking a moment to master his feelings, he broke the silence, speaking slowly and deliberately. “I’ve come to tell you that I may have surmised how the Comte and Marquis were able to evade your Cabinet Noir, Wakeford.”
“We were intercepting all the Comte’s letters in Paris,” Wakeford explained for Lancelot’s sake. “But we found no proof of his illicit activities and assume he must have had another way of passing information.” Wakeford turned back to Avers. “Well?”
“Water bearers.”
Wakeford echoed his words, eyes narrowing to work out what it meant.
“Don’t you see? Paris relies on them and they aren’t permanent members of staff within a household. They pass all over the city unnoticed, even into your offices Wakeford. You wouldn’t have questioned them like you did your staff because they wouldn’t have been there at the time.”
“The buckets—” said Lancelot, catching on to Avers’ theory, “—we’ve come across similar before with the smugglers in Sussex and the West Country. They build secret compartments into the barrels or lids to hide contraband. It would be an easy way to steal papers and pass messages undetected.”
“My thoughts exactly,” said Avers, heartbeat quickening as the puzzle pieces came together.
Lancelot nodded, rubbing his chin as he thought. “If they were using it in Paris it’s a good bet that he’ll continue to use that method here, even with the piped water to the consul’s residence. We should alert the watch we’ve set on the Marquis’ movements to keep an eye out for water bearers.”
“Agreed.” Wakeford snatched up a quill from the ink stand, dipped it, and began scrawling a note.
“Tell your men, if they intercept one of them, to check the lid. It’ll likely be hollow to store letters.”
Wakeford added Lancelot’s suggestion to the note, folded it, attached a wafer and rang the bell. Avers moved aside as another of Wakeford’s men opened the office door. His friend handed over the note with instructions for it to be delivered to the men watching the Marquis. Once the man had gone, Wakeford addressed the room.
“Now we wait.”
