for the source of the scent. He found it near the writing table. He pulled open the drawers on the left side and rifled through them, but there was nothing inside except blank papers, pens and extra ink. He closed the last one and moved to search the right-hand drawers when his foot came down on something. It was a small envelope and it grated like it held fine gravel. He picked it up and carefully opened the envelope to examine the substance inside. It was gunpowder, but a redder and more pungent variety than any he’d encountered before. The colour and smell of it concerned him as deeply as the conversation he’d overheard. He tucked the envelope in his coat pocket, then peered cautiously through the cracked door to make sure the hallway was empty before he left the room.
He retraced his steps, the people and conversation growing thicker as he approached the gaming room. He moved past them and into the ballroom, intending to return to Moira. She might know something about Lord Camberline and a way for one of them to get closer to the young lord and learn more.
He stepped into the crowded ballroom, searching for her light hair, the elegant line of her jaw and the captivating eyes that had met his across a ballroom similar to this one five years ago, making him forget the need to be cautious about young ladies of higher rank. She’d accepted his invitation to dance without the snide condescension of other ladies in search of more lucrative elder sons of lords. They’d wanted nothing to do with a fifth son who earned his living from hard work, and he’d refused to endure their insolence. Moira hadn’t cared about his rank or dismissed him because of it.
No, she’d left it to the aunt to do it for her.
He spied her across the room standing with her aunt and a number of other elderly ladies, irritated at the old slight and captivated by her present beauty. Whatever the aunt still thought of him, it was clear Moira didn’t share her opinion or her aunt’s enthusiasm for her present company. She appeared as bored by the gaggle of biddies as Bart was disappointed. He couldn’t approach her while she was with them.
Damn.
Lord Camberline and the Comte were up to something and he was sure it had something to do with the gunpowder in his pocket. He needed to give the sample to Mr Flint and have his man, Mr Transom, examine it, and tell his superior what he’d overheard in the hallway. Maybe Mr Flint had received some more intelligence to help them make sense of it. It meant leaving the ball and Moira early, but he’d find a way to meet her again tomorrow and explain everything without the aunt interrupting them. He was sure Moira would understand his abrupt departure. He hoped she did because he needed her. She’d shown him tonight how she could charm men like the Comte with an ease none of his other agents could match and she was already an acquaintance of the Camberlines. It gave her access to them and their house, one he could not otherwise obtain. In light of what he’d overheard and what he’d found, it was a critical connection he had to take advantage of.
He reached into his pocket and rubbed the envelope with the gunpowder between his thumb and forefinger. The granules grated beneath the paper and his fingertips. He didn’t want Moira involved in this or in harm’s way, but her help might prove crucial to stopping the Rouge Noir. If he could keep her work to chatting to titled men and women at parties, asking the right questions or simply listening, she should be safe. He would do all he could to ensure it and not fail her or England as he’d failed Lady Fallworth.
‘A woman? Have you gone mad, Dyer? This is no work for a woman and a lady in particular.’ Mr Flint’s ruddy nose turned a shade darker. They sat in his office in Whitehall. The dark desk he occupied matched the rich tones of the panelled walls punctuated by two windows separated by a painting of the Battle of Marathon.
‘Lady Rexford is in an even better position than her brother to get close to people like the Comte and Lord Camberline. No one will suspect a woman of eavesdropping. If they did, then men wouldn’t say half of what they do to their mistresses.’
‘That’s how we got most of what we did out of Italy, through Mrs Hamilton,’ Mr Flint mumbled reflectively as he rubbed the fleshy roundness of his chin. He’d started his career in France under William Wickham and the Alien Office, recruiting spies and supporting the Royalists. He’d risen with the man as they’d sought intelligence first during the French Revolution and now against Napoleon. ‘Being a widow with no children is unfortunate for her, but to her advantage and ours in this matter. She has no dependants to put at risk, enjoys freedom of movement and is more appealing to gentlemen.’
Including Bart. He’d thought as much about her last night as he had the sample of gunpowder and everything he’d seen and heard at the ball. He cursed the distraction. This was no time to lose his head, not with the fate of the Crown at stake. ‘What about the gunpowder I gave you?’
‘Mr Transom is examining it and will report to you soon.’ Mr Flint removed his spectacles and cleaned them with his handkerchief. ‘Any more information on the man who met the Comte de Troyen in Rotten Row?’
‘Joshua is still investigating him. Given what I overhead last night, I’ll tell him to redouble his efforts.’
‘In the meantime, you should pay a visit to gaol. Mr Marks, one of Jacques Dubois’s underlings, was arrested last night for getting into a brawl down by the docks.’
‘Not like one of Mr Dubois’s men to be careless and get arrested.’ Mr Dubois was a well-known smuggler and arms procurer who was as good at getting many in the Admiralty their French wine as he was at acquiring weapons for the war effort. His deliveries of munitions meant the Government looked the other way when it came to his smuggling activities. Until this point, he’d never been suspected of treason. ‘He could be the one slipping notes and money between Napoleon and the Rouge Noir,’ Bart suggested.
‘Only one way to find out.’
Bart rose and made for the door. ‘After a night of risking gaol fever, Mr Marks should be willing to tell me a little about his employer’s less savoury connections.’
* * *
Moira reviewed the dinner menu, but was forced to read over the selection more than once before it stuck. It was difficult to concentrate on fish and chicken when all she could think about was Bart. When she’d agreed to help him and they’d walked together to meet Prince Frederick and the Comte de Troyen, she’d moved with purpose through the ballroom, a wallflower no more. Her purpose had come from Bart and his desire, shared by her, to help their country. It’d been more thrilling than anything else she’d experienced in recent memory.
And I gained nothing for my efforts.
She tapped her pen against the menu. If her help had assisted him in any way, he hadn’t informed her. He hadn’t even had the decency to send a note thanking her for her assistance or explaining his abrupt departure and failure to return.
Footsteps behind her made her turn. Freddy entered the sitting room. He appeared better today, the despair surrounding him after Bart’s visit yesterday having dissipated. However, there was a seriousness about him that made Moira grip the back of her chair as she turned to face him. He always appeared like this whenever he was about to ask her for something she wasn’t going to like.
‘I understand Mr Dyer was at the ball last night.’ Freddy picked up a German glass dish on the table beside him and turned it over to inspect the bottom. ‘A friend of mine saw you speaking with him.’
Moira tightened her grip on the chair. ‘Once Aunt Agatha abandoned me for her friends, and you left me for the cards, there were few other people I was well enough acquainted with to speak to.’
‘Surely there must have been someone else.’
Moira rolled her eyes, not interested in travelling where this conversation was leading. ‘Don’t tell me you’re going to be like Aunt Agatha and start railing against him, too?’
‘I am.’ Freddy set the dish back on the table. ‘Bart and I were very good friends once, but I have to insist that you have no further