Free The Shadow of Albion by Andre Norton, Rosemary Edghill Page B

White
    Tower’s members met once a year for a dinner held in the White Tower itself, and
    so far as the world knew, that was all there was to the White Tower and its
    membership. It would never do to let the truth become common knowledge. In an
    age which venerated the Miles Gloriosus and thought of the Exploring Officer and
    his even more shadowy kindred as jackals and cowards, the news that the King
    himself employed such creatures might be enough to trigger a second English Civil
    War. It would surely topple the government.
     
    From the moment his loyalty had been given, Wessex had dreaded the thought of
    his family discovering just how he served the Crown. The knowledge that her adored
    grandson was a wretched sneaking spy would, Wessex was certain, quite kill his
    grandmother – or if it did not, public knowledge of his shameful trade would force
    her complete sequestration from Society, a fate nearly as dire. It was out of shame
    as much as for any other reason that Wessex had shrunk from taking his fitting place
    in Society, but now he regretted his indifference to the traditional amusements of his
    class. Was it there chance that Saint-Lazarre had gone to Roxbury’s house in
    anticipation of the Season, and that it was to Mooncoign that a French assassin sped
    even now? Did Roxbury play a double game, just as he did?
     
    For a moment the very thought made Wessex close his eyes in utter weariness.
    Englishwoman or no, betrothed or no, if Roxbury served the enemy, Wessex would
    show her no mercy. His masters had set him on; let the hunt fulfill itself without
    mercy or weakness.
     
    Less than an hour after the ship had reached Dover, Wessex had claimed the
     

 
    horse he had left stabled there and was galloping along the post road to London.
    The Frisian asked only to run; as soon as his master was in the saddle, Hirondel laid
    back his ears and lunged across the stableyard cobbles, clearing the gate at a flat
    gallop.
     
    A coach-and-six took nearly a full day to drive from Dover to London; a
    specially-built racing phaeton with a pair of twelve-mile-an-hour tits between me
    poles could go the distance in six hours. Wessex and Hirondel did the journey in
    four. It had still been dark when they’d left Dover; it was ‘ broad day now – the
    morning of April 19th – and Hirondel was covered in foam and staggering by the
    time the spires of London were in view. Wessex slowed to a walk to spare the
    exhausted animal as much as he could, but he could not afford to pause long enough
    to leave Hirondel in his home stable under a groom’s expert care. The intelligence
    Wessex carried was too urgent to brook even that little delay.
     
    But no one who saw the dark-eyed man as he rode up Bond Street and tossed
    Hirondel’s reins to the one-legged man in tattered regimentals who lingered outside
    the select tailor’s shop for just that purpose would have thought that Wessex was on
    an errand any more urgent than deciding upon the fabric for a new coat Nothing in
    his carriage or demeanor gave any hint that it had been many days since Wessex had
    seen a bed of any sort His mud-spattered boots and dusty coat hinted at a night of
    hard riding, but the Bloods of the Ton were noted for amusements that were nearly
    as dangerous as war.
     
    „Walk him,“ Wessex said, tossing a yellow-boy to the veteran. „I will be some
    time.“
     
    He crossed the pavement that separated him from his destination, pushed the
    door open, and entered.
     
    „My Lord Wessex.“
     
    The man called Flowers – though Wessex had no notion whether Flowers was his
    real name, or whether he actually had any hand in the coats Wessex occasionally
    ordered from his shop – came forward to greet his noble patron, his mien perfectly
    that of a most superior tailor who might pick and choose his customers from among
    the Pinks of the Ton. „We had heard you were to rusticate upon the country for
    some weeks yet.“
     
    Wessex smiled grimly to