Free Haunted Hearts by Teresa DesJardien

as an agent.
    But…a man ? The informer was a male, not the female from last night? Ian had made contact with the wrong person; now he was all but sure of it.
    Or could the man merely be a messenger? ‘The cat has come home.’ A man in costume, with an accent, coming to Ian’s home, choosing to speak of a cat…
    Either way, man or woman, what now? Was Ian to wait for further contact? Why hadn’t the man shown himself last night at the masquerade? Or stayed here to meet with Ian at home? Certainly Kellogg had not granted the stranger reception or safety. Or had the man needed it? Was he in fact just a messenger, now done with his part? Not having seen the man for himself, how was Ian to judge?
    Now, when it came to the woman, he had a better sense of her. If anyone had seemed in need, it had been she. In need of what? Hiding? Then why dress so daringly? To be sure to catch his eye? Had she been in need of protection? Then why not go with him?
    The way she’d kissed him, sweetly but hungrily, as if he were her lifeline… And what about the way she’d lost her accent?
    Surely she wasn’t the informer. Surely.
    As he rose and dressed, Ian was mindless that he’d neglected to eat, and that he’d not rung for his new valet, Prentice. He’d served himself many times in his life, servants coming and going each time his family had traveled on, and with his last hired man in India having chosen to remain there instead of following the master he’d served for a relatively long three years. It was only when Ian was tying his cravat, poorly, that it occurred to him to summon his man.
    “Prentice,” he said over the hands that strove to correct the harm he’d done to the construction at his throat. “You’re now free to let others of your acquaintance know who’s hired you. Please have Kellogg inform the entire staff.”
    “Very good, my lord,” Prentice said with a relieved look on his face. It must have been awkward to not name his new employer, but Ian had wanted to remain unspoken of until the masquerade.
    He rode out into the day, to make good on two intentions. The first was thwarted. At the Home Office he’d asked for Sir Terrence, who’d not been in, and he was given a time to return tomorrow.
    “So for now I must decide on my own what to do about the French informer,” he murmured to himself.
    Time to see to his second task. He rode to Bond Street, hailing the first person he came across, a gentleman in his fifth or sixth decade. “Good sir,” he said, perfectly aware of his presumption. “I am a stranger to London and wondered could you direct me to a watchmaker?” He had no need of a new pocketwatch, but it was as handy a trick as any other to begin to know people.
    Despite a scowl at Ian’s temerity, the gentleman came nicely up to snuff by responding, “Certainly. Sir . . . ?”
    “Ewald. Viscount Ewald.”
    The man’s eyebrows lifted. “You are Aaron Drake’s boy?”
    “Even so,” Ian replied, gratified for his father’s sake that his name wasn’t completely forgotten.
    The man considered him for a moment, then belatedly offered a bow. “And I am Lord Broderring. I must say, does this mean your father…?”
    “Has passed on, yes. Over four months past.”
    “Sad news. I knew him, in our salad days. Good with a cricket bat, I recall. My condolences, my lord.”
    Ian dismounted to return the bow. “Thank you, Lord Broderring.”
    “Wasn’t your family in some foreign place?”
    “Lately of India.”
    “I see. Well, lad, it is my pleasure to meet you. Your father was a fine man, fine indeed. You have his look. I should be pleased to show you the way to a very fine watchmakers.”
    “You are most kind,” Ian said sincerely.
    The older man served the purpose to a nicety, performing introductions as they walked, Ian’s horse led by the reins. He was introduced to those persons known to Broderring. Ian nodded and smiled and bowed, cataloging names and faces as was his custom. In