Free Haunted Hearts by Teresa DesJardien Page B

it be known he was a convivial type. His purse was sadly depleted by the time he waved farewell to the day. Still, he was satisfied as he rode toward his home, knowing there would soon be no place in London, high or low, that would not know of his presence.
    It was entirely possible he’d made the wrong decision by making himself so public, by not staying home and trying to remain nigh invisible--but, male or female, the informer knew where he lived. The plan had changed; there were no instructions; there was no point to his anonymity any longer. Either tonight or tomorrow, he’d find another message or else would be visited again, he was sure.
    As he handed his horse to his groom, he was aware enough to acknowledge to himself that he hoped he’d have a visitor, and that she’d be a woman of light eyes and hair.
    ***
    Georges shivered from cold, and hunger, and a need to relieve himself. He’d been waiting in the shared mews behind Ewald’s home for hours . By God, where was the man? The loaf of bread Georges had stolen from a costermonger’s cart was long gone. Twice he’d had to hide inside a large barrel and pull on its lid awkwardly, when others had brought horses to be groomed.
    Ought he to dare the house again? Surely the butler would take another message? Yes, and Georges could leave his direction. Ewald could come to him , why not?
    But then he flinched from the idea. What if Ewald’s people were not trustworthy? The butler, he must have heard my pronunciation, and the English, they do not love the French . The man might be entirely willing to earn some coins by delivering a Frenchman to the gendarmes …
    Non . His first plan was best: talk directly to le vicomte . The man could be caught alone between the mews and his home, sûrement?
    Was there any other way? Anyone else to contact? There was a Sir Terrence in the Home Office… But where was that? What did Sir Terrence look like? Would he rebuff or even denounce a man who struggled to speak the English?
    Grinding his teeth, Georges slinked away, knowing he must come back again tomorrow, under the cover of night, to see if Ewald was at home or could be approached when he returned from whatever evening outing.
    ***
    Sophie poked her head into her mistress’s bedchamber, and murmured, “Mademoiselle?”
    Lisette Lyons came awake, immediately reaching for her wrapper. “Show him in,” she ordered; at this hour it would be one of the operatives with which she worked.
    He was ushered into her back parlor, his coat making a soft rustle in the quiet of the night. The man smelled of cigar smoke and ale. Lisette moved to a chair before the fire, shivering slightly in the night air. “Well?” she demanded as she sat.
    “ ’Is name is Ewald,” he said in a round cockney. “The second Viscount Ewald. Proper name o’ Ian Drake.”
    “You do not need that silly accent here,” she said very quietly in French.
    He obliged at once, his voice shifting to their mutual first language. “He has been around to the pubs, telling everyone who he is.”
    “Curious.” She thought about that for a moment. “Did he meet with or speak of Lady Stratton?”
    “No, mademoiselle. Although he did make a close study of everyone he met.”
    Lisette tapped a finger against her lips. “Why did they meet at the masquerade? Why did she go to the garden with him? I thought I knew what was happening--” She looked up at the dusty man again, and demanded, “Is that all?”
    “That is all, mademoiselle.”
    “Then go.” She reached into her bureau and extracted a silver coin, which she tossed to the man, to reinforce his nationalism with cold cash. He left with a bow.
    Who was this Viscount Ewald? He was an English aristocrat; he could not possibly be the escaped Frenchman. Why had he gone to the tool shed with the disguised Lady Stratton? Why had the two of them left in separate directions?
    And why had Quinn invited Lady Stratton, who had faked a French accent, not only to