Free Be My Lover by Cecily French Page A

another gentleman unknown to me,
sir,” Davis supplied. “I’ve put them in the Common Room downstairs. What shall
I tell them?”
    Anthony gathered his reeling thoughts into a logical
framework. “That I’ll join them in five minutes. Thank you, Davis.”
    Davis nodded and Anthony closed the door, fighting the urge
to sag against it. Dear God, after all this time what had Amos uncovered? Cold
sweat broke out on the back of his neck and he pulled his robe more tightly
about him. Perhaps at long last his family would know peace.
    He took a moment to steady himself before returning to his
room. “Emily?” he called. “I’m sorry to leave you, but I must meet with—”
    The soft rhythm of a sleeper’s breathing stopped his words
and he halted by the bed. Emily lay curled among the sheets, lost in deep
slumber, the list of eligibles still in her hand. He leaned down to gently push
back a lock of hair covering her eyes and she shifted ever so slightly, a
dreamy smile raising the corners of her mouth. A bolt of tenderness shot
through him, prompting him to feather a kiss across her forehead.
    Why of all the women of my acquaintance, should she be
the only one who can’t give me a child? She would be a splendid duchess. But I
promised Father our line would continue.
    After dressing as quietly as he could, Anthony left his
suite. Downstairs in the Common Room, someone—Davis, no doubt—had lit a fire.
Shadows danced in the flickering light, making the furniture appear enormous. A
bottle of Calvados and three snifters were set on a nearby table. Two men, one
younger than the other, stood waiting in front of the hearth.
    “Amos,” Anthony greeted the older man as he joined them by
the fire. “You’ve come about my father.”
    Amos Quincy’s family, while not of noble birth, had made
their fortune in a variety of things over the centuries. Like Greg Keller, Amos
had been tapped by the Foreign Office years ago to “find out things” for the
Crown. Using that same talent, he had started his own business to help those in
need of information for matters both personal and private. Rumors abounded as
to what he knew about the ton ’s secrets and how much. Anthony had never
thought he would need his friend’s services until his father died. The last
time they had spoken face to face was just before Anthony boarded the ship for
Florence, when he had charged Amos to look into his father’s personal life and
send him answers—no matter how unsavory. Letters had arrived every few months,
detailing searches that had yielded nothing.
    Until now.
    Amos inclined his head, his russet-red hair gleaming in the
firelight. “I have,” he said. Gesturing at the other man, he said, “This Joseph
Mallory, one of my agents.”
    Mallory bowed. “Your Grace.”
    Anthony waved them in the direction of the chairs grouped
before the fire. After pouring their drinks, he filled his own glass and sat
across from them. “My father,” he said simply. “What have you learned?”
    At Amos’ nod, Mallory said, “There’s talk in criminal London
since your return, Your Grace. Talk it wasn’t suicide that ended your father’s
life, but murder.”
    I knew it. By heaven, I knew it.
    Anthony gripped the stem of the glass. “What else?”
    “That’s all, Your Grace,” Mallory said ruefully. “At the
moment it’s just chatter, but Mr. Quincy thought you’d want to know.”
    “Mallory is my best agent, Your Grace.” Amos fell into the
formal address he used when others not in their inner circle were present.
“Criminal London knows him as a petty thief and scrivener with no idea he works
for me. His ability to slip into dens of vice and rookeries without anyone
being the wiser has been invaluable, so we must be cautious to keep him safe. I
can’t afford to lose him because of undue haste.”
    “I understand,” Anthony said. “You’ll send me reports as you
are able?”
    “Of course, Your Grace.” Amos finished his brandy and