Free The Tudor Signet by Carola Dunn Page B

sphinx.”
    “A sphinx! Unusual indeed, but how the deuce do we go about tracking down its owner?”
    “Oh, I’ve already done that,” Malcolm said nonchalantly.
    “Already? You only reached Plymouth yesterday, didn’t you? Good gad, you Whitehall men work fast!”
    “I’d like you to think I’m incredibly clever, but it was quite fortuitous,” Malcolm confessed, taking the goldsmith’s work from his pocket and pushing it across the table. “I decided a copy might come in useful.”
    Des examined it. “Cut line, Malcolm,” he said in disgust. “You’d have me believe within a few hours of arriving you not only discovered the owner quite by chance but took possession of the seal for long enough to have a copy made? You’re gammoning me.”
    “Not I.” He grinned. “Merely indulging in a little mystification to whet your curiosity.”
    “You have. Start at the beginning.”
    “I was in the coffee room at the Golden Hind, whiling away the hours before I met you. A young man approached me and asked if I cared for a game of piquet. I had nothing better to do. If he saw me as a pigeon worth plucking, well, I cut my eyeteeth long ago.”
    “A mixed metaphor which would have earned you a couple from old Venables. You won the seal from him?”
    “Yes, he lost all his rhino and pledged his signet, a rather attractive Tudor ring.”
    With a frown, Des pointed out, “If he uses it to pass secrets to France, surely he’d not risk losing it.”
    “I’ve learned more of him since. He’s a young scapegrace, and a dedicated gambler. The ring is a valued heirloom which he was desolated to lose, but that didn’t stop him wagering it on the turn of a card.”
    “He’s betraying his country for the sake of the money, then. Who is he?”
    “Sir Ralph Riddleworth.”
    “Young Riddlesworth! You’re right, he’s a gambler. I’ve often seen him at cards or dice with our officers and generally losing. I wouldn’t have guessed he had the wit or the nerve to make a spy.”
    “It’s not difficult to appear stupider than one really is,” said Malcolm wryly, “as I can attest from personal experience.”
    Des laughed. “Though I know you to be far from stupid, my friend, I admit I never guessed you had much on your mind beyond the latest way to tie a neckcloth.”
    “Good gad, man, the set of a coat and the pattern of a waistcoat are just as important!”
    “That’s a pretty one you have on.” He pretended to raise a quizzing glass to Malcolm’s grass-green waistcoat, embroidered with primroses. Then he turned serious again. “I’d give a monkey to know which of our fellows is the gabster, and whether on purpose or through careless talk.”
    “If it’s careless talk, it may be more than one. I’ll show you the letters--I brought copies--and you can tell me how much of the information is known to whom. All they need do is chat among themselves where Riddlesworth can overhear.”
    “True. Are you going to arrest him?”
    “Not yet. There must be others involved and I’m hoping he’ll lead us to them. Until then, I mean to use the copy of the seal to feed false information to the French through Penhallow and his smuggler.”
    “Capital! What’s more, we can deliberately feed false information to Riddlesworth through the officers he gambles with. When it turns up in the letters your pet smuggler hands over, you’ll have evidence against him.”
    “That’s a good notion, Des. I’ll leave it to you to choose which officers to use.”
    The captain reddened and said gruffly, “How can you be sure I’m not the one blowing the gaff? I work closely with Admiral Gault and probably know as much as anyone about the movement of ships.”
    Malcolm chose his words with care. “I don’t believe a man who gave an arm to Boney would willingly give him anything else. More to the point, I know you, Des, better than I know my own brothers. There’s no one I’d sooner trust. Now, have some more brandy and let’s