Chapter 14

On a day Katharine had a dress fitting, Rebecca accompanied her. Mr. Robertson attended them.

Phileas hung back, watching her followers. They were observed, but true to Mr. Robertson's earlier description, these shadows were damnably good at watching their backs. When he had tried to get close enough to take one, Phileas paid for his efforts by having the pair fade away on him like a late morning mist.

Sir James, the watcher's watcher, had told Phileas to expect as much. He had identified fifteen. There appeared to be at least three following his cousin anywhere she went. A few had also followed Robertson to Fogg's house. Those had also set up a watch on Andrew. Sir James had pretended to leave the city, doubling back to take different lodging. So far, the rouse had worked. He seemed to be the only person who the watchers were unaware of.

Phileas sat in his study late one afternoon going over information for the hundredth time, when Rebecca came from a visit with Katharine. She looked pale.

"What's wrong?" he said, leading her to a chair.

Passepartout appeared with tea. Rebecca stopped him and Phileas in their tracks by requesting a brand. Passepartout recovered, changing directions and bringing her a balloon of brandy as requested.

"Everything about this is so wrong!" Rebecca complained, taking a generous portion of her drink in one go. "It just makes no sense, and yet… Phileas, every bit must be true."

"What has happened?"

"I was helping her put away some old dresses after returning to the house. A servant brought a trunk. Inside the trunk was a gold and black silk dress. It was the Queen Mary costume. The headdress and mask were in the trunk with it. I asked about it and Katharine admitted it was hers and that she had bought it in Scotland for a masquerade ball. She was the woman at the embassy ball."

Phileas heard echoes in his head, a very pleasant woman's voice talking to him in French.

"Monsieur, I am compelled to leave. Don't be disappointed. You know of me. We have met twice before and can meet again. I'm not French, by the way. I'm Scottish. All you must do is accept the invitation from our mutual friend."

The only invitation that came of note was one from Eleanor asking him to come meet her grandniece.

This just makes no sense.

Chatsworth sat at his desk for several hours, going through freshly written reports. Rebecca Fogg was getting remarkably zealous about the spy Queen Mary. She had requested every piece of paper involving the spy over the last several weeks. He assumed Phileas was helping. They had worked together on that sticky problem before the man had left the service. If Chatsworth allowed himself to do so, he would have been thankful that Fogg was still in on that.

Sir Jonathon respected Fogg's record as much as he loathed the man. He considered Phileas Fogg a rich, arrogant fop. In his eyes, he was a drunkard, gambler and libertine, completely without moral or ethical standards. And worse than that, he was without ambition. The son of the former director, who had been groomed to the position, had thrown away the chance to head the service. That was proof of his disrepute.

Besides Rebecca's reports, there had been a sorry bit of business to greet him. A mid-level intelligence clerk named Simons had blown his brains all over his home study early in the twilight hours of the morning. His wife had found him on a rug soaked in blood. He had an old dueling pistol barely held in the fingers of one hand. After calling for a constable, the widow had asked that Whitehall be informed. It had been the standard thing to do, but a quick thing to think of standing over one's dead husband.

The police had conducted their investigation as the service did its own. The house had been swept for anything the man might have taken home. That was not allowed often, but it did occasionally happen. The site agents found several files on official activities abroad in the study safe. Nothing had been lying around in the open and no sign of forced entry.

Both police and secret service personnel sat in on the widow's interview. Mrs. Simons had noticed no unusual despondency. She had not heard or felt him leave their bed that night. Mrs. Simons said she woke to find her husband gone and the house ringing with silence after a gun blast. It had taken her nearly half an hour to gather courage enough to investigate.

A farewell note had been found, begging the forgiveness of his wife for his cowardice. They had also found a sealed note with Chatsworth's name printed on the outside. That was with the file of reports on his desk to read as well. It had a few spots of blood on it, not enough to make one queasy, but enough to make the point. Chatsworth opened the envelope and read its contents.

Dear Sir,

I have disgraced my name, my family, and the service with my actions over the last six years. I had been duped into a conspiracy against our agents. It was out of ignorance at first. I truly believed I had been handing our files to an official courier. For more than a year, this had been the case.

Then a young woman came to me five years ago. She was so young and beautiful… She flirted with me directly. My wife had not been in attendance, and I, filled with a fever for the girl, had agreed to meet her later for a momentary affair.

After I bedded the girl, two men entered the room, refusing to let me leave. One was the courier who habitually received my dispatches. The girl informed me of the damage she had done with them. Her villainy forced me to continue providing her sensitive information. The young lady swore she would say I had tricked and ravished her and thus I would be ruined. I had no choice.

I have no honor or pride or even fear left except for the pain this information will cause for my wife and family. Let my death notice be my bond. My tormentor has been the notorious Queen Mary. She is Lady Katharine Glenshire. May you catch her and send her wicked soul to rot in hell beside my own wretched one.

This I Swear

Byron Simons

Chatsworth let the letter drop from his hands to cover his face. He had never met the young duchess, but he knew the family. He knew who her relations in England were. Countess Weatherby would be crushed to know that her grandniece could be such a scandalous traitor.

Getting a grip on the situation, he called in Flintcraft, his secretary. Sir Jonathon put the letter back in the envelope. He placed it in another larger envelope, sealing it before giving it to his messenger.

"Give this to no one but Miss Fogg. This involves her investigation." With that, the secretary took the damning letter and its repercussions away.