Page 5 of To Love A Spy
“Impossible,” said Whitney curtly. “The scholar was murdered and his laboratory destroyed by the Frenchman, including all the ancient manuscripts. There is no other copy. Just the original laboratory journal.”
“Which will be locked right and tight in the French military headquarters,” muttered Cornwallis. “And guarded by a horde of Hussars.”
“On the contrary, that is the one glimmer of good news we have.” Looking somewhat less defensive, Whitney was quick to continue. “Apparently the journal is written in some arcane code, and Rochambeau is unwilling to let the military take a crack at deciphering the formula and thus steal all the glory for the discovery. Instead, he means to keep the notes and sample a secret until he can personally hand them over to the Emperor. So, chances are that for the next few weeks, the material will be in his private residence, not be locked away in a Ministry vault.” He cracked his knuckles. “If we could get our hands on it and spirit it out of the country . . .”
“And if pigs could fly,” murmured Fenimore.
The colonel shot him a quelling look, then held the pause a moment longer. “Once again, gentlemen, I ask you to consider the consequences if Napoleon is allowed to develop this for military use!”
Lynsley’s mood turned more brooding as the others began to pepper the colonel with more questions. Steepling his fingers, he stared meditatively at the recent reports sent out from his own operatives across the Channel. They all confirmed that with Wellington on the offensive in Spain and Napoleon fighting his way through the eastern Europe, the French were at long last vulnerable.
Vulnerable.
But by some strange twist of fate, his own forces were also not at full strength.
Of all the cursed luck . . .
As if echoing his sentiments, Admiral Cornwallis let loose with a volley of expletives. “Damn it,” he added. “We simplymustfind a way to get at that weapon. From what you say, Whitney, it may spell the difference between a quick, decisive victory and allowing the Little Corsican to rise, like a phoenix, from the ashes of Moscow.”
“Eloquently put, Sir William,” said Fenimore. His brow arched in question, he looked to the Lord Bathurst.
The Secretary looked to Lynsley. “What about the Merlins?”
Lynsley blew out his cheeks. He had known that this question was coming. “I am sorry to say that their ranks are somewhat depleted at the moment. In truth, I have no one whom I consider ready to take on an assignment of this magnitude.”
The ensuing silence was broken by the clinking of the colonel’s medals. Crossing his arms with a sneering huff, the officer muttered “women” under his breath.
The marquess was tempted to reach across the polished oak and stuff the gaudy bits of brass down the man’s throat. Though he rarely betrayed any hint of emotion, the gratuitous insult struck a raw nerve.
“Perhaps if you pulled your head from out of your arse, you would see the light, Whitney,” he snapped. “This is a newcentury and the old world order is crumbling. Those who can’t accept radical new concepts—such as women being the equals of men when it comes to brains and bravery—will be left in the dust.”
Assuming an even more offensive drawl, Lynsley went on to rattle off several incidents where his Merlins had saved the day for England and her allies.
The Secretary, always the consummate diplomat, interceded before the colonel could reply. “Now, Thomas, no one is questioning the courage or competence of your, er, troops. We were merely, er, hoping. . .”
“That the girls could put aside their knitting and cooking long enough to pull your cods out of the fire?” he said sharply. “By the by, I see in my notes that it was one of Colonel Whitney’s cavalry patrols that let Rochambeau slip through their fingers in the first place.”
The officer had the grace to flush. “Yes, but if the Royal Navy had intercepted the schooner?—”
“Let us not bicker on who is to blame, gentlemen,” interrupted Bathurst. “We are, after all, on the same side.”
Lynsley leaned back, feeling their gazes once again shift to him.
Damn.
He supposed it was up to him to come up with a plan of action. Though God only knew what it might be. Sighing, he took a moment to pack up his papers. “Let us meet back here at the end of the day. By then I will have some ideas put together for you.”
The colonel did not look pleased at the delay. However the Secretary hustled him through the parting protocols and out of the office before any further fireworks could erupt.
“Do try to come up with something, Thomas,” murmured Bathurst as he watched the Admiral and Major Fenimore followin Whitney’s wake. “Knightley is breathing down my neck to make a move—any move.”
“Even if the slightest slip would prove fatal?”
Bathurst made a wry face. “That is what comes from being so bloody good at what you do. The Crown expects miracles from the Merlins.”
“No matter than I am merely a flesh and blood man, not a magician?” said Lynsley somewhat waspishly.
The Secretary regarded him with some concern. “Is something troubling you? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so . . . out of sorts.”
