Page 7 of The Truth Serum
“Don’t you fret,” Missy continued. “I’ll get it and set it in your reticule. You never know when it might come in handy.”
Chapter Two
“Nate? Are youup for a visitor?”
“Yes!” Nate’s answer popped out before he’d even focused on his surroundings. He’d been one week recuperating in Ras’s ducal household, and he was nearly out of his mind with boredom. Ras had been his closest friend all through school and they’d remained so despite their difference in status. Ras was a wealthy duke, Nate an impoverished third son, but their friendship was stronger than ever. That was good. Nate’s cracked ribs and broken feet were very bad. But worst of all was the boredom.
There were only so many salacious novels he could read before he was chomping at the bit to get out and do some swashbuckling himself.
“Come in, come in!” he called as he twisted to smile at whomever had entered. He grinned at Ras, but then his expression fell. Behind him stood Lord Benedict, Nate’s supervisor at the Foreign Office. The one man who never came just for a social call because Nate was a spy and Lord Benedict was a spymaster.
Sadly, there was little Nate could do for the war effort while lying flat on his back and staring at the ceiling.
Nevertheless, the visit was welcome. “Lord Benedict! So happy to see you.”
The gangly man greeted him warmly. Then there was the requisite set of pleasantries while Ras remained in the room. Noone could know exactly what Nate did for the Foreign Office. Being a spy meant he had to keep his most private thoughts from everyone, including his best friend.
And so the conversation remained superficial as long as Ras was there. Yes, Nate was healing from his injuries. Damned thieves were everywhere, and he was lucky to have survived. Lord Benedict was healthy, his work at the Foreign Office kept him busy, but he was thinking about finding a wife someday soon.
That was it for the bulk of the conversation. At least until Ras excused himself, claiming a correspondence he needed to write. Ras gave them both a cheerful goodbye, and left, shutting the door behind him.
Which was when the real conversation began. In Spanish.
Lord Benedict started first, as was appropriate in a superior officer. Even among unofficial, unsalaried spies, there was a superior and a small amount of protocol.
“Tell me everything about your attack again. From the beginning. Leave nothing out.”
Nate obeyed, speaking slowly as he pulled up his Spanish, knowing that he’d be switching to Russian soon, then Greek, or maybe Latin whenever the mood struck. They’d even speak in French if Lord Benedict chose. It was because he was always afraid of being overheard, and this diminished the risk.
At least it wasn’t boring.
“I went to the docks because it was time. The Blanket’s ship had come in the night before, and I usually visit the taverns until we meet up.”
The Blanket was an Italian sailor who sometimes carried news from other informants. Sometimes letters, but more often messages about the war against Napoleon. As always, it was difficult to assess the truth of any one message, but so far, the man had proved his worth.
“You found him,” said Benedict in Russian. “Where?”
“The Painful Seadog,” Nate answered, switching languages. He was better with Russian, so he spoke more quickly. “He was already there. I sat by the fire.”
“What did he say?”
“Black Betties were recovered from seven dead Frogs.” His tone was grave as he spoke. The betties were rifles—good ones—only made in England. The Frogs were French army, which meant that somehow Napoleon had gotten a hold of the English weapons.
But how? He had no answer. Luckily, Lord Benedict wasn’t one to leap ahead.
“Anything else?”
Nate shook his head.
“Then what?”
“Nothing. He left. I waited. Drank my fill as I thought about it.”
“You should have come straight to me,” Benedict said, his gaze travelling down the coverlet. Nate’s body was a bulge underneath thin linens, but they both knew he’d nearly died.
“I had nothing to tell you. Those rifles could have come from our own dead. It meant nothing.” Or at least nothing concrete.
Of course, Benedict understood what Nate hadn’t said. “But you lingered. You think it means something.”
