Page 15 of Lyon’s Obsession (The Lyon’s Den Connected World #91)
Self-consciously, Alexander reached for the wig he wore to know assurance it was still in place.
His russet-colored hair generally made him more memorable than the mousy-brown wig upon his head.
He eyeballed each of his table mates. In Alexander’s opinion, despite their disguises, they each appeared to be a bit too “polished.” He considered himself more believable, for, after all, he had spent a decade of his life sitting in the corner of an inn waiting until his father had drunk enough ale to ease his guilt, and then Alexander would lead Robert Dutton back to the single room they two shared, where he put his father to bed.
The few pennies Alexander earned each day for a variety of jobs, ranging from mucking out stalls to running errands, went towards the room and the occasional crust of bread, while Robert Dutton’s few attempts at making a living went to drink and guilt.
“John Chavvywool,” Beaufort said under his breath, drawing Alexander’s attention to the man crossing the room to join Yates at the rear of the inn. This was the first confirmation of their suspicions that the forgery ring had grown and was more organized.
“Keep your head down,” Duncan hissed. They all followed the Scot’s orders until after Chavvywool walked past their table.
It was a few seconds later when Alexander raised his eyes to behold Honfleur, Lady Caroline, and Miss Moreau entering the inn.
Like him and his cohorts, the trio had dressed to blend in with the locals inhabiting the inn; however, even in disguise, both Miss Moreau and Lady Caroline would be easily identifiable: pitch black hair for Honfleur’s daughter and bright red for Miss Moreau.
In truth, Alexander knew surprise. So far, Honfleur had not made a misstep.
Until this very moment, there had been no identifiable connection between Honfleur and Yates.
True, the Frenchman had employed carpenters and a stonemason who had made repairs on the town house Honfleur let while in London, and, also true, those same workers had been seen with Yates, but the marquis could obviously claim that particular fact a coincidence.
Honfleur’s presence in this very inn and being in disguise offered proof of the “Frenchman’s” involvement in what appeared to be preparation for a capital crime, and, depending on its extent, it might truly be considered a form of treason against the King.
Alexander was glad his seat backed to the wall, and he sat in the shadows, for, as if sensing his presence, Miss Moreau’s head turned sharply in his direction for a few brief seconds, and he again ducked his head to hide his face from the woman’s perusal.
Duncan’s back was to the table Honfleur chose.
Therefore, it would be Beaufort’s and Orson’s duty to watch the interactions.
Even so, Alexander’s eyes often returned to the trio.
After viewing Miss Moreau in both the daring costume she wore to Lady Godfrey’s masque, as well as her perfectly coiffed self in a day dress, bonnet, and spencer at the park, Alexander had thought he had the right of the girl, but viewing her in the garb of the street, he realized there was more to Miss Moreau than he expected.
In fact, once he looked more closely upon the trio, he would agree all three appeared comfortable in their “borrowed” robes.
Perhaps Lord Honfleur had not only erred with his acknowledgement of John Yates, William Booth’s associate, but his lordship’s comfort with men not of the aristocracy said the marquis was likely not really of French nobility after all, which was what they had all suspected.
“Interesting,” Beaufort said softly, and they all leaned in to hear what else he might say.
“What is interesting?” Duncan asked as a frown marked his brow.
“They are likely to draw more notice than any of us,” Beaufort observed.
“My thoughts exactly,” Alexander confirmed. “A true marquis would not appear so comfortable in such a room.”
Duncan instructed, “Orson, you should be prepared to follow them when they depart. I imagine they will hire a hack.”
“Theirs will be a long ride in a hack,” Alexander observed. “The driver will not mind the extra coin.”
“You could have the right of it,” Duncan observed. “Yet, it is possible Honfleur left his carriage nearby. His driver appears quite capable of handling any situation.”
“However they get on, I will follow,” Orson declared.
While Honfleur ordered the stew and a mug of ale for all three, Alexander studied Miss Moreau. She chatted with Lady Caroline until Honfleur snapped his fingers. Then the woman quickly dropped her eyes and sat quietly. The move bothered Alexander more than he had a right to know.
Despite Miss Moreau obviously being a part of whatever Honfleur and his co-conspirators planned, Alexander would know great sadness to have her arrested along with her relations.
If found guilty, she would know a hangman’s noose.
As he watched the three together, Alexander made a silent promise to attempt to remove the lady from Honfleur’s control before she was beyond redemption.
If necessary, he would kidnap the woman and lead her to a new life somewhere where Honfleur could never touch her again.
“Honfleur is joining the others in the private room,” Orson informed the table.
Beaufort suggested, “It might be best if you and Duncan depart now, Marksman. You can return to the town house and keep an eye on who comes and goes and who returns. We do not want any of the three to recognize either of you. So far, neither Orson nor I have held a conversation with the man or his daughter, though I mean to make my first call upon Lady Caroline tomorrow. I fear this plan is bigger than any one Frenchman—bigger than any of us expected.”
Although Alexander knew Beaufort to be correct, he did not like the idea of leaving Miss Moreau behind. He felt it necessary for him to watch over her in case trouble arrived.
Duncan nodded sharply before tossing a few coins on the table. “You and I will stand up together, Alexander. In that manner, my backside will block the women’s view of our exit. You will lead.”
Alexander indicated his agreement; yet, before he stood, he leaned towards Orson to say, “Know assurance that Honfleur does not abuse Miss Moreau.”
Orson’s eyebrows rose in obvious amusement. “Are you sweet on the woman, Marksman?”
Alexander shook off the idea. “I am not; yet, I cannot unknow the idea that Miss Moreau does not totally grasp the magnitude of what Honfleur plans.”