Page 6 of The Rogue’s Embrace

Two weeks later

London, England

Lisandro took the fastest possible ship and sailing route, but it was still almost a month since Maria had been taken before he finally arrived in London. He made straight for an address in Gracechurch Street and the only men in England he knew he could trust to help.

When the hack pulled up out the front of the coaching company office, he checked the address he had written on a piece of paper and frowned. The building was rundown, dirty, and didn't look at all like something owned by men of means.

His heart sank. Perhaps the time since the end of the war had not been kind to his friends after all.

He paid the fare and, grabbing his travel bag, climbed out of the carriage. His only consolation was knowing that the particular skills his friends had at their disposal were the kind that often didn't require money. While Lisandro had the silver coins which Diego had given him, he was not keen to start throwing money around in order to find Maria. Piles of easy cash tended to attract the wrong sort of people.

One sharp rap on the door of the coaching company went unanswered. So did the second. In frustration, he headed around to the rear mews. Hopefully someone worked in the stables.

The yard was little better than the front of the place. There were no coaches or staff, but there was a large pile of clean hay just inside the nearest stalls.

"What a sorry mess,"

he muttered.

A movement to his right caught his eye. A young boy, no older than six or seven, came strolling nonchalantly out of the stables. He stopped, took one look at Lisandro, then put his fingers to his lips and let out a loud, piercing whistle.

Footsteps rumbled. Lisandro looked up to the top of the building. Three figures appeared from out of an upper door and moved onto the landing. Pistols were pointed directly at him.

He didn't move an inch. These men were some of his dearest friends, but he also had no doubt that the weapons were loaded and cocked. There would be little comfort in having them apologize profusely over his corpse for having mistakenly shot him.

"I am Lisandro de Aguirre, Duke of Tolosa. I would appreciate it greatly if you gentlemen lowered your pistols," he said.

Two of the men instantly moved to disengage their weapons but the third kept his firmly aimed in Lisandro's direction. A wry grin sat on his lips. "How do we know it is you? Any poorly dressed Spaniard could turn up and claim he was the Duke of Tolosa."

Lisandro chuckled. "Well, I was me when I woke this morning and discovered, to my disgust, that I was back in the rat-infested stench-hole of London."

The final pistol was lowered.

Sir Stephen Moore hurried down the stairs to embrace him. Lisandro accepted the hug with good grace. For a man who dealt in blackmail and death, the Englishman was surprisingly effusive.

"The Duke of Tolosa. What brings you here?"

he asked. As he asked the question, Stephen's gaze roamed over Lisandro's tatty coat and battered hat, taking it all in. True to form, it seemed he missed nothing.

"An important mission—one which means the difference between safely returning a young Spanish noblewoman to her family and having a very difficult conversation with them,"

he replied.

Stephen nodded. "Then you had better come inside."

He turned to the boy. "Toby, go upstairs and arrange a pillow and blankets for Don de Aguirre. He will be staying with us."

The young boy screwed up his face. "What was his name?"

Lisandro beckoned the boy to come over. "I am the Duke of Tolosa. If I was English, you would call me Lord Tolosa, but because I am Spanish, I am Don Tolosa. Also, Don de Aguirre. But you may call me Lisandro if that makes it easier."

Toby might have been confused about the names and titles, but the lad was clearly not a fool. He dipped into a low, respectful bow. "May I take your bag, Lisandro?"

"No, I am happy to carry it myself. But if you know where I can get a strong cup of coffee, I would be forever in your debt, young Toby,"

replied Lisandro.

The boy scampered off in the direction of the nearby stairs and took them two at a time.

Lisandro waited until he had gotten to the top before turning to speak to Stephen. "I need to find the people who have taken this noblewoman, and quickly. To say I have little to go on is an understatement."

"Come upstairs and let's see what we can do."

If anyone in London was going to be able to help it was one of the gentlemen who had been pointing a gun at him only a few minutes ago. With a spark of relief in his heart, Lisandro followed Sir Stephen up to the offices of the RR Coaching Company—Rogues of the Road.

Inside, he was greeted by two of the others: Lord Harry Steele and Mister Augustus Trajan Jones. Lord Harry had a well-earned reputation for causing scandals in London high society, while Gus's career as a smuggler necessitated him keeping a lower profile.

"Where is the Duke of Monsale?"

asked Lisandro. He needed as much help as he could possibly get in order to locate Maria's whereabouts.

"Monsale is at his country estate overseeing the planting of new crops,"

replied Harry.

Lisandro nodded. "I should be doing that too. The wheat was almost done by the time I left Tolosa, and hopefully they will be getting the barley field ready now. And what about George?"

"George is . . . well, let's just say he is keeping a low profile at present. A little thieving job went awry a month back, and he nearly got caught. It shook him up quite badly," said Gus.

When no one else added to the story, Lisandro let it go. The Honorable George Hawkins was a master thief. If he had come close to being nabbed during a robbery, it must have been a risky one.

Lisandro held out his hand to Harry. "And congratulations on your marriage; it was lovely to hear you had taken on a wife."

Harry grinned. "Thank you. Fatherhood is the next adventure looming in my future. Alice is with child."

"Well then, double congratulations,"

replied Lisandro.

After dropping his bag onto the long well-worn table which sat in the middle of the room, Lisandro searched inside it for his notebook. He took a seat as Toby appeared from another room, bearing a large cup. The boy set it in front of him, then bowed and stepped back.

"Thank you, Master Toby. You may go resume the task of mucking out the stables,"

said Stephen.

With the boy gone, they got to work. Lisandro explained the unexpected visit from Diego de Elizondo, and his own trip to Zarautz, as well as the conversation he'd had with the drunk in the doorway. He also showed them the note about the boat and made mention of the Englishman, Mister Wicker, who had been in the tavern.

At the end of it all, he sighed and reached for his rapidly cooling coffee.

"Bloody hell, that's a king's ransom. Though it is odd that they asked for a smaller amount at first and then didn't release Maria,"

said Harry.

Sir Stephen picked up the ransom note. "I am not that concerned about the money, but this Se?or Alba is most definitely of interest. If he came to England with Maria, then he might well be our best chance at finding her."

Lisandro had gone down a similar road with his own thoughts, but he had reached a dead end. Having a name meant little in a bustling city of more than a million inhabitants.

A sly smile crept to Stephen's lips. "Lisandro, when was the last time you went to church?"

He frowned. What a foolish question. He was Spanish and a Catholic; he went every week. Even on board the ship bound for England, he had asked the captain to conduct a small Sunday morning service for the crew and himself.

His friend might be onto something.

Everyone in Spain goes to church on Sunday. And when you are not at home, you find a place to worship. Could it be that simple?

Rising from his chair, Lisandro met Stephen's gaze. Today was Saturday. Tomorrow, all of the major Catholic churches in London would be full of worshippers, including Saint James's church in Spanish Place. Any good Spaniard who happened to find himself in the English capital would be attending the Sunday morning mass.

From his time in London during the war, Lisandro had formed a close friendship with the parish priest, Father Hurtado. If anyone new had started attending Saint James's on a Sunday, Father Hurtado would know.

Lisandro pointed a finger in Stephen's direction and grinned. "I have a sudden desire to go and stretch my legs. All the way to the other side of Manchester Square, and St James's church. And there I may seek out a priest. Care to join me?"

Stephen smiled back. "I thought you'd never ask."