Page 4 of The Truth Serum (My Lady’s Potions #2)

“N ate? Are you up 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. No one 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.”

“I think everything means something.” Nate sighed. “Plus, I’ve heard things.”

Lord Benedict arched a brow, and Nate struggled to find the right words. The man wanted to hear every vague supposition, every whispered possibility. If someone, somewhere, didn’t seem exactly honest, then Benedict wanted a report on it.

None of this would hold up in a court of law. Hell, none of it was anything more than guesses and gut feelings, but Nate felt sure that someone in London was shipping English rifles to Napoleon.

And that had to be stopped.

“Someone is running guns here? In London?” Lord Benedict was quick. He’d also switched to Greek which was not Nate’s strong suit. He answered in English.

“I don’t know.”

“But you waited at the docks. You didn’t come straight to me.”

“I wandered. I loitered. I watched.” He sighed. “I was clubbed from behind and they stole my boots.

“Did you black out?”

“No. I pretended to be unconscious. There were five of them. I’m good, but not that good.

” Not after getting clubbed. His head had been reeling as he stumbled before getting knocked again.

That time he’d just collapsed, only half on purpose.

He’d thought it best to fake being out cold and wait for his head to clear.

But that had cost him his boots and the few coins he had on him.

And several kicks to the ribs as he realized they meant to beat him to death.

Then it had been an effort of discipline to remain still, as if he were still unconscious.

He’d had to wait until a couple of them got tired.

And then one of them had slammed his heel down straight on Nate’s right foot.

The shock of having his toes crushed had him abruptly howling, which set his attackers back a step.

It was only for a second, but Nate took the chance and bolted straight for the Thames.

Thank God he could crawl quickly. Better yet, he was a good swimmer, even with broken bones. But damn, it had been a near thing. If the water hadn’t been so cold, he might not have made it. But the bracing shock of the water focused him enough.

Meanwhile, Benedict looked steadily at him. “That was too big a risk on so little information.”

“It’s how all my information comes. By wandering and making friends.”

“Those weren’t friends.”

True enough. He wasn’t sure if he’d been careless or wandered into something truly nefarious. He’d been too busy trying to survive to figure much else out. And then, once he’d swam far enough away, he still had to limp his way across London back to his rooms.

It had been one hell of a night.

Benedict studied him in silence, obviously calculating something in his massive brain.

The man played the movement of nations the way card sharks played idiot boys.

But that didn’t mean he understood how Nate’s information was acquired.

Benedict’s strengths were in using knowledge to England’s benefit.

Nate’s job was to get the information to him in the first place.

Fortunately, Benedict understood who was better at what. He rocked back in his chair and leveled Nate with a hard stare.

“What do you want to do now?”

“I need to get back out there. I have friends. If someone is shipping Black Betties through the London docks, I’ll find ’em.

” Part of his training as a young man had been to work as a London waterman, manning the little boats that ran back and forth between the London “stairs” and the ships too big to settle on the shore.

It had taken some time for those rough men to accept him as one of their own, but once included, he had lifelong friends. And not a one of them would support gun running to the French.

Naturally, Lord Benedict saw the obvious problem. “How are you going to do that with your feet cut to hell?”

Good question. “They’re getting better,” he said as he flexed his toes. They moved with minimal pain, but the bones in his right foot would take much longer to heal. He could manage a limping kind of walk, but he couldn’t run. He might never run again.

Benedict came to the same conclusion. “Don’t go anywhere until you’re healed. You’re no good to me dead.”

That last was spoken in a coarse French that was equal parts curse and admonition.

Nate understood it, but he doubted he could comply.

This was what he could do for his country—lurk in shadows and listen to gossip.

He hadn’t expected to grow up into such a patriotic soul, but over the years, he’d seen the damage that war did to ordinary folk.

Not just the people of France and Spain, though that was horrifying enough, but the English boys lost on the battlefield.

He vowed young to do what he could to end the war.

It turned out that his greatest skill was in being a jolly good fellow.

People assumed he was completely harmless as they chattered around the docks, in taverns, and in the ballrooms. Everyone knew something, and Nate had good ears, a good memory, and several good aliases.

But he couldn’t hear anything while laid up in Ras’s ducal mansion.

“I’ll find a way,” Nate promised.

“You’ll work as I tell you to,” Benedict said. “This is no time to go rogue.”

Benedict always said that because Benedict believed in structure, even among spy organizations. Especially among spies. Otherwise, there was no safety anywhere for the men under his command.

Nate knew that was a dangerous illusion.

He functioned as he always had, a lone figure wandering places he shouldn’t go in the hope of finding answers.

His success was a product of luck and diligence.

It was what he could do for England. Though, in his honest moments, he knew that excitement was his real motivator.