“If the earl was rambling, can you be certain he was speaking of his grandson?”

A shrug. “He’s always referred to him as the boy.”

“How long have you been in the earl’s employ?”

“Since I was a lad. I was born on this estate.”

“What about his claim that he killed his son? Is there any truth to that?”

“Guilt does strange things to a man’s mind when he’s old and frail. The earl despised his son for not being tough, and he was very strict with him, very hard with his expectations. Alfred Darby, then Viscount Coatsworth, died more than a dozen years ago in an accident. His widow, the current viscount’s mother, now lives in Hove, on the sea. She left within days of her husband’s funeral and has not been back. The boy was at school, Eton, and then Cambridge.”

He paused. “He seemed to get on well with the earl. Their discussions had always been lively, but never ending in animosity. I know it preys upon the earl’s mind, and I wish his grandson was here in his last days. Such a shame.”

So no murder, just family drama.

“You believe the viscount has gone to the Caribbean, then?”

“I do.”

“I can check at the docks to confirm he took passage on a ship. I will also inquire at the solicitors to see if he did indeed call upon them. Do you know the law offices they frequented?”

“Yes, as I often delivered messages there when his lordship was in the city. It’s the firm of Coles, Franks & Moody.”

Daniel almost laughed. At least he wouldn’t have to ask where they were located.

Chapter 12

JULIETTE’S NERVES TINGLED AS THEY made their way to the rally. She followed Uncle Bertie through the darkness on the winding lane somewhere downstream of the Tower of London, though she had lost her sense of direction. Her rough woolen cloak swung around her, feeling heavier than it actually was as her muscles tightened with each step and her breath came faster. Another evening in disguise, another mission. A plain black bonnet hid her hair and shielded her face. Uncle Bertie had taken his time with the pots of paint, darkening and filling out her brows, rouging her cheeks, and coloring her lips to make them appear fuller. When she viewed herself in the mirror in the War Room, she hardly recognized herself.

Bertie, in his homespun clothes and hobnailed boots, could have been any stevedore or laborer as he hurried along ahead of her. He moved so differently than when in his society clothes, it was as if he had become a different person. How long before she could change personas with a change of outfit?