No Place for a Dame by Connie Brockway Page A

would have granted whomever held it unprecedented power. Jameson had intended to be that person. But then Jack had betrayed him, the letter had been returned to its owner, and afterward several of Jameson’s more sensitive operations had been reviewed. He had very nearly been stripped of his position. He might still be yet.
    For the first time in his life, Jameson felt vulnerable. And he would continue to be vulnerable as long as Jack Seward remained alive. But where the hell had he gone?
    Knowlton would not have helped him disappear. Not only was Knowlton far too shrewd to make an open enemy of Jameson, but he doubted Knowlton had the wherewithal to accomplish such a thing. Jameson knew all of Knowlton’s agents and operations. It would be impossible for him to pull off Jack’s disappearance without leaving some trace of his involvement behind. Which left Giles Dalton, Lord Strand, the closest thing to a friend Seward had, as rich as Croesus and, as such, the likeliest person to have aided him in vanishing.
    Unfortunately, one did not simply kidnap a marquess and force him to talk.
    Well, Jameson conceded, one could , but the repercussions might prove problematic. Better to go about his investigation obliquely. To find Strand’s weak point and then exploit it. All men had weak points. It seemed even he was not exempt.
    “Tell me about this protégé.”
    As there was no table alongside the chair, Vedder finished his port and set the glass at his feet. “Chawbacons little fellow, quite a quiz. Shaped like a squab, all breast and belly with spindly little legs andarms. Eyebrows like a Russian bear. Wears spectacles. Manners of a colonial.”
    Jameson steepled his fingers together.
    “Strand’s inexplicably taken with him. Always seemed to have an ear tuned to the boy’s voice and kept a close eye on him throughout the afternoon. If the lad were a few years younger—and a great deal better looking—I would suspect him of being Strand’s by-blow.”
    Jameson puzzled on it. There was something here. He was certain of it. Whether it led him to Jack remained to be seen. He noted Vedder watching him uneasily.
    “Well. There you are, Lord Vedder.” Jameson got to his feet, indicating the interview was at an end. Vedder bolted from his chair, eager to be released.
    “You said you knew nothing and yet you have reported several interesting things. Find out more about this protégé of Strand’s. You say he picked him up on the continent? Where? Get close to the boy. Gain his confidence. Find out where he met Strand and if, when he did, Strand was in the company of anyone else.”
    “You want me to take up with that little country bumpkin? Without arousing comment? How?”
    “I’m sure you’ll think of a way, Lord Vedder,” Jameson said mildly. “In fact, if I were you, I wouldn’t rest until I did.”

Chapter Twelve

    A very awoke long before the sun breached London’s rooftops. She snuggled deeper into the thick featherbed, drawing the blanket up under her chin, her breath forming little vapor clouds in the air. The weather had been brutally cold since her arrival three days ago, and when the fire in the hearth had died down, glacial air had crept down the chimney and seeped through the walls.
    She knew it would have helped if she’d closed the draperies but she disliked the claustrophobic feeling imposed by the heavy gold brocade drapes. She kept them open so that she could see the sky as she had at Killylea.
    Not that there was any night sky to speak of. A freezing sleet had followed dusk into the city, glazing the windows with ice and nearly obliterating her view of the heavens or anything else, for that matter. The only things visible were the streetlights in the park across the street, indistinct globes of light suspended in the gloom. The days had been little better, a dingy woolen firmament hanging low over London’s towers and turrets.
    Dolefully, she looked around. Like the rest of the house, the