At the very least he could conduct a species of reconnaissance of the premises, if only to confirm for himself the impossibility of any clandestine undertaking.
But he was known. It had to be someone else, someone he trusted utterly, and there was very little time left.
He rang the silver bell and Jago noiselessly appeared. ‘M’ lord?’
Renzi paused, taking in the man’s close-shaven blue-black chin, his watchful dark eyes and panther-like movements. ‘We need to talk, Jago.’
‘M’ lord.’
‘A little matter of the Danish staff wages and your allowance for footmen, cooks and kitchen maids. I see we are short three persons. Will your accounts reflect their absence on the wages tally?’
Jago’s eyes flickered, but only once. ‘There’s been expenses, m’ lord. Rather than trouble you, I made bold to-’
‘Quite so. And the overplus of claret is disposed of equitably?’ It was an old ruse but it did no harm to reveal that it was known to him.
‘And with no horse fair in Copenhagen there would seem little scope for your … dealings, shall we say?’
The man remained silent, his features giving nothing away.
‘I think it time we extended our relationship, sir.’
Again, not a word.
‘You see, we both have aspects of our lives that were better left discreet, not meat for public misunderstanding.’
Jago stood still, as unblinking as a bird of prey.
‘Which it were folly to mention.’
‘M’ lord.’
Renzi gave a half-smile. ‘I’ll have you know I’m well satisfied with your service to me, Jago. And I can see how valuable your qualities must have been to my father for his own purposes.’
That this centred on procuring, horse-races, questionable market dealings and political skulduggery was neither here nor there. The man was no stranger to discreet arranging and this was precisely what Renzi needed. ‘I believe we have an understanding. Should your affairs be conducted prudently, with discretion, and are not injurious to the estate, I see no reason why you should be troubled.’
‘M’ lord.’ There was a slight bow but no change in expression.
‘In return, there are from time to time small matters in my affairs of a confidential nature that it would oblige me exceedingly should you feel able to assist. Your consideration with respect to my privacy will be understood and, naturally, an honorarium will be involved.’
Renzi had no concerns that Jago would take advantage: there had been every opportunity from blackmail to extortion in his dealings with his father but none had even been hinted at.
So now they knew where they stood.
‘I understands, m’ lord. There’s a service you desire at all?’
With a gratifying lack of curiosity, Jago heard Renzi specify that a knowledge of the French mission was needed, a feel for its internal layout, staff numbers and where Gobineau, Comte de Mirabeau, might be expected to have his being.
It was an outrageous request but Renzi was relying on Jago’s base cunning and gift of cajolery.
Before nightfall he was back and handed Renzi a rough sketched floor plan.
The legation lay not far away in the Bredgade, a small but grandiose mansion in the usual diplomatic style of discreet seclusion. Three storeys, Gobineau’s little sanctum at the end of a passageway on the middle floor with other working offices on each side. Guards, but bored and lazy. Most offices closed at four and Gobineau’s was no exception – saving that on occasion he might be entertaining a lady and was not to be disturbed.
It was not impossible but was crazily fraught. Renzi could turn his back on the whole thing but … ‘I want to be left inside Gobineau’s office for twenty minutes. Suggestions?’
Jago didn’t turn a hair. ‘M’ lord, I advise as you goes delivering. Can get you in b’ the servants’ hall. After that …’
‘Key of his office?’
‘Gen’rally can get a lend of one from a cleaning gent for a rub o’ silver.’
‘Do it. There’s no time to lose. I’ll be going in tonight.’
‘M’ lord?’
‘Yes?’
‘If you pardons m’ boldness, m’ lord, but you ain’t a knowing cove in these matters. Y’ needs a partner, like, who looks out f ’r you while you does the … gets on with it. If ’n you needs one, why, m’ lord, I done it before, knows the lay.’
‘That’s handsome in you, Jago.’
Renzi wondered whether he should let him know something of what was at stake but discarded the idea. Whether he was willing to do it for loyalty or personal gain, additional motivation would not be needed.
Chapter 54
As darkness set in and the streets changed their aspect, they prepared. Jago had returned with a key and two threadbare sets of bearer livery, which they now put on.
There was little point in delay – any deliveries in the small hours would be suspect. As soon as Jago was able to report that the light in Gobineau’s window had died they slipped out, Renzi with a cloth over a small hamper and Jago with three bottles in a basket.
Down a dark passage beside the mansion they found the back door. A lounging servant looked up and simply held out a hand. Jago found the necessary and they were in. Through a clattering scullery with the kitchen hands giving not a bit of notice to yet another delivery for the master, they found the gloomy servants’ back stairs.
It was going brilliantly – too well?
Puffing at the unaccustomed exercise, they mounted the stairs, and there was the second-floor door. Hefting their burdens they passed into a long passageway, at the end of which was their goal. It was dim, only every fourth sconce alight, but sufficient to show a guard sauntering along and another, closer, sitting sprawled on a cane chair in an alcove, his hat over his eyes.
Renzi stepped forward confidently, Jago behind. As he went to pass the dozing guard a foot suddenly shot across his path.
‘Qui va la?’ the man snarled, tipping back his hat.
Lifting the key and letting it dangle significantly, Renzi gave a supercilious smile and waited with heavy patience.
The foot was reluctantly withdrawn and the hat slid back. They moved past the other who held aside to let them by.
And they were at the door.
Making play of stationing his lesser assistant outside, Renzi fumbled the key into the lock and let himself in, heart thumping.
An Argand lamp in one corner was still burning, the wick at its lowest. He turned it up, grateful for the golden light but aware that the occupant must be intending to return at some point.
He had unknown minutes to find the message.
The room was tidy, with an elaborate desk against the window. Four neat sets of papers were on the blotter ready for work. One wall was lined from floor to ceiling with books and against another was a languorous chaise-longue, next to it a beautifully carved mahogany side table with a foot-high marble statue of a weeping Virgin Mary.
Renzi worked fast, riffling through the paper piles. Next were the pigeon-holes at the rear – so many of them – and he had to be careful to replace everything.
Nothing.
The dispatch case? Or look for a place of concealment?
Near despair, he began feeling down the back of the desk, but it was awkward and-
‘Stand up and turn around slowly!’ a voice rapped in French.
Renzi froze. The door hadn’t opened and someone was in the room with him.
Carefully he rose and turned. It was Gobineau, in a dressing-gown, carrying a heavy pistol. Behind him there was a void in the bookcase where a concealed doorway had swung open.
The count’s eyes widened in recognition. ‘Mon Dieu! Lord Farndon? And in the character of a common thief? It passes belief!’
The pistol never wavered, and Renzi knew he would not leave the legation alive.
‘Before I have you taken up, it would gratify me immensely to know what it is you seek, my lord. No – don’t tell me, I rather think I know.’
He edged along to the desk, a cruel smile playing on his lips. Slowly bending, his eyes never leaving Renzi’s, he reached for a lower drawer, drew it open and fumbled for a paper with a broken seal.