Lady Wynwood’s Spies, Volume 8: Traitor

Chapter 1

Mr. Norton was glad to duck into his club, The Runny Knees, in order to escape the sudden downpour. He shook droplets of water from his beaver hat as he handed it to the doorman along with his gloves.

“Shall I take your scarf for you also, sir?” the man asked.

“Yes, of course.” Norton was reluctant to part with it. As he passed it to Mr. Perkins, he found that he could not resist touching the soft length of knitted wool. He had worn it despite the fact that London was becoming uncomfortably hot in the early part of June, and gentlemen rarely wore such simple accessories that marred the elegant harmony of their fashionable ensembles.

Miss Sauber had presented him with the scarf only two days ago. She had been sweetly apologetic as she handed the gift to him. “This is poor recompense for your help in saving my life,” she said, “but please know that I am deeply indebted to you.”

She may have considered it poor recompense, but he had never been given a gift such as this, made by the lady herself with the finest, thinnest wool in shades of brown, dark green, and a light gray-green that reminded him of the color of his deceased wife’s eyes. Miriam had not known how to knit, having never been taught, but she had loved cooking and spent more of her leisure time in the kitchen than in any other room of the house.

It was a miracle that Miss Sauber was healthy enough to knit him this scarf. It had been a mere three weeks since her ordeal, but thanks to the Citadel’s Blood Nectar, she was almost fully healed. She had Miss Gardinier and Dr. Shokes aiding her in her recovery, and the young apothecary would cook up a different tincture for her to drink each day to help her health improve. Norton had caught sight of Miss Sauber downing one of those tinctures, which had smelled, curiously, like wet sheep, roast chicken, and French perfume all mixed together. The poor young miss had turned pale as she tried not to allow the brew to torture her on the way out as it had on the way in.

He found that he was very glad that she had survived. Seeing her with her deathly white face and the blood on her torso had reminded him too forcefully of Marian in great pain, struggling to give birth to their son. But after the stillborn babe had lain lifeless in the midwife’s arms, Marian’s weakened body had been unable to sustain her. She had died even as Norton held her close and begged her not to leave him.

Norton admitted that the painful memory had been the primary reason driving his actions as he worked with Solomon Drydale. He would have done anything to save the girl, even disobey his duty to the Ramparts. Making the deal and keeping the information from Sir Derrick had not been a difficult decision for him.

Of course, every decision had consequences. And Norton knew that he and Drydale were simply waiting for the hammer to fall.

It had been two weeks since Apothecary Jack had been taken in by the Ramparts. Luckily, he’d been a drooling fool when they imprisoned him, but how long would he have remained so? How long before the Ramparts managed to torture out of him the information that Drydale had traded away Bianca’s notebooks for the life of a junior agent?

So Mr. Norton had been at his leisure during those three weeks, spending more time at his club. He was not a gamester, and The Runny Knees was not known for deep play. However, the members were all avid sportsmen and enjoyed hearty physical activity—as well as the inevitable betting that accompanied it. The betting book was larger than White’s but did not bear the unusual wagers that other establishments boasted. Instead, the stakes were placed upon races—horses and boats, mostly, but some footraces as well—games of cricket, and competitions such as shooting, fencing, or boxing.

Norton greeted some gentlemen sitting in chairs around the large front room, who were either reading the papers or arguing over some carriage race or another. They all returned his greeting with friendliness, and several motioned for him to join them, but he politely refused.

If these men knew Norton’s humble origins, none of them would speak to him. While toiling away as a shipping clerk, he would never have guessed that he would one day be a member of an establishment such as this, catering to the wealthy and to the nobility. These men had no need to know that Norton only possessed one of those.

He admitted to himself that it gave him something of a thrill to walk into this club, to chat with these men who had never known hardship in their lives. But it was his job to make himself agreeable and to listen to whatever idle talk they desired to bestow upon him, because it was in those unguarded words that he could understand a man’s true opinions and feelings. It was often surprising, the truths that lurked deep in a man’s soul, which he always strove to keep hidden. But Norton was a master at digging through the dirt and rock to uncover men’s secret thoughts and plans.

He had made his way around the front room of the club, speaking to all his acquaintances—and he had acquired many, by this point—and he was about to settle down to a delicious dinner and a bottle or two of wine when a man seemed to appear out of thin air.

“Norton,” the harsh voice said. The tall, spare man addressed him familiarly, but there was no warmth or cordiality in his grating tones.

Norton liked to play the reckless fool, for it caused men to underestimate him. In actuality, while his actions were usually very daring, most of the time he had already looked at the situation and conjured up a dozen different ways that everything could go wrong, and considered what he might do in response if any of those occurred. So he had accustomed himself to a certain level of preparedness no matter where he found himself, and he did not like being surprised.

But this man, being here and approaching Norton, was not only a surprise, but a nasty one.

“Mr. Antingham,” Norton said carefully. “I was unaware that you were a member of The Runny Knees.”

Mr. Antingham couldn’t quite suppress the curl of his upper lip as Norton mentioned the name of the club. But he attempted to paste a polite smile upon his face as he said, “Yes, I have been a member for many years, although I rarely spend time here.”

Norton gave terse nods to the two men behind Mr. Antingham. “Mr. Maghew, Mr. Golding.” They were both Antingham’s agents at the Ramparts, and Norton had worked with them a few times. However, Mr. Maghew was the same rank as Norton, and they had butted heads more often than not. Norton found the two men to be inflexible, perfectly willing to obey orders blindly instead of considering other consequences. He himself preferred to think more critically in different situations rather than reacting like a mindless slave.

But Mr. Maghew and Mr. Golding were not members of The Runny Knees, as far as he knew, which meant that all three of them were here for Norton.

“What can I do for you, sir?” he reluctantly asked Mr. Antingham.

“I’d like to have a word with you in private, Mr. Norton. Perhaps you would be so good as to come with me?” Mr. Antingham gave a close-lipped smile.

The senior officer had a wide jaw and a wide mouth, so even his stiffest smile often fooled people into thinking that he was more congenial than he actually was. But Norton knew to look at his cold blue eyes instead to gauge his true emotional state. And he didn’t like what he saw there.

Mr. Antingham looked triumphant, the victor collecting his spoils and trampling his enemies. Norton didn’t have to guess whom he considered his enemy.

He didn’t directly report to Mr. Antingham—in fact, he didn’t directly report to any senior officer at the moment, now that he had been removed from under Mr. Uppleby. Since he was currently working under Drydale in his team, Norton could be considered a direct subordinate of Sir Derrick.

But he didn’t fool himself into thinking that Mr. Antingham’s request was anything less than a direct order. And the fact that Mr. Antingham wanted to remove Norton from the very public surroundings of this club meant that he wasn’t going to like what followed.

But Norton couldn’t refuse, and Mr. Antingham knew that.

Norton sighed. He had been looking forward with great pleasure to the beefsteak with red wine and mushroom sauce, which was a specialty of the chef of the club, and a new Burgundy was rumored to have arrived today, which would have been an excellent complement to his meal.

Instead, he was aware that his idyllic days were over.

Norton gave a smile as false as the one on Mr. Antingham’s face. “Of course, sir. Where would you like to have this discussion?”

“My carriage is waiting outside.” Mr. Antingham turned and led the way out of the club, not even watching to see if Norton followed or not.

Then again, he had brought Mr. Maghew and Mr. Golding to ensure that his orders were obeyed.

Norton followed with every appearance of compliance. He knew that even at rest, his face had a friendly mien, and as they headed out, several of the other gentlemen in the club saw Norton and his companions and nodded farewell, unsuspecting that there was anything wrong with the situation. Norton considered stopping to speak to one of the club members, but aside from causing Mr. Antingham to grind his teeth in impatience, he couldn’t think of a way to use the delay to his advantage.

Only the doorman gave Norton a wary look as he opened the door for the men. Norton had gone out of his way to be friendly with all the doormen, and the man on duty now, Mr. Perkins, could tell that Norton was not best pleased with his companions. He considered utilizing Mr. Perkins in some way, but soon discarded the idea. There was little the man could do to help him. Norton collected his scarf, hat, and gloves and gave him a brief nod as he exited the club.

Mr. Antingham’s carriage was indeed standing in the street outside. It was a large, finely built vehicle, high off the ground to ensure a quick, smooth ride. As Norton spotted the type of vehicle, he realized that here was his chance.

Mr. Antingham entered the carriage first. Norton was flanked by Mr. Maghew and Mr. Golding, but he hesitated before following his superior officer inside. Now that he knew what he must do, he should attempt to dig out more information from the man, just as he had from countless other sources of intelligence over his years as a spy.

“May I ask, sir, what this interview is about?” Norton tried to sound polite, but he suspected that some of the natural drawl of his voice leaked out, which usually made him sound insolent.

Which might be why Mr. Antingham pulled a pistol from the depths of the carriage and pointed it at Norton. “Get inside,” he said tersely, no smile on his face any longer, his eyes hooded and dark.

Norton froze. However, this was not a complication that he hadn’t foreseen. Antingham liked to control everything around him, and in response to any resistance, he often responded with an overbearing approach.

Norton raised his hands in surrender and tried to look sufficiently cowed. “I beg your pardon, but I meant no insult with the question.”

“I don’t care what you meant with the question,” Mr. Antingham said. “Get inside.”

The man was more impatient than Norton had ever seen him before, which was curious. But it also meant he would be impatient with Norton’s questions, and it would be futile to attempt to discover anything more.

“Of course, sir.” His words were respectful, but not too submissive, for that would be out of character and might raise alarms.

Norton still held his hat in his hands, and he pretended to fumble it. The beaver dropped onto the ground.

Shame, that. He quite liked that hat.

He bent down, ostensibly to collect his headgear, but he smoothly pulled a slim knife that had been hidden in his Hessian boots. With his other hand, he nudged aside his coat and reached for the knife in the concealed sheath at the small of his back.

Mr. Maghew was on his left and Mr. Golding on his right. Maghew was closer to him, and Norton was able to stab the knife directly above the knob of Mr. Maghew’s knee. At nearly the same moment, he plunged the other knife into the meaty part of Mr. Golding’s thigh.

Mr. Antingham, being seated inside the carriage, did not have a good angle to see what Norton did. He likely only saw the faces of Mr. Maghew and Mr. Golding contort in pain, their torsos bending as they reacted to the wounds.

Norton pulled his knives free as quickly as he had attacked with them. With his body still bent low, he sprang forward under the carriage harness even as Antingham fired the pistol. Amid sudden shouts and screams, Norton rolled neatly over his right shoulder on the dirty cobblestones, both hands still clutching his knives, and landed on one foot and one knee. He surged upward and darted away, disappearing into the crowd.

Copyright 2025 Camy Tang