Elizabeth Powell Read Online Free

his chair and steepled his fingers. “There is a traitor in the Admiralty.”
    Everly’s eyes went wide and he stared at Carlisle as if the man had suddenly produced a French flag and started singing “La Marseillaise.”
    “A traitor,” he repeated. The very concept was unthinkable. Unconscionable.
    “Important orders have gone astray or vanished. Supply ships have been ambushed and their cargos taken. Our fleet movements in the Mediterranean are anticipated with frightening accuracy. The clues point to the same source.”
    A red haze misted Everly’s vision. “Who would dare—” he choked.
    “We don’t know, but whoever it is must be well-placed.” St. Vincent’s face was haggard. “Damned blackguard.”
    “Ordinarily this would be a matter for my agents,” Carlisle continued. “But the navy is uncommonly close-knit; a stranger introduced into the Admiralty would be suspect. We cannot conduct an effective investigation. That is why we come to you, Captain.”
    St. Vincent shifted in his chair. “We want this traitor flushed out as quickly as possible, Everly.”
    “With all due respect, my lord, why did you select me for this mission? I am no spy.” Everly’s leg began to throb anew.
    “True,” Carlisle interjected, “but you are uncommonly resourceful. You are a decorated officer, well known to the Admiralty staff. I am certain the traitor would not suspect you.”
    A spy? Everly blinked. The word conjured up images of cloaked figures skulking in alleyways, exchanging illicit information. The very concept was foreign to him. He was a naval officer—what did he know of intelligence work?
    “There is more, Captain.” Carlisle exchanged a meaningful glance with his young associate. “The information we have gathered so far indicates that this traitor is not working alone.”
    “A conspiracy?” Everly demanded. “Outrageous. This muddle gets worse by the moment.”
    St. Vincent nodded. “Indeed it does. D’you know Rear Admiral William Locke?”
    A yawning pit opened at the bottom of Everly’s stomach. “I know of him, my lord. The papers call him ‘The Lion of the Mediterranean.”’
    The admiral snorted and reached for the brandy bottle. “You know I don’t hold with such accolades, boy.” He poured himself a glass of the amber liquid.
    “Yes, my lord,” Everly agreed. The press had a nauseating habit of awarding epithets to war heroes. His own was “Fair-Haired Jack,” a title he loathed.
    “Over the past eighteen months,” continued the admiral, “Locke has not only paid off his creditors but he’s grown wealthy as a Cit. Prize money might account for some of this, but it still smacks of hugger-muggery. Add that to the fact that until recently he was acting commander of the Mediterranean fleet, and our problems there occurred shortly after he took up his post—you can draw your own conclusions.”
    “Do we have any proof?” Everly asked.
    Carlisle shook his head. “Nothing tangible, but then we haven’t been able to investigate without arousing suspicion. That is where you fit into this puzzle.”
    Everly shifted in his seat. “Go on; I’m listening.”
    “Admiral Locke is hosting a ball at his town house tomorrow evening. We wish you to attend.” Carlisle fixed Everly with piercing eyes. “Your goal is to find any evidence of Locke’s involvement in this conspiracy.”
    Was the man mad? A muscle twitched at Everly’s temple. He abhorred social gatherings, and now Carlisle wanted him not only to attend what was sure to be the biggest crush of the Little Season, but to play a role he wasn’t sure he could handle. He struggled to form a reply. “What sort of evidence are you looking for?”
    The earl shrugged. “At this point, we’d settle for anything. Follow him; see if he speaks to anyone suspicious. Eavesdrop on his conversations. If you have the chance, search his study. A wall safe or other hiding place would be the ideal place to conceal incriminating