Unlikely Spy Catchers (St. Brendan Book 2)

by Carla Kelly

  They laughed together, but Grace sobered quickly. “I almost think I envy you.” She kissed Meridee’s forehead and started for the door. She turned back. “Where is Able?”

  “He went for a walk. Hours ago.” Meridee rose and followed her, unwilling to let an ally and friend out of her sight, not when she felt so alone. “I think it is one thing for my husband to be called up short for felonies he has no control over. It is vastly another for it to happen when I am there as witness.”

  “Poor man. Should we worry? Should we search the grog shops and gaming hells?”

  “No. He’ll return when he has worn himself out sufficiently,” Meridee replied, hoping it was true. “I cannot deny that I am grateful for you to keep John Mark here another day so he and I can ride home almost by ourselves.”

  Grace blew a kiss to her. “You can credit Sir B. He knows your husband well, doesn’t he?”

  “He does. I know him better,” Meridee said quietly. “Please thank Sir B for me.” Her good humor righted itself. “And have a lovely time yourself, with one of the Royal Navy’s notable heroes.”

  “My dear, what woman wouldn’t want to attend a balloon ascension with the dashing Captain Sir Belvedere St. Anthony, and an equally enthusiastic student who loves gears and pulleys?”

  “Fair enough. Good night. And thank you both again.”

  After telling the butler not to wait up, Meridee took herself upstairs a few minutes later. She stood for a long moment by the window, gazing down on a street vacant of pedestrians and horses, wondering where her man was, wanting him with all her heart.

  Ben slept peacefully in his crib, not even stirring when she touched his black curls and raised the blanket a bit higher. She didn’t bother with her nightgown. The room was warm. Her cheek throbbed and she wanted to cry. She pulled the unused pillow close to her and surprised herself by closing her eyes immediately.

  She opened them hours later when someone equally bare moved the pillow and lay down beside her, pulling her close. Without words, they made love. She doubted it was a dream.

  — Chapter Eleven —

  Meridee woke early, even before Ben had a chance to start cooing and looking around – such a pleasant way to greet the day. She raised up on one elbow, the better to see her sleeping husband. She had hoped to see him still relaxed and at peace with himself after what even a veteran of General Merrymaking would have called a prodigious spell of lovemaking, but no.

  His hands were knotted into tight fists and his breathing seemed labored, as it had that dreadful time last spring. When he had recovered from his admittedly strange brush with death, he had told her in some detail of the polymaths from other ages who seemed to be waiting for him in a cosmic antechamber. If another man had spoken that way, she would have put it down to too much acquaintance with rum. She knew Able was never a man to linger in his cups. She believed him.

  She put her hand gently over his eyes, cuddled close to him and breathed evenly and steadily until his respirations matched hers. She watched his shoulders relax and his hands open. Soon they were running down her back in a lazy way that told her she could take away her hand from his eyes.

  He knew she wanted some detail he had not provided last night, otherwise occupied. “I walked and walked,” he said. “Over to the Palace of Westminster, then through some park or other. I wore myself out.”

  “Not too badly, it would seem,” she said. “Unless I gave myself rather willingly to some stranger in my bed last night, I don’t know when I’ve been so thoroughly rogered.”

  “Language, language,” he scolded, but she saw the smile back in his eyes. “And it was actually at two fifteen this morning.”

  “Two fifteen? Rogered? I could have said something more colorful,” she teased. “After all, I live in Portsmouth, close to the docks.”

  “Meri, you should never listen to smooth-talking sailors,” he teased. He stretched and got up, wandering over to their son’s crib. He brought Ben back to their bed and changed his diaper like the expert in [nearly] all things that he was. “Ready for him, my lovely human spigot?”

  “Someday I will thrash you for that,” she said as she quickly cured Ben’s imminent starvation. “Or perhaps not. I doubt there are many fathers in England who don’t whinge about changing diapers.”

  “Especially standing in the altogether,” Able added. “I’ve caught you sneaking peeks.”

  “For all that I know you quite well, of course I look,” she teased in turn. “I have no particular experience to state this, except my earlier sneaking peeks in Father’s book of bare naked Greeks, but you compare favorably.”

  He laughed, a welcome sound. After a good scratch that made Meridee roll her eyes, he went into the dressing room and came back wearing his ratty dressing gown. He lounged beside her, running his foot down her bare leg.

  “I’ve been thinking…” he began, which made Meridee whoop with laughter. “You have no respect for genius.”

  “And what have you thought about?”

  “When we return home, I am thinking of asking Mr. Maudslay if he would lecture my older class once or twice on mechanics. Provided he has the time, of course. I know Mr. Brunel doesn’t.”

  “You should ask him,” she said. “Better yet, Mr. Goodrich is the builder. I think John Mark is his most fervent admirer. Try him.”

  “Touché, Mrs. Six,” Able said. “Perfect. I know St. Brendan’s doesn’t pay you enough.”

  “You do,” she replied, trying to look demure while wearing nothing but Ben and a smile.

  Here came the reward: he blushed.

  They left London without a backward glance, after a surprising visit from a breakfast guest.

  Grace Croker announced to John Mark over bacon and eggs that in one hour she was taking him to a balloon ascension in Hyde Park. “John and I will return tomorrow or the next day to Portsmouth. You Sixes can go ahead today.” She turned to John Mark, whose mouth was open in amazement. “That is, if you’re interested in seeing such a spectacle. I want to see it, and I need a boy as a shield.”

  Never slow, John Mark was her match. “If I must,” he said in a droll way that to Meridee sounded like years ahead of genuine, sparkling wit. And to think you were born on a bare wharf in the rain, she thought.

  “You must, John,” Grace declared. “Sir B insisted upon such an expedition.” She leaned toward her co-conspirator. “Don’t tell Mrs. Six, who is a stickler about proper eating, but I believe there will be eclairs and macaroons afterword.”

  “Blimey, Miss Croker!”

  “I will assume that is a yes,” Grace said. She nodded to Able. “Tell my brother I have every hope he will make an uneventful recovery from the mumps. Better not tell him that none of his St. Brendan charges are regretting a few more days of idleness until he is fully on the mend.”

  An under footman came into the breakfast room, holding out a silver tray to her husband. Able read the note in his usual blink. He handed it to Meridee, and quickly left the room.

  “What in the world…” Grace began. She made to rise, but Meridee put her hand on her friend’s sleeve.

  “Don’t, even if it is your house. If he had wanted an audience, he would have asked for one,” she said. “We’ll wait.”

  In a moment she heard Able’s footsteps, and others. Able opened the breakfast room door and ushered in William Pitt.

  “Goodness,” Grace said under her breath. “A prime minister at breakfast?”

  Mr. Pitt bowed over her hand and then Grace Croker’s, and gave a nod to John Mark, who was busy with bacon. Mr. Pitt turned to Grace with the wry humor of a long-time friend. “I’ll wager you never thought to see me for breakfast, Grace.”

  “Do join us, Will,” Grace said, as calmly as if England’s former prime minister dropped in every day.

  Mr. Pitt sel
ected baked eggs and toast from the sideboard. He stood a moment by the empty platter that had held bacon, as if waiting for more to materialize.

  “I can share my bacon,” Able offered. “I did take rather a lot.”

  Grace tried monumentally hard not to laugh, which earned her one raised eyebrow from her childhood friend.

  “I would like a few pieces,” Mr. Pitt said. “Pardon my reach.” He reached over and selected two slices from Able’s plate. Grace had to turn her head and practice great forbearance, to Meridee’s amusement.

  Mr. Pitt dug in, but politely. He sat back after he downed his eggs and nodded to Grace. “You should ask me to breakfast more often.”

  “Will, really,” she said with a laugh. “Did I? Come any time. We hardly stand on ceremony, do we?”

  “We do not.”

  Why, Mr. Pitt, are you here? Meridee wanted to ask.

  At ease, Mr. Pitt looked around the table. “I debated about this. Tossed and turned a bit, even. Possibly I am overreaching.”

  “Everything I have heard about you, sir, would suggest that is not possible,” Able said. He put another piece of bacon on the former prime minister’s plate. “Here, sir. When you return to power someday, as I know you will, I want you to remember me as a fine fellow who shares bacon, and not the bastard who doesn’t know his place in society, and blacks his own wife’s eye.”

  “Bacon is not required,” Mr. Pitt said, then chuckled. “Nor is it ever turned down.” He nodded in Meridee’s direction. “Mrs. Six, if everyone looked as fetching as you do with a shiner, it would become fashionable. No, Master Six, you were surprised and assaulted by someone who ought to be relieved of his title of Elder Brother.”

  “That won’t happen,” Able said.

  “No, it won’t. However regrettable his behavior was, Captain Ogilvie is a well-connected, powerful man. That, I am certain, is a reality you understand.”

  “I do, sir. Better than most.”

  Mr. Pitt spread marmalade on his toast and ate a small corner before speaking. Meridee suspected he knew at least as much about drama and building suspense as Edmund Keene, Drury Lane’s favorite actor. William Pitt must have been a wonder, when addressing the House of Commons.

  “I won’t drag you around Robin Hood’s barn,” Mr. Pitt said at last. “I noticed something odd during that regrettable scene in front of Trinity House.”

  Able winced. “The oddity to me is why didn’t Captain Ogilvie spill his budget inside Trinity House? He had ample opportunity there, plus a ready-made audience.”

  “I believe he wanted to make a scene exactly where he did,” Mr. Pitt said.

  Meridee thought about the moment – the angry words, the shove, Able falling backward onto her, his elbow against her cheek, everyone gathering around them, opening her eyes, only to close them when Able covered her with his body as Captain Ogilvie kicked him.

  “He certainly succeeded,” she said.

  Mr. Pitt nodded. “Master Six, all eyes were on you and your lady.”

  “I hardly need reminding,” Able said, in a tone so dry that Meridee could have brushed sand off it.

  Mr. Pitt forged ahead, gesturing with the bacon. “I came up behind Captain Ogilvie and had a different view. I watched him slip a folded piece of paper into Gervaise Turenne’s hand.” He popped the bacon in his mouth.

  “Gervaise?” Meridee asked. “It would be hard to imagine two more unlikely confederates.”

  “Ordinarily I would agree with you, Mrs. Six, but these are not ordinary times.” He shrugged. “Am I too suspicious? Possibly, but Sir B’s valet has French connections, has he not?”

  “His parents are émigres since the Reign of Terror,” Able said. “They live quietly in Kent on heaven knows what.”

  “We should find out what they live on, heavenly or otherwise. I will drop a word to a friend at Horse Guards.”

  “That’s it?” Grace asked. “Someone odious passes a note. Have you said anything to Captain St. Anthony?”

  “You know Sir B well, madam,” Mr. Pitt said. “Should I?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I will see him this morning. He is taking John Mark and me to a balloon ascension in Hyde Park.”

  “Use your discretion,” Mr. Pitt told Grace. “After all, Gervaise will be there, won’t he?”

  “Always. They are seldom apart. But…but… Gervaise?”

  “Who can say? We live in dangerous times.”

  After a few more pleasantries, Mr. Pitt rose to take his leave, Able accompanying him.

  “Grace, I would say nothing about this to Sir B,” Meridee said in a low voice out of John Mark’s hearing.

  “Your reason?”

  “It’s early days in … in this investigation or observation or whatever we wish to call it. Let’s let sleeping dogs lie for now.”

  — Chapter Twelve —

  With Ben in Meri’s arms, Able happily shook the dust of London off his feet and handed his wife into the Croker carriage.

  Able watched as Mrs. Perry took her place, smoothing down her dress and giving Meri The Look that said, Now he is mine. No fool, Meri handed over their child, who settled at once into the roomy comfort that was the formidable African’s lap. Soon Meri was tucked close to Able.

  “Just so you know, Master Six, when we stop for the night, I’m in charge of Ben once he is fed.”

  Meri attempted a remonstrance, but it sounded feeble to Able’s ears. Heaven knows he never had any intention of arguing with the woman who outweighed him and who probably could outfight him, if it came to that.

  “Mrs. Perry, he might wake up in the night.” It was a pathetic argument and they all knew it. Mrs. Perry smiled, sensing victory in the air.

  “Now when has Ben done that recently, Mrs. Six?”

  “Well, perhaps this time you may have him,” Meri said. She cuddled closer to Able.

  That night in Haslemere, once their little one was fed and bedded in Mrs. Perry’s room, Able enjoyed the unbelievable luxury of strolling along Charter Walk with a beautiful woman, enjoying the one person he needed. He was a man with no illusions. Likely there would be more children, but their little ones would eventually grow up and create lives of their own, precious lives, to be sure, but other lives. Meri was his forever.

  “What say you, missy: should we go for another year and term at St. Brendan’s?” he teased.

  She leaned against his shoulder, a partner in repartee. “Let’s try it out and see how we like it, shall we?”

  “Aye, lass. I must say, though, how thoughtful it was of Master Croker to come down with the mumps and declare a week’s holiday.”

  “Wasn’t it?” She turned her forehead into his shoulder and he stopped. They stood that way because they could, with no one needing either of them. “London was no holiday, though, what with your grilling in Trinity House, and the unfortunate business in the street.”

  “We secured significant funding for St. Brendan, and I have encountered bullies in grog shops and gaming hells before.” He kissed her forehead. “Part of my misspent years with the Fleet, dearest.”

  They walked on, Able savoring the presence of his wife and no one else.

  She thrilled him to the depths of his heart. What a woman.

  “Able, you haven’t heard a word I have said.”

  No, he hadn’t. Better admit it. “You have me there, Meri.”

  “Turn off Euclid for the night, and that is an order.”

  He stopped their stroll that had been moving slower and slower anyway and put his hands on her shoulders, drawing her close. “I was only thinking of you, Mrs. Six.”

  “No one else?”

  He heard the humor in her voice and wondered how any sane woman could cope with his brain. “Cross my heart,” he replied. She felt goo
d so close. “I was sort of wondering if you might enjoy a romp in a quiet inn with a well-endowed sailing master.”

  She did, starting immediately in the direction of the inn at such a clip that he laughed and grabbed her hand to slow her down. She shed her clothes in record time and so did he, two heaps of winter clothes on the floor. They were lodged at the back of the inn, so there was no pressing need for silence. There was even occasion later for talk, the mundane, idle sort of chat of husband and wife with time on their hands.

  “Best conversational setting I know,” Able said. His eyelids were drooping, but his wife’s weren’t. He knew her well, though, and knew she would sink like a stone in about fifteen minutes.

  “We need another student-lodger,” she said, drawing little circles in his chest hairs. “I’m ready for another one.”

  “After we get home tomorrow, I’ll see how Master Croker is doing and get his approval,” Able said. He ran his hand down her bare arm, wondering how women were so soft. “Now that St. Brendan’s is buttressed with more cash, I’ll ask him to look for a cartographer – maybe an artist - and a French speaker.”

  “It would be advantageous if we could find one person who did both,” Meri added. “That way Grace Croker could be paid.”

  “You’re a shrewd lass. I don’t think that whatever pittance she is paid will make a difference to a woman of wealth.”

  “Able, you’re just a man,” Meri began.

  “A few minutes ago, you were intensely grateful.”

  “Oh, my. Words fail me,” his irrepressible wife acknowledged. “No, it is this, my love: The idea of a woman being paid for work.” He heard her chuckle as she burrowed close to him, a familiar movement to him because he knew she was composing herself for sleep. “I receive two pounds a month as …as… what am I?”

  Completely indispensable to me, he thought. “I believe the Gunwharf Rats decided to call you Mam.”