by Y. S. Lee
Instead, she stopped demurely on the pavement. "Thank you, sir. This is my carriage just here."
He pressed down on her gloved hand, wishing he could feel her skin. "What are you playing at, Mary?"
"I beg your pardon?" The voice was still Mrs Fordham's, but there was a slight quiver at the end that he quite enjoyed.
"I think you'd better tell me what you're up to." He paused, looked into her eyes. "Both here and on site."
Her eyes widened.
He grinned.
"I – I must be on my way." She glanced quickly at her coachman, a young fellow who watched them with undisguised interest.
James scowled at him and he merely smirked in response. Insolent. "Well?"
"Did you follow me here?" The voice was all Mary, now – not Mark, not Mrs Fordham. He'd not realized how much he'd missed hearing it.
"Answer me first."
She glanced towards the carriage again. "We haven't time right now."
"So out with it."
With a sigh, she tried to pull her hand away.
He curled his fingers around hers and gripped hard – hard enough to hurt.
"Carter!"
The young coachman hopped down from his seat. "Yes, Mrs Fordham."
James promptly relinquished her hand. "Until tomorrow, Mrs Fordham."
She didn't reply. But he caught a glimpse of her expression as she mounted the steps to the carriage, and it was both worried and cross. Good.
At least there, they were even. Fourteen The early hours of Thursday, 7 July The Agency's Headquarters
The drive back to the Agency was swift and tense – on Mary's part, at least. She couldn't see Felicity, perched atop the carriage, but her imagination was vivid. She saw herself shamed, scolded, sacked. And she had little to say in her own defence, except the stupid-sounding "He didn't seem to recognize me." How could she have been so naive as to hope that? So foolish as to conceal James's presence from the Agency?
Once in the attic office, though, the conversation took an unexpected turn. Rather than reprove Mary, Anne sighed. "I must confess, I worried about your ability to blend invisibly into a building site."
"I thought we did well, considering the pressing nature of the assignment," said Felicity smoothly. A trifle defensively.
Almost without pause, Anne asked Mary, "Have you any suggestions as to how you might explain yourself to Mr Easton now?"
Mary nodded slowly. "I had an idea… not an especially good one, I'm afraid, but it's plausible."
"Wait a moment," drawled Felicity, leaning forward. "Even with a beautifully turned, utterly plausible background story, we're rather missing an opportunity here." Both Mary and Anne turned to her with some surprise. "This is the second time you've encountered James Easton. He was rather helpful to you during the Thorold case, was he not?"
"He was." Mary cursed the warmth in her cheeks that must signify a blush.
"And he's certainly curious about your current activities. Even I could see that."
Mary nodded, remembering the smirk on "Carter's" face as she and James bickered on Mrs Wick's doorstep.
"I think no matter how perfectly you performed as Mark Quinn, he would always have recognized you. He probably knew you straight away, but was keeping silence for his own reasons."
"I expected him to know me. But when he didn't let on, I thought it best to leave it alone."
"And he's just returned from India. This isn't the sort of small job he'd normally bother with."
"That's right."
"Clever, discreet, and underemployed." Felicity made an elegant gesture with her hands. "Why not recruit him to work for the Agency?"
"What?!" gasped Anne.
Mary stared. It was either the best or the worst suggestion she'd ever heard. It might be both.
"Of all the absurd, impulsive, inappropriate schemes!" Anne nearly spat the words. "How utterly nonsensical!"
Bright flags of colour appeared on Felicity's cheeks. "How so? Easton demonstrates all the traits we seek in candidates."
"He's… why, he's-"
"Male. Is that the problem?"
"Well, it's certainly a problem for the Agency. We were founded on the Scrimshaw Principle: women, who are undervalued and underestimated at every turn, have the advantage when it comes to intelligence work."
"I'm well aware of the Agency's history," said Felicity. "But in this case, Easton has the advantage. He has experience of building sites, and a position of authority."
"That's because we had no business accepting this case! We strayed outside the Agency's area of expertise, and this confusion is the consequence. James Easton, whatever his virtues, can play no part in the usual work of the Agency."
"The 'usual work of the Agency'," drawled Felicity, "bears reconsideration. The current case demonstrates that perfectly. If we cannot accept work – interesting, well-paid, important work – we ought to question our self-imposed limitations. Male agents may be just what we need in order to grow as an organization."
"The current case is not just beyond our scope! It is inimical to our aims."
"Please!" interrupted Mary, standing awkwardly. Anne and Felicity stared at her, startled. They seemed to have forgotten her presence entirely. "I must return to Lambeth. I've a decent story to tell James Easton for the moment, until you – until a decision is made."
Anne swallowed and said, in something approximating her usual tone, "It's very late, Mary. Why don't you stay here until morning? It's quite safe for you to do so."
Mary nodded reluctantly. She had already compromised her seamless existence as Mark Quinn. James Easton had destroyed her cover. It seemed she had nothing to lose by staying one night in her old bed, here at the Agency – while it was still the Agency she knew. Thursday, 7 July A long evening, a fierce quarrel, an impending confrontation. Given these three, sleep for Mary came only towards dawn, and she was nearly late for work as a result. Running the last few hundred yards into Westminster, she dodged round a gent in a badly ironed suit, realizing only at the last second who it was.
Octavius Jones tipped his hat to her with a flourish. "Hello, laddie!" he called loudly. "What have you for me today?"
"Nothing, sir."
"Come, now – a clever boy like you? Tell me something. Anything."
She backed towards the site entrance, step by slow step. "Er – funeral's today, sir."
"You won't get paid for that!" he said with good-natured contempt. "Tell me something that's not public knowledge."
"I don't know what you mean, sir."
"Well, tell me this: what's the new engineer got to say about site safety?"
The wooden fence pressed up against her shoulder blades, but still Jones advanced. It was far from subtle, his trick of standing too close in order to pressure one, but it was effective none the less. "Still working, sir. Hasn't told me aught."
"And in all the time you've spent with him, you've surmised nothing?"
Mary wrinkled her brow. "Sur-what, sir?"
"Surmised: observed. Guessed. Reckoned."
"There'll be a reckoning, but not the sort you had in mind," said a caustic voice behind them.
Mary squeezed shut her eyes. Rescue and trouble at the same time.
"I told you to clear off!"
"Mr Easton!" Jones had his party voice on. "What a pleasure to see you again; I don't believe we were properly introduced yesterday."
"We never shall be. Now get off my building site."
"Would it be overly pedantic of me to point out that we're not, in fact, inside the building site?" Jones grinned at James's expression. "I don't suppose I could interest you in giving us an exclusive, sir. No? A pity. Well, I must be off. You mustn't blame young Quinn for talking to me, y'know – I waylaid him, not the reverse. Well, cheerio, then."
The sudden hush as Jones sauntered away was entirely in Mary's head. The street itself was as raucous as ever but her primary awareness, as she followed James through the site entrance, wa
s of his uncharacteristic and ominous silence. She remembered perfectly well what he'd said yesterday: if he caught her talking to Octavius Jones again, she would be disciplined. He hadn't then let on that he'd recognized her, of course. But she doubted that would make the slightest difference.
James marched into the tower entrance without a glance over his shoulder. Mary followed meekly. It wasn't as though she had a choice. As soon as they were alone, she blurted out, "I can explain."
He didn't seem to hear her. Instead, he stared hard at a spot a few inches over her head and said in a low, taut voice, "Tell me, who the hell are you, really?"
She opened her lips to reply, then paused. It was an excellent question – and right now, she had no idea how to answer him. She was Mary Quinn, of course. But also Mary Lang. Secret agent. Orphan. Ex-thief. Ex-teacher. Englishwoman. Half-caste. And she was none of the things she'd represented to him in the past. He had every right to be livid.
"You can't even tell me that?" His voice was bitter. "At least answer me this: is there really a Fordham?"
She blinked, startled. "No. Of course not."
The tension in his jaw eased a little. "And Jones – he's really a journalist?"
"Of sorts; he writes for the Eye on London." This wasn't what she'd expected. James's lines of questioning were usually focused, rational. These questions made no sense, unless he was actually jealous… and that seemed more like a preposterous hallucination than lucid observation.
"Were you following me last night?"
That, at least, gave her ground to stand on. "How could I have been? I was at the Wicks' house first."
"You could have anticipated where I was going."
"For that matter, you could have followed me." The possibility had cost her some sleep that night.
"Assuming I knew who the hell you are." His words were bitter, but his tone less acid. He was looking at her now, those dark eyes trying to read her mind. "What the devil are you doing on a building site in boy's clothing, Mary? If that's even your name."
"Of course it's my name." It was the only part of her identity she could honestly share with him.
"Well, that's a start, I suppose."
She bit her lower lip. "Do you really want to know why I'm here?"
He made an oddly helpless gesture. "Who wouldn't? Don't you think I feel an ass? You saved my life last year; you pulled me out of that damned Lascars' refuge. But you don't even trust me enough to tell me what you're doing now."
She hadn't thought about his feelings – not in that way. But he was right. She could at least offer him a coherent, reasonable explanation for her presence here. It was a long way from telling the truth, but it might satisfy him for the moment, even if doing so made her feel wretched. Spying was all very well. She loved disguise, and acting, and all the covert skills in which she'd been trained. Yet she hated this sort of duplicity, lying to someone whom she-
Mary cut off her train of thought. She couldn't afford to pursue it. And James was, after all, still waiting for an explanation. It was time to produce her story. "I – I'm researching a book." The words sounded foolish the instant they left her lips, but she could hardly backpedal now. "Investigating, I suppose you could say." She paused, waiting for his reaction, not meeting his gaze. When he didn't reply, she stumbled on. "It's about the working poor in London. Whether it's possible to make ends meet on a labourer's wages, and the daily details and textures of an errand boy's life. How they live, really. It's why I'm here right now, as Mark Quinn, and also why I was at Wick's house, nosing about in the guise of a rich, charitable lady."
James's eyes widened as he listened, but unlike many others, he always listened in silence. He was intent on her every word and when she stopped – she couldn't bear to string out the lie – he let out a long, low whistle. "Never dull, are you?"
She smiled crookedly. "That's quite a compliment, coming from a man who's just returned from India, survived malaria, and been appointed to this safety review."
He waved his hand impatiently. "But I'm just a stick-in-the-mud professional man. What you're doing is really radical! I mean, Henry Mayhew does those interviews of poor Londoners in the Chronicle, of course. But for someone, especially a woman, actually to live the life? That's original."
She cringed. As though she hadn't felt fraudulent enough without his excitement and admiration. And what would she do when he asked to read her work-in-progress? Then, with a pang of regret, she remembered she would no longer be in contact with James at that point. This was a cover story to protect the assignment. Once this was over, she would have to take care not to run into James again, if she valued her work as a secret agent. "I'm not sure whether it'll work out…" she demurred.
"I've wondered about the life of an errand boy. How do people treat you?" A new thought occurred to him and he frowned. "You must often be in situations that are dangerous for a lady."
"Oh…" Despite her best intentions, Mary found herself warming under his protective scrutiny. "I manage."
"I'm sure you do." He looked her up and down, slowly, carefully, and she felt a deep, tingling blush begin at her toes. It was all very well running about in breeches when others supposed you male, but now she felt distinctly underdressed. "Trousers become you," he murmured.
"Had-" She cleared her throat. "Hadn't we better get to work?"
He grinned. "The correct response, when one is complimented, is 'Thank you'. You've not forgotten your manners already, young lady?"
"That's not the sort of compliment one pays to a lady."
"I'm so sorry. I don't think the etiquette manuals cover this sort of situation." He leaned in close, his lips all but grazing her neck, and inhaled. "Mmm. You smell good, too."
She nearly choked. Took a step backwards, until her back met cold stone. "Th-thank you."
"That's better. May I kiss you?" His finger dipped into her shirt collar, stroking the tender nape of her neck.
"I d-don't th-think that's a good idea."
"Why not? We're alone." His hands were at her waist.
Her lungs felt tight and much too small. "Wh-what if somebody comes in?"
He considered for a moment. "Well, I suppose they'll think I fancy grubby little boys."
At that she burst out laughing, and the shift in mood lent her strength to push him away slightly. "I've another question: when did you recognize me?"
He released her with visible reluctance. "Immediately, of course."
"But you didn't let on! Why not?"
He grinned, a little shyly. "No. I thought I'd see how things unfolded."
"So you might have completed the review and disappeared, all without saying anything?"
"Would you have been disappointed?"
"Answer my question, first."
"Of course not. I was just choosing my moment. And you?"
"Oh, I'd have been deeply disappointed in your intelligence."
"Is that all?" he laughed.
She smiled. "Perhaps."
"Any more questions?"
"Yes. Are we to do any work today?"
"Have you become duller since we last met?"
"Yes," she said primly.
His charming grin flashed again – illness hadn't changed that, at least – and then he turned serious. "I suppose the next order of business is to inspect the belfry."
As they ascended, their pace gradually slowed from brisk to measured – imperceptibly at first, then unmistakably. Mary glanced at his face and was unsurprised to see his cheeks flushed and a slight frown between his eyebrows.
He caught her looking. "Don't tell me you're tired."
She shook her head. "I'm fine."
Another thirty steps and his breathing was distinctly audible: measured, but with a breathless edge. Mary risked another quick look and again, he immediately noticed her concern. "What?"
"What d'you mean, 'What'?"
"Why d'you keep staring at me?"
Fine. If that's how he meant to play it… "Perh
aps I'm just admiring your Roman profile."
He smirked. "'Roman' is a nice euphemism for 'broken nose'." They climbed another dozen steps. "A nose you helped to shape," he reminded her.
She grinned at the recollection of their first fight – a fist-fight. As the shorter, weaker party she'd lost, of course, but she'd held out for a decent length of time. "Anybody as high-handed and arrogant as you are ought to expect the occasional broken nose."
He snorted with amusement, which immediately led to a fit of coughing. It wasn't an ordinary sort of cough, but a prolonged, wheezy hacking which halted their progress. His face turned scarlet, he steadied himself against the wall, and eventually he sank down to a crouch on the steps. Mary put out a hand towards him; he swatted it away impatiently.
As the coughing subsided, his breathing became somewhat easier. "Phew." Fishing out a handkerchief, he mopped a light mist of sweat from his forehead. He attempted a smile, but his eyes were watering. "You were saying?"
She couldn't remember and didn't care. "Is this an after-effect of malarial fever?"
He shrugged. "Suppose so."
"It's not something new – like pneumonia, or bronchitis?"
"Certainly not," he scowled.
"But it's made worse by overexertion?"
"Stop fussing."
"A couple of questions is hardly 'fussing'. I just wondered whether you're ill. "
"You're not my mother."
"Thank God for that."
He glared at her and pushed himself to his feet. She could see the effort involved: he moved as though all his limbs were weighted down. "I'm fine."
"Ooh… very convincing."
"I'm not going to spend all day arguing in a stairwell. Are you coming up or not?" Without waiting for a reply, he resumed the climb. This time, however, he was gripping the handrail.
Mary stared up at his receding form. He was thin; from this angle, it was obvious that his suit was too big – the jacket hanging loose from broad shoulders, the trousers roomier than was fashionable. He must have lost a great deal of strength as well as weight. She followed him meekly for another dozen steps or so, then said in a conversational tone, "We're less than one-third of the way there."