Refuge for Masterminds

by Kathleen Baldwin

  “Who else could it have been?” He jars me from my brooding thoughts. “Miss Fitzwilliam has been practicing her running occasionally with Miss Aubreyson, perhaps she—”

  “No! Never,” I say, and it flies out too harshly. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just that these are my friends. They’re the nearest thing to sisters I’ve ever had. I cannot imagine one of them betraying us in this manner.”

  “I understand. It’s a difficult matter.” He pats the hand I am resting on his arm. “Perhaps if we approach the conundrum from a different direction it will be less painful.”

  “Perhaps.” I sincerely doubt it.

  “Who among you, at the prospect of getting caught, is capable of running with the speed and agility of a scared rabbit?”

  “That’s it!” I tug him to a dead stop in the middle of the road, struck by a most compelling realization. “Mr. Sinclair, you’re absolutely brilliant.”

  “Brilliant?” He tilts his head quizzically.

  “Yes. When frightened, anyone might’ve run with that kind of speed. Anyone at Stranje House could’ve done so. Fear produces that added increase of speed and evasiveness.”

  He ponders this for a moment and we resume walking. “But you’ve not decreased the number of suspects, my lady, you’ve increased it.”

  “Yes. Any of us.” My chest heaves. I am relieved it might not be Tess or Georgie. “Just as a frightened rabbit knows better than to run in a straight line, so would a desperate frantic girl. Her life would depend upon it. Treason is a capital offense in Britain, and heaven knows they hang women and children in London for far less grievous offenses.”

  “Hmm.” He scratches his chin. “Isn’t there anyone we can rule out?”

  “No one. Well, except me, of course.”

  “Of course. And me.” He sounds as if his innocence is a foregone conclusion.

  “We must be practical about this, Mr. Sinclair. I’m not altogether certain we should scratch your name from the list. You could’ve been there in the woods tonight to protect the traitor. Perhaps you were told to watch from behind and tackle anyone spying on their rendezvous. Which is, I might add, exactly what you did.”

  “You’ve a point.” He kicks a stone and sends it bouncing down the road ahead of us. “Very well, let’s not rule me out just yet.”

  Alexander’s back stiffens and he walks on for a few paces, but then he slows and looks down at me with more sincerity in his face than I have ever witnessed there before. “Ask yourself, Lady Jane, what earthly good would it do for me to expose our plans to the Iron Crown? My plans, I might add, plans to take my prototype steamship to London? Because that is exactly what this traitor has done. You saw her point to the shore. You heard that fellow mention London. You know what all this means.”

  His lips press tight and he stares hard down the black road ahead of us. We continue walking, but more briskly than before.

  It’s true. His plans are ruined. His odds of leaving Britain and going home are severely reduced. I knew it the minute the traitor pointed at the coastline. I have nothing to say for myself. I let my frustration about whoever is betraying us cloud my judgment. I ought to apologize, but apologies never seem to go well with Mr. Sinclair.

  In a roundabout way of making amends, I ask, “Why couldn’t you sleep?” I pose this question in a solemn respectful tone, a tone he may never have heard from me before.

  My change in attitude doesn’t seem to astonish him as much as I’d thought it would. It’s as if he always suspected I might be capable of speaking to him without biting his head off—at least once in a while. His answer, too, is devoid of sarcasm. “I couldn’t stop thinking about leaving.”

  “Oh,” I say, wondering whether happiness or sadness about leaving had troubled his sleep. I dare not ask so personal a question. It would be presumptuous and forward. Instead, before I can stop myself, I tease him. “There! You may have just confessed to a possible motive. You were so distraught at the thought of leaving all of us at Stranje House, you sabotaged your own plans.”

  He does not laugh as I hoped he would. His lips curve up into a wry half smile. I wait for the stinging barb he is sure to fling at me, but Alexander does not parry with a sharp-witted reply. Instead, he lets my teasing words drift on the night breeze, floating along with us like the last savory notes of a violin sonata.

  Several moments pass before he breaks our companionable silence. “We’re nearing the gates. Kindly explain this scheme of yours to catch the traitor when we get back to the house.”

  “No scheme, Mr. Sinclair.” I lift my chin, pleased with the simplicity of my approach. “It all comes down to a matter of boots and beds. Whose walking boots are clean and whose are not? Who is in bed asleep and who is not?”

  A pothole in the road causes me to stumble and I nearly fly out of Cook’s remaining clog. Alexander keeps me from landing on my face, but tripping diminishes the confident effect I’d hoped to achieve. I pretend not to have lost my footing and continue to explain. “The traitor will have worn her half boots out on a murky night like this. Those boots will be soiled with the same muck you see crusted on our…”

  I glance down at my feet. Cook’s big wooden patten is a scuffed, mud-caked, mess, and my silk slipper is completely demolished. It will have to be thrown into the fire.

  “Yes. That might do.” He stares down at my mismatched footwear. His shoes do not seem nearly so badly soiled and I wonder how that can be. Perhaps he is able to avoid the boggy spots better than I. “I hope you are right.” He opens the iron gates for me to pass through.

  “I am. You’ll see.”

  He latches the gate behind us, and the closer we get to the house the faster I limp along beside him. “We’re going to catch her. We have to.” We see no sign of movement in the garden or near the pens. “Drat! She must’ve beaten us back to the house.”

  “Seems likely.” He guides us into the house through the side garden door, explaining he left it unlocked. Cook’s patten clunks against the wood floors louder than an old man’s cane. I take it off and set it by the entrance, but my slippers squish out scum and muddy water as we go. I yank the useless sodden things off and toss them back beside Cook’s lone clog.

  We climb the stairs, and while we do, I ponder what I should say when I barge into the dormitorium and find the betrayer. I cannot settle on what words to use, but I know this, I must go in alone. “You won’t be able to enter the room with me,” I whisper to Mr. Sinclair.

  “No, of course not. I’ll wait outside the door in case you need me.”

  “I’m afraid you must wait down the hallway a few paces. It is a girls’ dormitorium after all, and we must observe the—”

  “Proprieties. Right. But if you should need me…” He brushes his fingers through his unruly hair as if he means to spruce himself up for a momentous occasion such as this.

  “I’ll shout for you if I do.”

  He nods grimly. We reach the landing and turn into the upstairs hallway. I indicate where he should wait, and tiptoe on, but he grabs my hand. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “That it should come down to this.”

  He means it. He is grieved for me, that I must point the finger at one of my dearest friends. His pity unnerves me. If I speak it might let loose the sorrow I am damming up. I give him a curt nod and ease my fingers out of his grasp.

  Five paces. I walk five soul-twisting paces to the door. Five paces, and each one presses heavier and heavier upon me until I can scarcely breathe. My hand trembles as I reach for the doorknob. I am terrified to learn which of my friends I will be sending to the gallows. In one burning gasp for air, I grab the handle and turn, wishing I could close my eyes to what I must discover on the other side.

  Instead, I keep them open, fixed on one purpose: identify the traitor.

  The old oak door is well-oiled, and glides open without a noise. Our room is even darker than the hall. But my eyes have grown accustomed to the absence of light and my ears attuned to eve
ry suspicious rustle, every stirring in the sheets. They are all sleeping. All except Tess. She sits hunched on her bed.

  “Jane?” She twists to look at me, as if she is not sure whether she’s in the middle of a dream or if I am actually here. “What’s wrong?”

  I strike a flint and light a lamp. What’s wrong, indeed. You are up and I do not want to think what that might mean.

  Except, surely, if she had been the one running away she would pretend to be asleep. For that matter, any of them could be feigning sleep. Heaven knows, we’ve practiced doing it nearly every night, in order to fool Madame Cho when she comes in to check on us in the evening.

  Georgie moans as if she doesn’t like her slumber being disturbed. “Wake up.” I turn up the lamp, and say it louder. “You must all wake up.”

  Sera sleeps nearest to the lamp. She pokes her head out from under the covers and swipes back a lock of her white-blond hair, squinting up at me, blinking against the light. “What happened to you?” She sits up fully. “Is that blood? It is. You’re hurt!”

  “Never mind.” I wave away her concern. “All of you get out of bed.” I issue this command in my sternest voice, the same tone my governess used to employ to make me jump to her will.

  Sera studies me, making assumptions about the night’s events by surveying my bare feet, the rips in my dress, the mud, and the disarray of my hair. She piles out of bed and inspects the abrasions on my arm. Sera is my closest friend in the whole world. It was she who helped me fool Lady Daneska and Ghost with the false plans we created for the warship. She couldn’t possibly be the traitor. Not Sera. But then, once upon a time Lady Daneska had been Tess’s closest friend and look how that turned out.

  “You’ve fallen,” she mutters. “Badly. There’s mud in these wounds.” She frowns at me as if I’m being extremely foolish, but hurries to the pitcher and basin to pour water over a cloth. Whether I like it or not, she begins washing my elbow.

  Maya groans and tugs a pillow over her head. I don’t see how she could be the traitor. I was wrong, earlier. Maya is the one girl among us who would never be able to run like a frightened rabbit. She’s far too graceful. Rather than try to scamper away, I think she would simply turn and allow herself to be captured. I wonder if Maya even knows how to run. She rarely participates in our self-defense classes. On several occasions, she has tried to explain her religion to us. She believes in being at peace with everyone, even her enemies. Death, she says, is but a new beginning.

  Nevertheless, I must perform my test. Each and every one of them must be cleared of this offense. “Maya and Georgie, get up,” I demand louder. “Now!”

  “Why? Is something wrong?” Georgie rolls out of bed and stumbles toward me. “Are those leaves in your hair? Have you been outside at this hour?”

  “Of course she has. Look at her.” Sera untangles a dried ragwort bloom lodged in the lace of my collar. “She’s covered in dirt. We must clean these wounds. We’ll need warm water.” Sera reaches for my other arm so she can dab at it with the cloth, and turns to Georgie. “Run down and put a large kettle on the fire.”

  I grasp Sera’s shoulders. “Not now. Not yet.”

  Tess stares at me as if I’ve lost my mind, and maybe I have.

  “Everyone, please listen,” I stand as tall as I can in my bare feet. “I need to look at your half boots, your walking boots, any shoes you might wear outside. Do it now. And, please, no questions.” I add this last command for Georgie in particular. Otherwise, she will pummel me with a thousand inquiries.

  They all gape. Even Maya sits up in bed and studies me. They’re beginning to understand this is serious.

  “Please,” I add softly.

  Sera tosses the bloodied cloth into the ewer, goes to her wardrobe, fetches her boots, and, without a word, she holds them out to me. I see no sign of fresh mud on them and exhale with relief.

  Maya slips out of bed, pads to her closet, hunts for a moment, and pulls out a pair of walking boots that scarcely look worn.

  “I don’t see what this is all about,” Tess crosses her arms.

  “You will,” I promise.

  Grumbling she stalks off to her wardrobe and Georgie follows suit. They both return with their half boots. Tess thrusts hers at me. I swallow hard and pull one of them from her hand. “There’s mud on these.”

  “Of course there is. Have you forgotten it rained this afternoon? I wore them when I went to let the dogs run loose this evening. What difference does it make?”

  I test one of the globules of caked mud. It has a thin dry crust and doesn’t feel like fresh mud, nothing like the muck on Cook’s patten, sitting by the garden door.

  Tess grows impatient with my silent inspection. “Why are you fussing about our boots in the middle of the night?” She plants her hands on her hips. “You do know it’s three o’clock in the morning, don’t you?”

  “Yes, but when I came in you were already awake. Why?” I force myself to look at her, to scour her face for deception. I would know it if Tess ever tried to lie. She has many gifts, but the ability to lie effectively is not one of them.

  “You know why.” She meets my gaze squarely and frowns, fuming that she must answer to me. I am younger than Tess. She dislikes it when I take the lead. So much so that I am surprised when she finally confesses what I have already guessed. “I was awakened by a dream.” She exhales and leans close, narrowing her gaze at me as if I was the cause of her latest nightmare.

  Without a doubt, Tess has not been outside running this morning. If she had been, the gloom of her nightmare would not still be hanging over her features like a mourner’s veil. I hand the boots back to her.

  Georgie hides hers behind her back. When I hold out my hand waiting, she hesitates. Finally, she surrenders them to me. My heart sinks. Her boots are caked with mud, and the clumps are still soft and damp.

  “Georgie!” I practically sob her name.

  Not her. I trusted her. In France, even though I am terrified of heights, I climbed aboard a silk kite with her, a kite we built together, and we flew across the rooftops of Calais. It feels as if my heart will thunder apart.

  “Why?” I gasp, and sink to my knees. “How could you do this?”

  “Don’t tell Miss Stranje. Please,” she begs. “I know it was wrong. But he’s going away again, and I was desperate to see him in private. You’ve no idea how hard it is to be apart. I don’t know how I’ll bear it when he leaves. It was my idea, not his. He warned me that we shouldn’t meet in secret, but I insisted. You mustn’t blame him.”

  I struggle to follow her disjointed explanation. Even in that poor light, I see she’s blushing. Hope slows down my galloping heart.

  “Try to understand,” she pleads, and reaches for me but I cannot focus on her outstretched hand, not now. I must be certain of her answers. “It was your idea to do what?”

  “To slip out and meet Lord Wyatt along the cliffs.” She backs away, folding her arms as if she’s chilled. “I assure you nothing untoward happened. We just talked.”

  Lord Wyatt. I nearly collapse with relief.

  Tess scoffs under her breath. “What, no kisses?”

  “And if we did?” Georgie rounds on her. “What matter is it of yours? You’ve no right to throw stones—”

  She would’ve kept going, but I interrupt. “And you met him out by the cliffs? Nowhere else?”

  “Yes, by the cliffs. Isn’t that the reason you’re asking all these questions? You’ve caught me out.”

  I hand back her incriminating boot, and lower my head into my hands, shaking my head. Sera clasps my arm and tugs me to my feet, guiding me to the bed. “I think it’s time you told us what’s happened.”

  I look up at them, at the four of them staring back at me so intently. The feeble oil lamp seems to glow a hundred times brighter. I press my hand against my chest and take a deep breath, one that fills my lungs with glorious clean air.

  I know now, what I knew in my heart all along—none of my sisters b
etrayed us.

  “Tonight I chased our traitor.”

  Three

  TRAITORS AND FRIENDS

  “Traitor? You mean the monster who let Ghost into Stranje House? You went out in the middle of the night, and chased him?” Georgie clasps my shoulders and I can tell she’s itching to give me a hard shake. “The person who helped Ghost and Lady Daneska attack Madame Cho and kidnap Tess? That traitor? Have you lost your wits? What if someone else from the Iron Crown had been out in those woods?”

  “Her,” I say. “Our traitor is a her. And you’re right, she did meet an accomplice.”

  Tess crosses her arms and nods as if she has already guessed what took place. “I suppose it’s safe to assume both the accomplice and the traitor got away?”

  “I wouldn’t be checking your boots if they hadn’t escaped, now would I?” I tell the story as quickly as possible. The instant I stop speaking, they bombard me with questions faster than I can answer. “Wait!” I hold up my hand to slow them down.

  “Lady Jane?” Mr. Sinclair pokes his head in the doorway. “Anything amiss?”

  They all turn in astonishment and gape at him. Sera spins back to me. “He was out there with you, wasn’t he?”

  Georgie’s spine stiffens with indignation. “You sneak! You made me feel guilty for meeting Lord Wyatt, and here you were gadding about in the middle of the night with him.” She points a condemning finger at poor unsuspecting Mr. Sinclair.

  I am not a sneak. I admit I have secrets, secrets I must keep hidden at all costs, but that is where I draw the line on deception. “I did not sneak.”

  Georgie wants to argue, but I hold up my hands warding off her anger. “I admit, I may have left a few minor details out of my narrative.”

  “Minor?” she says with a huff.

  Tess lifts her eyebrows sardonically and nods in Mr. Sinclair’s direction. “One rather large detail, I should think.”