My Lord and Spymaster sl-2

Home > Other > My Lord and Spymaster sl-2 > Page 7
My Lord and Spymaster sl-2 Page 7

by Joanna Bourne


  And here they were . . . decent folks, eating a civilized breakfast. If Sebastian Kennett was Cinq, she was going to smash this pretty, comfortable world into a thousand bits.

  “Good heavens, child. You’re awake.” Eunice Ashton held out her hand. “Come in. Come in.” She was no carefully preserved beauty. Her face was wrinkles and deep lines, honestly old, like a countrywoman who’d been out in all weathers and never coddled herself. The steady eyes were bright as jewels. It was a warm hearth on a freezing day, the kindness in that woman’s face.

  I’m going to hang Cinq, and he’s probably your nephew. No matter what you are—decent, kind, wise, loving—it won’t make any difference.

  She didn’t want to talk to them. Didn’t want to be in this house at all. She groped behind her for the doorknob.

  Eunice Ashton was already on her feet. “You must sit down. You don’t look at all steady. I’m sorry not to have been with you when you woke up. I looked in earlier and decided you’d sleep for a good long while yet. There now. Standish will pour tea.” The old woman was beside her, taking her hands, both of them, inside her own. “I don’t know if tea really helps when one feels precarious, but it does give one something warm to hold on to. A kitten would work just as well, but we don’t have one at the moment. They will grow into cats. Sit, dear.”

  Jess found herself guided into a chair. It was like when the pilot takes the wheel in some tricky port. All of a sudden the ship, even a big, wallowing three-master, goes smooth and easy and glides past the breakwater and the sand bars, through the rip currents, tame and docile, up to the dock. It was a magic pilots had. Maybe they signed an agreement with the ocean.

  One minute she was at the door, trying to think of a way to leave without being rude. The next she was sitting at the table.

  The old man looked at her over a beak of a nose—that was the same nose Kennett had—and smiled vaguely and found the teapot. He poured tea, and added milk and sugar, and stirred, all without looking at what he was doing, and set the cup in front of her.

  She saw no guile in the old man. No meanness in the old woman. She might not be the steel-trap judge of people Papa was, but she would have built houses on that assessment. Whatever it took to send Englishmen to their deaths for money, it wasn’t in them. If Kennett was Cinq, they had no part in it. That made it worse, knowing she’d be bringing shame and disaster on them, and they’d have no warning.

  The man nudged the cup toward her.

  Tea. Yes. She could drink tea.

  It was South China, good enough in its way. She was used to Russian tea, smoky from being heated over charcoal and blunt-flavored from a caravan trip across half the world. She had a taste for it after living in St. Petersburg so long. Papa always kept a supply.

  Her stomach would stop being sick and cold if she put tea into it. Maybe her head would stop aching. She’d take a few sips of tea, and thank them, and leave. And there was something polite she should be saying. Lord, all the money Papa’d spent on governesses, she should know her manners.

  “Thank you for taking me in.” She put both hands around the cup. They were right. Hot tea was good to hold on to. “I’m sorry to impose myself on you this way. It’s . . . I’m not sure what happened, exactly. There were men after me, I think. And I fell. I was standing in the rain, thinking I might get myself hurt . . . And then I did. Get hurt. I’m not sure how.” It occurred to her she was babbling. “Sorry. This isn’t coming out right. My head’s not working well.”

  “Of course it isn’t.” A capable hand, thin-skinned, marked with brown spots from age, closed over hers. “You will stop hurting soon. I’m Eunice Ashton. You are not to worry about anything.”

  “I don’t remember it all, you see.”

  “Of course not. One doesn’t, I believe, after a blow to the head. You met with some accident by the docks, and you weren’t in any state to tell us where to take you. Where can we send word you’re safe? They must be frantic, looking for you. What’s your name, child?”

  But no one was looking for her. Not a soul. If she didn’t show up at Meeks Street, Papa would just think his jailers were keeping her away. Pitney knew she’d gone hunting Cinq and where, but he wouldn’t expect her at the warehouse today. Kedger would worry when she didn’t bring him his piece of kipper this morning, but a ferret couldn’t precisely raise the alarm, now could he? Nobody else would notice if she dropped off the face of the earth. Gave her a chill, knowing that.

  She swallowed. “I’m Jess. Jessamyn Whitby. There’s nobody looking for me.”

  The old woman’s eyes were wise and unreservedly kind and very practical. “Well then, Jess, you shall drink your tea, and we will decide what is best to do about this.”

  “Lady Ashton . . .” Or is it Lady Eunice? Or something else? Lady Standish? Sometimes it’s nothing at all. They don’t make it easy.

  “Eunice, dear. Just Eunice. Or Mrs. Ashton, if that makes you feel more comfortable. And I will call you Jess, if I may. Really, the most useless and unpleasant people seem to have titles. So much simpler to discard titles altogether and be just a Jess and a Eunice, don’t you think? Have you read Lalumière’s Ten Questions?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Or An Enquiry Concerning Political Justice by Godwin? Well, I suppose not. I’ll lend you a copy when you’re feeling better. So eloquent and lucid.”

  That sounded like books on philosophy, and one of them by a Frenchman. It was probably a mistake to read too many books like that. You believe what they put in books, and who knows what you’ll do.

  Kennett probably read philosophy if his aunt was fond of it.

  Lady Ashton . . . Eunice . . . poured tea and started after the milk jug, murmuring, “Rousseau, perhaps.” Strange as three-toed snakes, some of the gentry. What an odd conversation she was having. “Well. Yes. All right.”

  The old man gave a shy, rather sweet smile. “She won’t make you read today. Or do anything else you don’t want to.” The book propped in front of him had a German title that translated to A Study of Striation Patterning in the Milo-Archaic Pottery of Bavaria, which explained the pots cluttering the place. Over the top of the book, his gaze focused on her with a startling intelligence. “You don’t have to be worried. Eunice will take care of everything.”

  “Of course, Standish.” Eunice tapped the plate beside his book. “You have toast.”

  Jess could feel herself relaxing, muscle by muscle. Even her sinews and bones knew these were good folks. No wonder Kennett made houseroom for thirty thousand pots and a battalion of rescued harlots. If she’d had an uncle and aunt like this, she’d have let them keep elephants.

  Before Standish got a bite of toast, the door of the parlor slammed back to the wall, shaking every pot in the room. A skinny, untidy maid stood in the doorway. “That professor fellow’s brung a bunch of them bleeding great boxes. You want ’em put upstairs?”

  Crikey. She’d forgot. The foyer could be three-deep in crates for all the use she was. She clattered cup into saucer. “Oh Lord. My fault. I opened the door. I was supposed to tell you—”

  “Excellent. That’ll be Percy at last.” Standish used the toast to mark his place in the book. “Pots from Glamorgan. Excuse me.” He kissed his wife neatly on top of her head and stalked out like a long-legged wading bird in search of fish.

  “More pots,” Eunice said. “And not another square inch to put them in.” She rose as she spoke. Lightly, she put her arm around Jess. “We’ll manage somehow. Now, tell me what has happened to you and why there’s no one who knows or cares where you are. That seems a very melancholy state of affairs, if true.”

  Being held by Eunice Ashton was like having sunlight wrapped around you. She closed her eyes. “It’s not like that. My father’s careful of me, generally. It’s not his fault.”

  “Where is your father?”

  She could say anything to this woman, anything at all. It was no secret, anyway. Half the port knew by now. “They arrested hi
m a couple weeks ago.” Hurst arrested him. Even with everything that happened, I thought he was Papa’s friend.

  “Good heavens.”

  “It’s not Newgate or the Tower. They haven’t even laid charges yet. It’s not that bad.”

  “It sounds very bad indeed.”

  “He’s ‘detained for inquiry,’ whatever that means.” She was pulled close and held, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world. Cold spaces inside her opened to let the warmth in. “I try and I try, and I can’t shake him free. I go to our friends and they try, but nothing works.”

  “Is your father Josiah Whitby? The Whitby who owns those warehouses and the ships? Whitby Trading?”

  “That’s him.”

  “Then he should be taking care of you, arrested or not. He hasn’t left you on your own, has he, with no one looking after you?”

  “I take care of myself, mostly. I do a better job of it, generally. ”

  “I’m sure you do. That doesn’t mean you should be left alone.” Eunice sounded tart, and that was comforting, too. “You must be very frightened.”

  Frightened? Oh, that hit the nail on the head. There was no end to how frightened she was. Oceans of fear stretched out on every side. She was scared when she jerked awake before dawn, and scared in the office. Scared when she pounded her brains all day, tweaking out the patterns that might show her Cinq. Scared when she went to see Papa in that discreet, sneaky house at Meeks Street. She was scared when she lay down at night, not sleeping, her hands clenched in the sheets, hour after hour.

  “I go to Papa every day at teatime. He worries . . .” Then somehow she was talking about the house at Meeks Street. How they listened to her, behind the walls when she was with Papa. How he was acting so bloody calm and cheerful it set her teeth on edge. How she was looking for Cinq.

  She was saying things she hadn’t said to anybody else. By the time she explained that the British Service wasn’t feeding Papa properly, and he didn’t look well, not at all, she was doing it all muffled into the cotton print Eunice wore.

  “You will solve this. I think you must be very good at solving problems.” She felt Eunice wipe tears off her cheek.

  Wiping her face. The last person to do that was her mother, dead of fever, ten years back. “I don’t know why I’m doing this. I don’t cry.”

  “Of course you don’t, child.”

  “Crying’s pointless. It means you can’t think of anything better to do. There’s always something to do.”

  “Always. We must simply decide what it is. Not, however, this morning.” Eunice sat next to her, still speaking in that unruffled, deep voice. “First, you will drink your tea. It’s getting cold.” And the teacup was somehow between her hands again.

  “Yes.” She’d just sit here for a while and hold on to it.

  “I think, since your father can’t be with you, you should stay here with us.”

  She couldn’t stay here. All kinds of reasons not to stay. “I can’t—”

  “We have plenty of room, even if we’re rather cluttered with pots. I can’t be easy with the thought of you going back home with no one but servants to take care of you. And there’s that nasty accident at the docks. So worrisome. Let me give you some toast. The toast is better than the muffins today. The bread comes from the baker, and Cook made the muffins. I’m afraid this is not one of her good mornings. She drinks.” As she spoke, Eunice spread marmalade on toast.

  She was being managed. It had been a long time since anyone tried managing her for her own good. Maybe she’d let it happen for a while.

  The plate in front of her was Sèvres, with roses painted on it. A nice piece of china. Whitby’s had to bribe two sets of customs officials and change ships to get Sèvres porcelain. They sold it in Boston. Good markets in the Americas.

  Papa wouldn’t live to trade with Boston again unless she found Cinq.

  “You don’t like marmalade?” Eunice said. “There’s a lovely man in Hampstead who sends me pints of it on Boxing Day every year. We never seem to get through it all before he sends some more, and he does make it himself. Have some tea first.”

  She wasn’t hungry, but to be polite she took a sip of tea and picked up a piece of toast. She’d get up in a minute and make her good-byes and leave. All kinds of things she had to do at the warehouse. From the hall outside came the sound of something heavy, thumping, and Standish saying, “Do be careful with that,” repeatedly.

  “He’s taking them to the salon to unpack.” Eunice filled up the cup. “It isn’t so much the pots, you understand, but they send them packed in straw. Straw everywhere, and sand, and sometimes fleas. He won’t let me give the pots a good wash. I have hit upon a system, however . . .”

  It had been weeks since she’d just sat, doing nothing, not thinking at all. Eunice didn’t expect answers or explanations. She was an extraordinarily comforting person to be around. Probably lots of people cried down the front of her dress.

  She’d stay just a few more minutes, being polite.

  She listened to Eunice talk about pottery. Seemed to be lots one could know about pottery. When she opened her eyes, the light didn’t stab in. And her head hurt less. She drank more tea. Then there were two new slices of toast on her plate, and she ate them, too. The tea was good, of its sort, but she’d send some Russian tea to Eunice.

  The door opened. A tall man in waistcoat and shirtsleeves walked in. “Good morning, Aunt Eunice.” He leaned and kissed the woman’s cheek. His black hair was straight and thick as Russian sable.

  “My nephew.” Eunice picked up a new cup and began pouring. “He carried you in last night, when you were hurt. Bastian, this is Jess Whitby, who’s come to stay with us a while.”

  He sat down and faced her and became Sebastian Kennett.

  Seven

  SHE REMEMBERED HIM STANDING BESIDE HER IN THE rain. He’d set the tips of his fingers, careful and rough-textured, on her lips, and she’d shivered from it.

  “Sebastian . . .” The one soft word escaped before she saw what was in his face. His eyes were like the black ice on one of those marsh ponds in Russia, cold and brittle and hard as steel.

  “. . . Kennett,” she finished.

  His gaze moved deliberately across her, like he was taking inventory of the parts he’d seen naked. She had the thought that if she reached out and put her hand up to his cheek, her skin would freeze to him, like she was touching cold metal in the winter.

  He said, “Miss Whitby. I see you’re out of bed.”

  “Up and about.” We can start a whole new acquaintance, what with me having my clothes on. There was nothing left of the man she met last night. Not a sign. “I’m pretty much fine, thank you for asking.”

  Last night, Captain Sebastian Kennett had kept her safe from cold and dark and fear. He’d wrapped her in gentleness warmer than a blanket. This morning, he was Bastard Kennett, who had a deadly name on the docks and no softness anywhere in him. Enough to drive a duck daft, trying to sort it all out.

  He was carrying his jacket over his back, hooked in two fingers. He tossed it over a chair and sat down. It was a swell’s coat, cut by some expert on Jermyn Street. That was a lot of expensive tailoring going to waste, if Kennett was trying to look genteel. There was too much tough, stringy muscle on him to make a gentleman. Might as well put a tiger in a waistcoat and call it a pussycat. “You came damned close to being dead. Has she eaten anything, Eunice?”

  “Yes, dear. Toast. Do try not to scowl in that intimidating way. I believe she has a headache.”

  “She knocked back a gill of straight brandy last night. That’s enough to make her sick, all by itself.” He sounded disapproving and Methodist about it, which was a fine attitude from the man who’d tipped the brandy down her throat.

  “It’s not the liquor.” Or maybe it is. Hard to tell right now, frankly.

  “What are you doing out of bed? You look like you’ve escaped from a winding sheet.”

  If somebody’d asked
her, she would have guessed nobs were reasonably civil to people they’d had naked in their bed the night before. Turned out they were rude as starlings. She was always learning new things. She took the tip of her knife and began outlining the roses frolicking around the rim of her plate.

  “Your color’s not good. Are you dizzy? Blurry vision?” Him pretending to be a doctor.

  “I’m fine. You were right about what you said last night. I just had to wait patient and my memory came back home, wagging its tail behind.” She didn’t rub her forehead. He didn’t have to know how much it hurt in there. “Most of it.”

  “It must be frightening, mislaying pieces of oneself.” Eunice set the teapot down. “Is it clear now, what happened to you?”

  “Dim in some parts.”

  But she remembered the fight. The alley had been slippery with gray rain. They came for her out of the fog and the chill. Kennett’s knife whipped out like red lightning, drawing a line between her and the shadow men. He was fury and wildness, twice as lethal as the thugs who attacked them, a snarling guard no enemy could get past. Impressive. Impressed the hell out of her, anyway.

  “Sebastian never tells me what he’s been doing,” Eunice said. “It’s not dull, I suspect.”

  “Interesting last night, anyway. He convinced about a dozen men not to drag me off down an alley. Very heroic.”

  “Which wouldn’t have been necessary if you’d stayed off Katherine Lane,” the Captain snapped.

  A few years back she’d have stuck her tongue out at him. She wasn’t a gutter brat anymore, so she resisted the impulse. “I don’t remember all of it, but I think I may be alive because of you. I owe you a debt.”

  “You don’t have to be grateful.”

  “If you think somebody who owes you a debt that big is grateful, you aren’t much of a trader.”

  She hit the gold with that one. Kennett clamped his teeth over what would have been a fairly ripe comment, probably, if his aunt weren’t sitting there. No telling what they’d have ended up saying to each other if the door to the breakfast room hadn’t opened just then.

 

‹ Prev