Hurst always talked like that. He’d understood how hard it was for her, being so very respectable all the time. She’d been able to say anything at all to Hurst. She’d felt safe with him. Even when Papa traveled all up and down Russia, she never minded because Hurst was there.
“Did you always let me win, right to the end? Or did I really get so I could beat you?”
“I let you win.”
The feeling of doubleness overwhelmed her, a sense of one man fitting over another. Hurst, the butler, who was her old friend. Adrian Hawkhurst, the spy. She would have trusted Hurst with her life, and he’d never even existed.
She said, “Remember the time you caught me sneaking brandy in Papa’s study? You took the bottle up to your sitting room and let me drink the rest of it, and I sat in your lap and told you I was in love with you. And then I got so bloody sick all over you.”
“I remember that.” He turned his hat so that it faced the other way on his knee. “Do you know, you are absolutely the only woman who has ever said she loved me.”
“Was it true what you said that night about loving a Frenchwoman? Or was that lies, too?” When someone is composed entirely of lies, it made no sense asking him questions, did it?
“That was the truth, Jess. Every word of it. You are one of three people in the world who know that.”
For what it was worth, she believed him. Even now, Hurst could lie to her and make her believe it. He was very, very good at lying. “I still can’t drink brandy. I like it. I can judge it and buy it, but I never did get a head for drinking the stuff.” Her voice flaked off in pieces around the edge.
“I know.”
“I guess there’s nothing you don’t know about me, is there?” The inside of her head ached with not crying. “Papa never came out and told me you worked for the British. Not till the end. I don’t know why I didn’t figure it out.”
“You were very young, devochka, and you didn’t want to know about it. I ran the entire British Service operation for Russia out of your kitchen. Every so often your father’s spies and mine would bump into each other in the hall. You have something in your eye, I think.” He handed her a handkerchief.
It was the kind he’d always had. He bought them in Jermyn Street—cambric, dead simple, fine sewing, and the hem deeper than usual. She pressed it to her eyes so she wouldn’t cry. When she was twelve she’d have blown her nose in it. She’d acquired all sorts of airs and graces, hadn’t she?
He said, “That last day . . . Josiah wasn’t supposed to get shot. None of that was supposed to happen.”
“Did, though.” She folded the handkerchief up in a square, neat like. “Papa tells a story about the time he was in a storm off Majorca. Every penny he had in the world was tied up in cargo. They were going onto the rocks, so he threw the whole lot overboard, down to the last box and bale. He said it was a sacrifice to the God of Luck. When you call on the God of Luck, you have to scrape down and give up everything, or you don’t get his attention.”
She looked him straight in the eye. “My life’s like that. I keep having to throw everything overboard. Push. Splash. And there goes Hurst the butler. When did the Foreign Office decide they need our depots in the East? About last year, wasn’t it? They’re the ones who sent you after Papa.”
“Jessie—”
“Must have been a year ago they decided to destroy Papa. That’s when the garbage starts showing up in the account books.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t make a sound.
“It’s too bad you turned out to be a spy instead of a butler. You can’t be much of a spy if it took you a whole year to bring down my father. But you were an excellent butler.” She stood up and threw the handkerchief in his face. “Bugger you anyway,” and headed back to hide in the dining room.
Saying all that didn’t make her feel any better. She hadn’t thought it would.
Twenty
SEBASTIAN WAITED AT THE DOORWAY TO THE front parlor in the shadow of a knight’s armor. He’d engineered this meeting. If it was a disaster, at least he’d watch.
“She’s sitting on the floor,” Claudia said. “Like a gypsy.”
He put out his hand before she took off in that direction. “You don’t want to go over there. Let them talk.”
“I rather thought I was rescuing Adrian.” Claudia gave an abrupt, sharp-edged laugh. “Such an intense little tête-à-tête. There’s a history between those two, obviously.”
“Don’t interfere.”
“Your friend and your little heiress. If you have interest in that quarter you should intervene before he snaps her up himself. Are you sure you don’t want me to interrupt?”
“I want you to leave them strictly alone.” There was malice in Claudia. But once upon a time, she’d taught a fithy-mouthed, resentful bastard boy from the docks how to use a knife and fork. She’d had a sharp, nasty tongue then, too.
Quentin pulled himself away from a discussion with two clerks from the War Office and strode across the parlor with the weighty and distinguished tread of a statesman, face serious, his hands clasped behind his back. He frowned upon the pair sitting together on the grand staircase. “I don’t like this. What the deuce is that man doing with Miss Whitby? We stand, as it were, in loco parentis as long as she’s under our roof. He’s upsetting the girl.”
“Miss Whitby is upsetting him right back,” Claudia said tartly. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen Adrian ruffled. I didn’t know he could be.”
There he is, sprawling on the steps beside her. “Whatever her background, that’s ungentlemanly behavior.”
Then Jess got up, grim-faced, and stalked off. Not a successful first meeting. Adrian had been wrong about one thing, though. She didn’t spit at him.
Quentin puffed his cheeks out. “How much do we actually know about this Hawkhurst fellow? He’s a friend of yours, of course. That counts for something. Accepted everywhere. Presents a good appearance. But does anyone know his people? Does he even have people? When one moves, as I do, in government circles, one hears stories . . .”
“They say he’s a Romanov bastard. Perhaps Jess met him in Russia.” Claudia tilted her head. “Look. She’s gone off crying. How very affecting. I feel called upon to offer womanly sympathy.”
The mood she’s in now, Jess will flay you to shreds. “I don’t advise it.”
Claudia said, “Nonetheless . . .” and left.
“I’ll go talk to the girl, too.” Quentin took his watch out and fidgeted with it. “I should drop a hint in her ear. Hawkhurst is exactly the sort of plausible rogue a girl like that is likely to fall prey to. And she is in our house, after all. She’s not in a position to judge a man like that. I can only imagine what he wants from her.” He put the watch away without looking at it. “I hear things, y’know. There are whispers about this Mister Adrian Hawkhurst that are not to his credit. I wouldn’t trust that man. No, indeed I wouldn’t. Not that I expect you to listen to me.” He ambled in the direction of the dining room.
And that was another Ashton, off to track Jess down and harass her.
THE parlor filled up as more and more historians arrived. Coyning-Marsh, Standish, and three dons from Oxford argued, fiercely and volubly, passing a gauntlet back and forth, examining it with a magnifying glass from the library.
“I gather I have you to thank for the latest excitement in my household,” Eunice said. If she noticed Adrian was looking particularly bleak, she gave no indication of it.
“Ah.” Adrian smiled. Quite his usual smile. “You’ve found out I’m supplying Standish with opera girls.”
“Of course I have. How many of the little darlings does he have lately? A dozen?”
“At least.”
“Thank you for having sense enough to send Jess to me. Adrian, what the devil are you about, arresting that girl’s father? I expect better of you.”
“All the evidence says he’s guilty as Judas. Very convincing evidence, some of which your nephew brought me. And Military Intelligence was clo
sing in. I had no choice. If it helps any, I didn’t enjoy it much.”
“I’m sure everyone is very interested in your feelings in the matter.”
“Since you mention it, no.”
“I don’t suppose you could just let him go, could you?”
“Not until someone hands me sole control of intelligence operations at Whitehall, no.”
Sebastian, looking formidable and alert, even in evening dress, stood in the parlor doorway, arms folded, watching Jess. In one corner, Quentin lectured a pretty young girl about heraldry. Jess stood alone at the front window, staring out. Her face was composed and distant, like someone sailing out of a port they didn’t expect to return to. She didn’t once glance at Adrian.
Eunice said quietly, “Do you think they’ll hang him? I very much doubt he’s guilty.”
“We hang innocent men every day in this country.” His mobile mouth twisted. “Right now I am working hard not to arrest his daughter. This is made possible by the War Office’s complete failure to believe she runs the business for him.”
“I see.”
“Eventually, some bright lad from one group or another, very junior, will try to haul her in on some pretext or other. My men will stop him. And the fat will be in the proverbial fire.” Adrian snagged a glass of punch from the tray a sullen, preoccupied maid had maneuvered through the crowd. “Why do I drink this? I know better than to eat or drink anything served in your house, but I am a slave to my curiosity. The punch is always bad, but it is never bad the same way twice.” He eyed it. “Military Intelligence is snapping at my heels. I’m running out of time, Eunice. This may be the one I lose.”
Eunice made a derisive sound.
“Am I sniveling on your shoulder?” he said. “I suppose I am. Why should everyone else have the fun?”
“I do not suppose you fail very often.”
“No.”
“Then you won’t this time. You are proficient at what you do, Adrian. Perhaps the most skilled in the world. How are you planning to get her out of England, if the worst happens?”
“With dispatch. Sebastian has the Flighty anchored off Wapping, with the crew aboard.” Adrian took a sip from the punch cup. “If some idiot from the War Office decides to pick her up, I’ll have an hour’s warning. Time enough. I don’t suppose Sebastian will dawdle.”
In the salon next door, metal crashed and clattered. Voices rose in consternation. Coyning-Marsh and the three dons led a general exodus in that direction.
Adrian said, “Then there is the matter of Colonel Reams.”
There were other military men in the room, other regimentals, but the gaudy scarlet uniform of a Guards colonel stood out. Reams looked at home in the company of medieval armor—brutal, direct, muscular, unimaginative.
He’d come up behind Jess. He waited, not saying anything, till she sensed him and turned around. If he’d succeeded in disconcerting her, she didn’t show it. Gravely courteous, holding herself straight as a rapier, she nodded.
“It would make more sense to send her out of England now,” Eunice said. “She shouldn’t have to face someone like Colonel Reams, alone.”
“She isn’t alone. She has you. And Sebastian. And me. And a growing contingent of the British Service dedicated to protecting every hair on her head.”
“Why are you keeping her in England, Adrian? If you’re planning to use that lovely child against her father—”
“I’m using her to help him, strangely enough, though I doubt she believes me. And that lovely child has killed three men that I know of, one of them before she was ten. She can deal with Colonel Reams.”
The colonel put a hand on Jess’s elbow and gestured toward the archway into the hall. Expressionlessly, she shook her head. She listened, with that same stiff lack of response, to a fast, close-set, hectoring string of words in her ear. His bulldog body pushed close, bullying with muscle and the barking voice.
Across the room, Sebastian watched, looking more and more menacing.
“That is blackmail the colonel’s trying, or possibly threat.” Eunice’s mouth set in distaste. “Or he may be asking for a bribe. Can Reams arrange for her father’s release?”
“No. You see everything, don’t you?” Adrian said. “I hope Sebastian doesn’t kill him on the premises. There are miles of dockyard and alley available for the purpose. And I want to help.”
“Can Reams arrest her?” Eunice answered herself, “I think not. Not with Bittern so interested.” On the other side of the room, the second secretary of the Foreign Office, Lord Bittern, held a cup of punch and watched Reams, his face even less revealing than Jess’s. “She’s being very determined and resourceful, playing one off against the other. All the same, it would be best if you found this traitor of yours rather quickly. I will not have Jess kidnapped and married off to some Foreign Office nonentity to secure our interests in Turkey. And Sebastian would have to live abroad if he killed someone important.”
“The only consideration that keeps several men alive today. ” Adrian kept an eye on the colonel. “I will intervene before Sebastian commits mayhem. Do you know, there is no conversation so private as one in the middle of swarming multitudes. I wonder which of them arranged this? Jess, I think.”
“She’s not surprised to see him here.”
“The world of espionage lost a great master when you decided to devote yourself to good works. So Jess meets the offensive Reams under the civilizing influence of many pairs of eyes. And what does he have to say that Jess finds so interesting? If he will just turn ever so slightly . . . Did you know one can make a very good guess what people are saying by watching their lips? It takes some practice. Reams says, ‘I don’t see any reason why you won’t . . . something . . . something . . . it will cause difficulty . . . good faith.’ And why would the colonel be talking about good faith? No. Look back this way, you abominable lump of offal.”
Men crossed Adrian’s line of vision, moving from armor to armor.
“Out of my way, good people. Ah. There we are. He’s saying, ‘. . . influence to get your father...’ I can guess what that’s about. ‘. . . the special—’ ” Adrian’s voice cut off abruptly. “I don’t like this. That was ‘special license.’ Jess, my very dear, I cannot believe you have allowed the colonel to talk you into anything that stupid.”
Eunice said, “I’ll get Sebastian.”
“THERE’S no hurry, anyway.” Jess had learned that from Papa. The man in a hurry always lost the dicker. “We can do this another day.”
“I’ve already made arrangements.” Reams had to keep his voice down—men nearby were already looking in their direction—so it came out a low, thick growl. “The minister expects us early tomorrow morning. Everything’s settled. I have friends coming.”
You have your friends coming, to twist my arm if I get reluctant. “I guess we’re all disappointed.” She left it at that. Hurst always said, let the other fellow do most of the lying.
Hurst taught her about lying. He taught her to fold napkins into fancy shapes and how to fire thirty different kinds of guns. Hurst thought he could just walk in and look miserable and she’d forgive him. Hah.
He was watching her, him and Sebastian. It made her feel safe, knowing they were there. She was just neck-deep in irony tonight.
“Are you daring to doubt my word?” Reams turned red, all mottled, and shuffled his boots back and forth like he was about to stomp on something. “You’ll get the list when we’re married. That’s soon enough.”
“I’ll have it in hand then. But I see it the night before.”
The veins in his neck stood out. “I am an officer and a gentleman and I give you my bloody, damn word. Don’t cross me.”
And there was some gentlemanly language for you. “It’s a big step. Marriage. That’s a contract. I need to see if you keep your contracts.” Of course, he wasn’t planning to keep a particle of any agreement. Did he think she didn’t know?
“You want to see this? It’s so im
portant you’ll insult me to my face?” He twisted around and pulled the paper out of his coat. “Then you can see it. What date? What? Tell me.”
He’d brought the list. He’d been planning to keep the bargain all along, if he couldn’t intimidate her. Bluffing.
She said, “Show me May fourth, last year.”
That started off a crackling and snapping search of the two pages of notes, him twisting the pages and stopping to glare at her. “You shouldn’t know that date. Just saying that date makes you guilty.” He spread his lips, showing yellow teeth, and it didn’t look at all like a smile. “You’re lucky I don’t haul you in myself.”
Bluffing again. If he could have laid hands on her, he would have. Men who bluffed were the easiest ones to bluff right back.
“I shouldn’t show you any of this.” He said it just loud enough for her to hear.
When Papa traded cloth, sometimes he’d signal her to make a shuffle like she was getting ready to leave. Helped to speed up the bargaining. She’d give a twitch and maybe put her hand on her reticule. Just a glance at Papa and moving barely enough to startle a fly.
She did it now. She let her attention drift . . .
“Here.” He thrust the list out at her. He’d clamped the page up tight, then pinched and creased it till only the one thin entry showed. He pulled it away before she could see it.
She waited, not saying anything or budging an inch, till he brought it out again and held it up in front of her and gave her a chance to read. He was seething the whole time. He’d go off in an apoplexy, one of these days.
The line he showed her was genuine. This was the date, place, the memorandum stolen. It matched what she knew, and the colonel had no way of knowing which date she’d want to check. This was a list of the secrets stolen. This was what she needed.
“Thank you.” One bit of truth in this soup made out of lies. She didn’t look him straight in the face because, given her luck lately, he’d read her intentions written on her forehead.
“You’ll get this tomorrow. My first present to you, when we’re man and wife.” And he was lying through his crooked, tobacco-stained teeth.
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