The Agency: A Spy in the House

by Y. S. Lee

  Was she glaring at him? It occurred to him to relight the candles.

  The warm, yellow light seemed to prompt her. With a faint blush, she scrambled into a more ladylike position: knees together, hands clasped in her lap. “Er . . . thank you,” she murmured faintly. “For . . . hm.”

  James ignored this. “Were you going in or coming out when they spotted you?”

  “In,” she mumbled. “I was just past the fence.”

  “You’re damned lucky I happened to be in the alley.”

  She lifted her chin. “I’d have managed something.”

  “Hogwash,” he said brusquely. “They’d have caught you in another minute.” He fixed her with a fierce look. “They hang thieves, you know.”

  She caught her breath on a sharp inhale. Her cheeks flushed a deep pink. But all she said was “You were only in the alley because you want information from me.”

  “And I had to settle for saving your life.”

  “Well, you must be very pleased to have me in your debt.” She was certainly glaring at him now. “Where are we going, anyway?”

  He looked at her for a long moment, considering. “That depends.”

  Her eyes widened. “What on?”

  “Are we going to work together?”

  She shifted warily. “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Well, decide now.”

  “Why?”

  Why? Was she being annoying just for the sake of it? “On second thought, never mind. I’ll just dump you in the Thames instead.”

  She startled him by grinning — not sarcastically but with genuine amusement. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “It’s tempting,” he admitted.

  “I still don’t see that working together will be of any use.”

  “We’ve each been grossly unproductive so far,” he pointed out. “We can hardly get worse. At the very least, if we share information, we won’t duplicate our labor.”

  “Hopefully.”

  “I could be helpful to you.”

  “That’s a load of rubbish. You merely want to keep an eye on me.”

  “Do I?”

  “Of course. You’re not the collaborative type. Why don’t you just say what you mean instead of attempting to manipulate me with specious arguments?”

  He grinned. “Very well: I don’t trust you, and I wish to keep an eye on your activities. Naturally, you feel the same way.”

  She pretended to mull it over for a little longer, but the slight relaxation in her posture told James she’d already decided. At last, she nodded grudgingly. “Very well. But this is to be an equal partnership — you will share all your information, and I mine.”

  “But of course.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “If I find that you’ve deceived me or kept information from me, I’ll hurl you to the wolves.”

  “Likewise.”

  “And don’t assume that because I’m female, I’m incompetent. I will not have you second-guessing me or protecting me.”

  “Naturally.”

  Their gazes locked for a long moment: testing, challenging, confirming. Then James abruptly held out his hand.

  Mary merely blinked at it.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Well? We should seal our agreement.”

  One corner of her mouth crooked up. “A gentlemen’s pact?”

  “Something like that.”

  She hesitated for a moment longer, then tentatively placed her fingers in his. Her hand was hot and dry and so fragile-seeming that James cradled it gingerly. The next moment, she squeezed so hard his eyes widened.

  Fragile lady be damned. He squeezed back spitefully. “Vicious minx.”

  She smiled and withdrew her hand primly. “I did warn you. . . .”

  He snorted and poked his head outside to have a word with Barker.

  “Doesn’t your brother wonder why you keep driving around in his carriage?” she asked once he was reseated.

  James was irritated. “Why do you assume it’s his?”

  “Because he’s older. Aren’t you his apprentice?”

  “I’m an equal partner. And I do a lot more engineering work than he does.”

  She was visibly surprised. “You must have started straight from school.”

  He nodded. “George needed my help.”

  “What about your father? Isn’t it a family business?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “My parents are dead, too.”

  He pretended not to hear. “We share a house, too. For now, that is. If this Thorold business turns out all right, I’ll have to go. I don’t fancy living with newlyweds.”

  “Miss Thorold seems to prefer you to your brother,” said Mary slyly. “If this business turns out all right, perhaps your brother will have to move out.”

  Amusement gleamed in his eyes. “Do I look the type to ruin my life by falling in love and getting married?”

  “Well, if that’s your attitude, you’ll certainly end up a lonely, embittered old man.”

  “Oh, I’ll marry eventually,” he said calmly. “But when I do, it’ll be for the right reasons.”

  “Which are?”

  He waved his hand vaguely. “Money. Business contacts. Political connections.”

  “And in return, your wife would get . . . ?”

  His expression suggested that it was an odd question. “A husband, of course.”

  “That’s it?”

  “What else do women want? Flowers? Jewels? Sonnet sequences? Children?” He shrugged. “I can manage all that.”

  Mary eyed him skeptically. “Sonnet sequences?”

  “Well, a proper sonnet sequence would be rather time-consuming, but poems are easy. I made up one for Angelica as an acrostic, using each letter of her name. George signed his name to it, of course, but I wrote it for him.” He grinned. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  “Not a word.”

  “Well, your name is a bit too short, really, but it takes no time at all. The lady doesn’t have to know that, of course.”

  “Go on, then. Make an acrostic poem with my name.”

  “All right. Let me see. . . . Maiden with the ebony locks, / Armed with potent charms and looks. / Release me from your potent spell, / Your — er —”

  She made a sound that was midway between a shriek and a groan.

  He stopped, surprised. “What?”

  “Stop the carriage. I’m jumping into the river.”

  “Is my poem that bad?”

  “Your poem is ghastly,” she said sincerely.

  He looked annoyed, then suddenly relaxed. “You’re the most plain-spoken woman I’ve ever met.”

  “I’ll not apologize for that.”

  A hint of a smile played across his lips. “I think I mean it as a compliment.”

  “Oh.” She smiled at him — a proper smile this time, that made his cheeks suddenly warm.

  He frowned. “At any rate . . . we should discuss our next move.”

  “Certainly.” She was all business once again.

  “Tonight was your last chance at the warehouse. They’ll be on guard from now on.”

  A pained look crossed her face. “For some time, at least. Perhaps I — we — could try again in a few days’ time.”

  “Very well, then. We’ve looked at the private study and part of the office. Thorold’s unlikely to keep his papers anywhere else.”

  “Not unless there’s a third office . . . one devoted to the illicit trade.”

  His gaze was sharp. “Have you heard of such an office?”

  “No,” she admitted.

  “Right. I’ll make some inquiries in that direction, but in the meantime we need a new course of action.”

  “We’d better hurry. Thorold intends to pack off the family to the seaside as soon as possible. I think it likely that he might be planning something quite soon and is therefore getting them out of harm’s way.” It was the closest she could come to telling him about
the seventeenth of May — the deadline set by the Agency.

  “Using the heat as an excuse?”

  “Yes. He and Michael Gray intend to remain in town, of course.”

  James shot her a look. “Gray. Of course. Was it he who told you?”

  “Not exactly. . . . I overheard a conversation.”

  “Between Gray and Thorold?”

  “Involving Gray,” she said carefully.

  “And he was definitely speaking for Thorold?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.” James brooded on that for a moment, then shot Mary a suspicious look. “You seem rather intimate with Gray. What else has he told you?”

  She hoped the rush of warmth to her cheeks did not signify a blush. “I am scarcely acquainted with Michael Gray,” she said stiffly. “I accidentally overheard a conversation of his earlier today, and I’m sharing the information. According to our agreement.” And if she’d been inclined to part with the rest of the information, his suspicion had just canceled that.

  He raised his eyebrows sarcastically. “Naturally.”

  “You don’t believe me, of course.”

  He leaned back, legs and arms crossed. “Why should I when the evidence of my senses suggests otherwise?”

  “The evidence of your senses? More like your fevered imagination!”

  “He came flying to your rescue after you burned your hand, and carried you off into a private area of the house. You blush whenever I mention his name. You’re blushing now. And you’re on a first-name basis with the man,” he said flatly.

  “And on this circumstantial evidence, you call me a liar!”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “I don’t know why I imagined such a collaboration might be possible,” she muttered. “Let me down.”

  “You don’t even know where we are.”

  “I don’t care.” She reached for the door handle.

  He grabbed her wrist, and she chopped at his hand. With a grunt of pain, he wrestled her back into the seat, twisting aside just in time to avoid a knee to the groin. “Stop fighting, you idiot!”

  Suddenly, she went limp. Her whole body was trembling, and her cheeks were flushed a deep pink.

  “Histrionics are becoming a habit with you.” He placed one hand on her forehead. She was burning up.

  “What are you doing?”

  Instead of answering, he picked up her left wrist. The burned skin was still red and puffy, but there was something new: a row of four crescent-shaped marks that had broken the skin. They were unpleasantly discolored and swollen.

  “Let me guess: You feel light-headed? Weak? Overheated?” She nodded each time, and he sighed. “It’s because you have a fever.” He indicated the infected punctures. “This must be Angelica’s work.”

  She said nothing.

  “It’s a good thing George keeps a flask of whiskey in the carriage.”

  She stared at him. “This is hardly the time for a drink.”

  “You stubborn idiot,” he said amiably, fishing around in his pockets. “I told you a physician ought to look at your burn.”

  “It was healing nicely enough before. . . .”

  He raised an eyebrow. “What? Before Angelica clawed you? Rather vindictive of her . . . although I’m sure you deserved it.”

  Mary eyed the row of things he had laid out on the seat: a flask of whiskey, a pocketknife, and a handkerchief. “Oh, no. You’re mad if you think I’ll allow you to slice my hand open.”

  “Don’t be an idiot. It’s got to be drained and cleaned.”

  “Stop calling me an idiot!”

  “Then let me clean your wound before it goes septic and kills you!”

  She sighed and held out her hand. “I’m not a liar.”

  He half smiled. “You funny thing. Brace yourself,” he added, opening his penknife. “This will hurt.”

  She had forgotten to close the blinds. When the first rays of sunlight warmed her eyelids, Mary’s eyes popped open. She half sat up in a rush, then slumped back against the headboard. How much of last night had been a dream? Running from the warehouse . . . James Easton looming up out of the shadows . . . that strange argument . . . James cleaning her infected wounds with whiskey and a pocketknife! He’d accompanied her back to Cheyne Walk and stood watch as she scrambled back into the house.

  Before going to bed, she’d bandaged her hand and taken some willow-bark powder to combat the fever. Now as she sat up, listening to the servants’ pattering footsteps, she realized that she felt better than she had in some time. Not rested, of course — she’d been up for two nights running. Yet her body didn’t ache as much, and she felt more clearheaded.

  Her bedroom door opened on a violent shove, and the kitchen maid appeared, slapping a cup and saucer on the bedside table. “Tea.” It was closer to a snarl than a word.

  Mary smiled gratefully nonetheless; she was parched. “Thank you, Cass.”

  The girl remained stone-faced. “Mary-Jane-says-there’s-trouble-with-the-hot-water-pipes-and-will-you-have-your-bath-in-here-miss.”

  “Of course.” They were always having trouble with the pipes, and this announcement was part of the morning routine. As she bathed and dressed, Mary considered the new complication of James Easton. (They’d arrived at first names last night at some point between their wrestling match and his supervision of her predawn scramble through the window: a series of humiliations she shuddered to recall.) He’d demonstrated that he was active, intelligent, and — she hated to admit it — not incapable of kindness. After all these good years at the Academy, she was still so surprised by kindness. But, Mary reminded herself, he was also arrogant, rude, suspicious, and convinced of the natural superiority of men. She quite pitied Angelica for preferring him to George.

  She needed more willow bark, so took the servants’ staircase down to the housekeeper’s office. As she rounded a corner, she very nearly walked into a tall, grimy man who was loitering in the corridor. Judging from his clothing, he belonged to the stables and ought not to be in the house at all. She blinked up at him, waiting for him to mumble his excuses.

  Instead, he stared down at her with glazed eyes. A slow grin stretched his bristly face. “Well, if it ain’t the new missy . . .” His breath reeked of gin.

  Mary drew herself up to her full height and met his gaze directly. “You must be lost. I suggest you return to the stables by the kitchen door.”

  His jaw sagged in mock offense. “Wouldn’t hurt you to be friendly-like, miss,” he mumbled, swaying slightly. “Never pays to make enemies with the lower staff, y’know.”

  Despite herself, Mary was amused. After all, it was rather good advice, no matter who was giving it. “I’m not being unfriendly,” she pointed out. “But you certainly ought to leave the house before one of the family finds you here.”

  He flapped one hand at her carelessly. “Shows h’little you know,” he said with a leer, leaning comfortably against the wall. “Nobody says boo to old Brown . . . least of all you, missy.”

  “And why is that?” As soon as she heard her own sharp tone, Mary regretted the question. What was she doing bandying words with Mrs. Thorold’s coachman? Now that he’d identified himself, she knew why she hadn’t recognized him: he had never come into the house before today, and she never rode out in the carriage. Straightening, she made to move past him, but he blocked her way with a slight, lurching stagger.

  His grin acquired a tinge of menace. “Like I said, missy, no call to be uppity. You’ll be civil to old Brown if y’know what’s good for you.”

  She flicked a quick glance toward the staircase that led down into the scullery. There were voices below — certainly Cook and a maid or two were down there — but no convenient footsteps coming toward them. Even the footmen seemed to have vanished. Should she simply flee to the drawing room and pretend she’d never encountered Brown?

  He laughed at her obvious discomfort. “See now? Civility don’t cost nothing.”

  Reining in her temper,
Mary continued to stand tall. “I have been nothing but civil to you,” she pointed out. “More civil than you to me.”

  He grinned and shook his head. “You’re a fine one, missy. I like your temper.”

  He must be more drunk than he seemed. “You are impertinent.” Once again, she made to walk round him but a long arm, encased in musty-smelling tweed, shot out to block her path. She swallowed. If he so much as brushed her sleeve, she’d hit him. But until that moment, perhaps it was best not to provoke him.

  “Let me pass,” she said, keeping her voice — and, she hoped, her temper — low.

  “He’s a lucky swine, that gent,” Brown said admiringly, propping up the wall now. From his posture, he could have been chatting her up in a pub. “Talk about eating one’s cake and having it, too. . . .”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.” The words came out automatically, prim and clipped, but she couldn’t help stiffening slightly. He couldn’t possibly . . .

  “’Course y’know what I mean,” scoffed Brown. He lowered his voice meaningfully. “You and your chappie. I saw you this morning, scrambling in the window at dawn wearing your little breeches. And I saw him, too, keeping lookout. Only he was too busy looking at you to see me watching over the whole scene.” Brown emitted a fat, satisfied chuckle.

  Mary’s stomach churned with fear while, perversely, a subtle current of satisfaction prickled her skin. James had been staring at her?

  “Always been partial to the English rose look myself, but you ain’t half bad,” Brown rumbled, his gaze as invasive as a hand in her corset. “I’m full to busting with admiration for the gentleman: how’s he convince a fetching little lady like you to give it away for free?” He gave a low whistle of admiration. “That’s a clever bugger, that gent.”

  Mary swallowed. “You seem to talk a great deal, Mr. Brown.”

  A spasm of silent laughter made him shake, mouth gaping. When he recovered, Brown wiped his eyes with a dirty cuff and grinned at her. “So it’s Mr. Brown now eh, missy?” But he seemed pleased, all the same. “I do know a great deal, m’dear. . . . The stories I could tell you about this here family!” He winked at her broadly.

  “Really.”

  “You’re not the only skirt sneaking about in this household,” he assured her with another confidential wink. “All the fine ladies in London are up to no good, and this household’s no exception.”