by Kate Moore
—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London
Emily tried to banish thoughts of Lynley as she prepared to mount Circe for a morning ride, but a picture of him waking on that green sofa intruded. She worked to imagine him elsewhere in some sedate, gentlemanly set of rooms, but the effort led to an image of him lying sealed in an envelope of warm sheets, a valet hovering solicitously near, waiting to minister to his every need. She told herself with some satisfaction that his first utterance this morning would likely be a groan.
The clop of hooves on the cobbles interrupted the thought, and she glanced away from Circe. There was Lynley on a handsome chestnut with a white blaze from forehead to nose.
“Why are you here?” She blinked at the vision of him, the perfectly turned-out gentleman from his polished top boots and buff riding breeches to the slight tilt of his hat.
“To get started on our...case,” he answered.
She blinked again. He was there. Real. No injuries apparent except for the yellowing bruise on his jaw above the white linen of his neckcloth. “You’ll have to settle for the tamest walk.”
“Not a gallop?”
“You don’t think I gallop in the park? It would be against all propriety.”
He grinned at her and dismounted. “You ride at this hour precisely to defy propriety. In any case, your horse will tell the truth of your morning rides, if you won’t.”
He was right. Circe would react to any deviation in their familiar routine, and he would notice. Her fiancé was no imbecile after all.
“Shall we?” he asked. He stepped to her side, and his hands formed a pocket. It was no more than any groom would do for a lady. She gathered her skirts and gave him her foot. Just that, her foot nestled in his hands, sent a bolt of warmth through her that settled low in her belly. She gathered her wits. One spring from her, and he lifted her easily. It was a quick thing, a few seconds in the air before her bottom met the saddle and her legs found their usual positions hooked around the sidesaddle’s double pommel. Her feet searched for the stirrups, found them, and slid securely into place.
“I thought you had a black horse,” she said, squaring her shoulders and arranging her skirts, covering a little tremor in her nerves that really must be from the cold.
He stood looking up at her, one hand on Circe’s neck, as if his mind had wandered down some side path and left him standing there. The horses’ nostrils streamed vapor in the cool air of the April morning. Circe tossed her head at the delay, and Lynley seemed to come back to himself.
“At home,” he said as if there had been no gap in the conversation. “This fellow is one of Phil’s.” He remounted and gave the chestnut’s neck a pat. Obviously, an understanding already existed between them.
They walked the horses through the quiet streets to the park. In Emily’s ears the horses’ hooves struck loud enough against the stones to wake even those Londoners who had only just sought their beds after the night’s round of society gatherings. In the sleeping houses the servants would be up and about but pay them no heed. On the street a cart clattered by in a brief burst of sound, the driver intent on his own errand.
Emily resisted the impulse to hurry. Once or twice she peeked to see whether she could detect a grimace on his face. Even a walking pace would jar Lynley’s injuries. They entered the park by the northern gate and wound their way down to Emily’s favorite bridle path. The softer ground of the path turned the horses’ hoofbeats to muffled thuds in keeping with the stillness of the hour. When Circe began to fidget at the slow pace, eager for her morning release of spirits and energy, Emily risked a direct look a Lynley. He grinned back.
“Now we canter?” he asked. “Down and back?”
Emily glanced down the empty path and nodded, and he was off. Circe needed no coaxing to fly after the chestnut. The mist parted, trees blurred into a pale green curtain, dirt flew up under Circe’s belly. The park became a fairy park, green and enchanted, where no faces frowned, no voices intruded, as girl and horse flew by. Emily let herself get lost in the familiar pleasure of it, only surprised to discover Lynley and the chestnut falling into step beside them, the horses running like a matched pair.
At the far end of the path they wheeled and pulled up, and Lynley turned to her, an eyebrow quirked, a question in his glance. He knew what she and Circe wanted. Emily nodded and gave Circe her head, and off they went. It was mad, of course, even at such an hour, but Emily felt that she and Circe could go on forever.
Abruptly, Lynley caught Circe’s bridle straps and pulled the horses to a halt. Emily turned to complain, when she saw an elderly couple coming their way at a sedate pace.
Lynley bowed to them as they passed. “Good morning,” he said. “Please forgive poor Miss Radstock. Her horse ran away with her. So lucky I could be of assistance.” He assumed his amiable idiot voice.
Emily fixed a polite smile on her lips.
Once the elderly riders were out of earshot, he released Circe’s bridle.
“How are your ribs?” she asked him, conscious of the broken harmony of the moment before. They had been united briefly in that other park where Emily was most herself. Now they were back in London, where ladies did not gallop and gentlemen always took charge.
“Shaken,” he said through tight lips.
She shook her head. “You insisted.”
“I did. Now I insist that you make it worth my while.”
“What?” She spun toward him, and Circe danced a little.
“Let’s make a plan to catch a spy,” he said, his face all innocence.
“Oh, of course.”
“I have the guest list from Lady Ravenhurst’s party. I thought we might...study it. Over breakfast.”
“You’re inviting yourself to breakfast?”
He shrugged. “You wanted to catch a spy.”
* * * *
Though she knew in her head that she would find Lynley sitting at her mother’s breakfast table when she returned from changing her habit, his presence nevertheless sent a shock through her. He sat on the far side of the table, looking with undivided attention at a paper list, a cup of steaming coffee and a plate of an astonishing amount of food in front of him. As always, he dominated the space with his height and ease of manner.
He looked up briefly. “We start with Archer. Phil says he’s part of a fast set into gaming, sports, and women. Do you know any of his connections?”
Emily turned immediately to the sideboard. “Archer?” she asked, looking at the dishes of eggs and meat, toast and buns.
She set her plate at her usual place, where she’d sat alone for so long, looking out the window at the square, finding amusement in the comings and goings of her neighbors. Now he was her view.
He turned the list around and shoved it across the table for her to look at it. “Archer’s the fellow who carried off the gloves last night.”
Emily nodded and regarded the items on her plate, trying to see if anything looked appealing. Lynley’s presence interfered with her appetite.
“I have to say that looking at these names, it’s hard to imagine a spy in the group.”
“Anyone with diplomatic ties or foreign interests?”
Emily shook her head. She recognized most of the names. They were old London families with unblemished reputations. Even Archer, though she did not know the young man, had an older married sister who was the epitome of respectability. No one on the list appeared to be the sort who had stolen confidential government documents to sell to Russian spies.
“Anyone with embarrassing vices that an unscrupulous person might threaten to expose?”
“Not that I know of. Lady Derwent is known for her excellent dinners. Mrs. Gilbey-Wilkes is extraordinarily long-winded, and Lord Illingworth must be right on every debatable point, but such faults will not make them spies.”
“Then, we are back to Arche
r.”
Emily shook her head. “We start with Lady Ravenhurst, I think,” she said, deciding she could handle a bite of toast.
He regarded his plate. “Why?”
“Because she’s at the center.” She took the saucer from under her dish of tea and put her finger in the center. “And because one always pays morning calls to thank a hostess for her hospitality. We want to see how she appears, whether she is in distress over the events of the other evening, and most importantly, we want to see who leaves her cards. They will all be displayed in the entry.” She drew her finger around the rim of the saucer.
For a moment he said nothing, just watched the movement of her finger. Then he lifted his gaze to hers. She could not fathom his expression.
A week earlier she had sat in the same place, at the same table, with her father, who had barely acknowledged her presence. Her heart gave a funny skip under Lynley’s regard. She changed the subject. “I do know Archer’s older sister, Beatrix. She’s married with two small children. I can pay her a visit.”
“Good.”
“Of course, it might be awkward to begin a series of inquiries about the scrapes into which her brother has fallen.”
He nodded and addressed his attention to the eggs and bacon on his plate, as if, like her father, he’d forgotten she was there.
“You really don’t know London protocol, do you?”
“I don’t. Hence, our partnership.”
“Let me tell you,” she said, “a little of how it works.”
“Enlighten me.” He dug into his eggs as if she had no influence on his nerves or appetite in any way. She looked at her plate. Why should her appetite suffer while his clearly remained unimpaired?
Her toast was too dry, and she reached for a pot of marmalade. “It’s all in the timing, and in the use of one’s calling cards. You don’t have cards, do you?”
“I do.” More of his eggs disappeared.
“With a London address?”
“Alas, no.”
“Should we have some cards printed? Sir Ajax Lynley, Baronet, of Lord Woodford’s green and peony damask sofa.”
“Again, I bow to your superior knowledge of polite society, but I doubt that address would suit sticklers like my aunt.”
“Apparently, you don’t want anyone, including your fiancée, to know where to find you.”
He didn’t deny it. “In any case, you will use your own cards when you make these calls.” He put down his fork, his plate empty. Marmalade dripped from the toast in her hand.
“Well, then, let’s consider the timing.”
“Let’s,” he agreed.
“I must call on Lady Ravenhurst at her next at-home day. The best time will be as her first visitors are leaving. With a little bit of care I may contrive a few minutes alone with her. On the other hand, politeness dictates that with Archer’s sister I must be among the earliest visitors, and cannot count on any private conference.”
“Fair enough. I’ll look forward to your findings.” He put his napkin on the table, and stood. “If you’ll pardon me, I’ll be off.” He offered a bow and strolled toward the door.
A suspicion hit her at his easy acceptance of their plan. “What will you be doing?”
“Me?” He halted, his hand on the knob. “I thought I’d follow Phil round to his club.”
“Wait. That’s not your plan.” Emily scrambled up from her chair.
“It’s not?”
Emily closed the gap between them, tempted to jab him in his bruised ribs. “You may have fooled your aunt with that act, but it doesn’t fool me.”
“I never fooled my aunt. She never doubted that I was on the path to ruin and would end in hell.”
The momentary glimpse into his unhappy boyhood stopped her.
He looked amused at her confusion. “You don’t think I should go to Phil’s club?”
“I know that’s not your plan.” Then she got it. “You’re going to see that Russian in jail, aren’t you?”
His expression sobered at once. “Where he’s being kept is no place for a lady. And the chances of his saying anything are very little.”
“Nevertheless, if we are partners in this enterprise, you’ll take me with you.” She held up her hand with its extravagant ring. “My love.”
Chapter Twelve
It must be acknowledged that the husband hunter will find villains enough in London, though they will hardly be of the sort she encounters in her favorite novel. She is unlikely to meet dangerous brigands or daring pirates, but she will inevitably meet the careless, the indifferent, the self-concerned, and even the heartless among her male and female acquaintance in the great metropolis. Backstabbing, gossip, and betrayal are their weapons, and they are quite as capable of causing misery as any villain who would pursue the husband hunter across oceans and down American rivers to achieve his wicked ends.
—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London
Lynley ducked to enter the office of the governor’s house of the prison. In the little room a pair of clerks bent over their work behind a wainscoted partition. It might have been the anteroom of any ordinary business except for the turnkey at the door and the open ledger in which visitors were to inscribe their names and the name of the prisoner they wished to visit.
The servant who examined their credentials offered Emily a pen. The ruse they’d invented for the visit depended on her, and she’d been the one to think of it. Count Malikov was being kept in one of the cells for condemned men, under an assumed name. He mixed with no one.
As far as prison officials knew, the man they had in custody was Thomas Culley, who had killed a man during a housebreaking. This afternoon Emily was to be his distraught wife, desperate to take leave of him before the Recorder’s report would fix his fate and he would move toward his inevitable end.
She was dressed in fine black wool and wore a hat with a black veil as well. She looked as little like her lively self as it was possible for her to look. She carried a square of linen in her hand, which she pressed occasionally to her eyes. A tremor ran through her as she signed the book. She scarcely glanced Lynley’s way, though she leaned on his arm as they waited for the chaperone who would accompany her. Lynley could sense her impatience to get on with it.
The chaperone arrived, a clerical-looking man in black.
“Mrs. Culley?” he asked.
She nodded.
“You are allowed a quarter hour only. You will speak through the grate. A guard will be in the space between you and the prisoner. Do you understand?”
She nodded again.
“Come along then, ma’am.” The chaperone nodded to the turnkey, who opened the office door.
They stepped into the lodge with its sets of heavy shackles on the wall and faced an oaken gate, bound with iron and studded with nails. The turnkey opened the gate and motioned for Emily and her chaperone to pass through. For a brief instant Lynley could see a narrow stone passage that seemed to dead-end in a turning.
“Remain ʼere, sir,” the turnkey said.
The gate closed on her, and Lynley’s heart contracted briefly. She was smart. She was cool under fire. She’d be fine. They had studied the layout of the prison. He knew where the narrow passage would take her, and where she would descend to the ward of cells for the condemned. He looked at his watch. She would return in half an hour. He could wait.
In Jerez it would be the siesta hour. There, Lynley had learned how to stretch out on any surface and summon sleep to pass the long, indolent afternoons before he could return to his horses and his work. He had learned that one’s impatience could not hurry the clock along, but the prison lodge held no sofa, not even a bench for waiting out the time. The irons on the walls offered no comforting distraction.
He returned to the office where she had signed the book. The clerks continued their work witho
ut looking up, the scratching of their pens purposeful and regular. Nothing on the shelves drew his notice. Nothing on the walls engaged his attention. An unfamiliar restlessness consumed him. The room permitted no more than two strides in either direction. He set himself a steady pace. He was not a man to imagine trouble, so it made no sense that his mind should now count the gates she would pass through.
One of the clerks looked up. “Sir, do ye mind? Can ye settle?”
Lynley nodded. He turned to the guest book on the table and read the page she’d signed. He’d not seen her writing before, neat, clear, confident, and boldly feminine in its curving lines and small flourishes. He read through the names of visitors. The prison had had a busy day. Mr. Campion, Mr. Hassell, Mr. Clark, and Mr. Perry had all had visitors. Lynley flipped to the previous page in the book, letting his finger pass down the page. Then he stopped cold on an entry that should not have been there. Thomas Culley, a fiction, a man whose existence should not be known to anyone outside the inner circle of the Foreign Office, had had a visitor at noon.
Lynley pounded on the office door. He had to get to her.
* * * *
Emily followed the turnkey through the heavy oak door, down a narrow turning passageway, already gloomy, made gloomier by the veil on her hat. At each turning there was another gate or grate to be unlocked, opened, and relocked again after they passed through, with a jarring clang of metal. Each swing of one of the heavy doors disturbed the stale air of decay in the passage, reminding Emily of her fear for Arthur Broome in that other jail, that he would succumb to one of the miasma-borne fevers of London’s prisons.
Emily enjoyed the pleasure of a maze in a country garden, lost in the turnings of high, dense hedges of yew or boxwood. But in a maze, however hemmed in, one could look up at blue sky and hear the voices of others playing the game. Here she kept her gaze on the back of the turnkey in front of her, not on the crypt-like stone ceiling above her. Lynley would have to duck at every turn.