by Kate Moore
Emily glanced once at her reflection in the glass and shuddered. It was far worse than she’d thought. The girl began to pull the pins from Emily’s drooping hair.
“Are you in Lynley’s employ?” Emily hardly knew how to ask the question. The girl was a competent dresser, but not like a servant.
“Oh no, miss. My father has a shop on Bond Street.” She said it with a touch of pride. “Kirby’s. Do you know it?”
“The chemist’s?” Emily had seen the shop but had made no purchases there. The sodden mass of her hair hung down, and cold tendrils along her neck sent a quick shiver through her.
“Yes, miss.”
“So, how do you know Lynley then?”
The girl picked up a brush and began to pull it through Emily’s tangles. “Through Nate Wilde, of course. He’s my intended. He works...with Sir Ajax.”
“He’s a spy then, is he?” Emily could not hide her surprise. It was odd to hear Lynley called by his proper title. She had been thinking of him as Lynley for so long.
A look almost comical in its guilt crossed Miranda’s face. “Don’t tell them I said anything, please.” It was an earnest plea.
“Of course not.” Emily waited. The girl was talkative by nature.
“Well, we help on cases sometimes. That’s how we met Sir Ajax.”
“Cases?”
“Mysteries that the spies must solve.”
“And you two helped Lynley?”
“We were on a case for Lord Mountjoy when Sir Ajax held up the stagecoach and the guard shot Nate.”
“Wait. I don’t understand. You say Lynley held up a stage?” Something his aunt Silsden said came back to her.
“Oh yes, miss. He makes a fine highwayman on that big black of horse of his, and he’s ever so cool with a pistol. No telling what would’ve become of us, if he hadn’t abducted us right there and then.”
“Abducted you?” It was plain that Lynley had had far more interesting adventures before he’d ever met Emily. Again Emily’s spirits sank. “So who gives out these cases?”
Miranda opened and closed her mouth. “Oh, miss, sorry. I’ve said too much already. You won’t tell them I told you anything.”
“Of course not.”
“Look, miss,” Miranda invited, gesturing toward the mirror. “No one will ever suspect you’ve been having adventures.”
Emily looked in the glass. It was true. She was restored to her usual appearance of sense and propriety. No one would guess that she had come so close to being seduced by a spy. She would return to her father’s house looking as if she’d spent the afternoon sipping tea. Tomorrow she and Lynley would appear side by side at Roz’s dinner, the picture of a properly betrothed couple.
* * * *
With her morning chocolate Emily woke to mortification. She leaned against her pillows, unable even to lift her cup. She, who prided herself on her power to direct her life’s course, to act according to sense and principle, had, in a giddy moment of strong feeling, seen the promise of happiness in Lynley’s dark eyes, and said yes to ruin.
Intent on the puzzle of the missing papers, she had not realized how far she’d been led down the path of seduction. For a moment it had seemed as if everything had changed between them, as if each existed only for the other. Only the fortuitous arrival of Lynley’s friends had saved her. On her own, she had forgotten the precise nature and boundaries of their partnership. She had a strong inclination to pull the coverlet over her head and curl into a ball.
Next to her cooling chocolate on the tray was a note from her mother. She picked it up and read.
My dear Emily,
You may imagine that no London news reaches me at this distance, and that preoccupied as I am with Grandmama’s care, I am indifferent to the success of your Season, but make no mistake I receive regular correspondence from a great many people.
To call Lady Vange’s ball private is, I fear, to misuse the word, for a number of persons have written in some haste to inform me that you drew attention to yourself in the most pronounced way in the middle of the dance floor by stepping between your betrothed and Lord Ravenhurst. As my informants have industriously reported, you have offended every feeling of propriety and delicacy.
I hope I am misinformed in this matter and that you will make every use of the dinner Roz has planned to restore your credit and Lynley’s in the eyes of the fashionable world.
Ever your affectionate mother
Emily groaned, put aside the tray, and threw off the covers. At least her mother had no idea of Emily’s worst folly, and if she and Lynley could behave with dignity at Roz’s party, the gossip might fade. And she and Lynley could return to being spy partners. This happy thought sustained her through breakfast with only a few moments of wondering how she would feel had they not been interrupted.
On the whole she felt she had recovered her senses when Lady Silsden entered the drawing room in great agitation, hardly waiting for Emily’s astonished butler to announce her.
“Ma’am, you look unwell. Do sit down,” Emily urged.
“You must stop him, Miss Radstock,” Lady Silsden declared.
“Stop Lynley, ma’am? From what?” Emily helped her guest to a seat.
“From fighting a duel. It’s all over London that he means to meet Ravenhurst.”
Emily sank onto the sofa opposite her guest. If Ravenhurst’s absurd attempt to challenge Lynley was known, then it must have been circulated by Barksted.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry for your distress. I’m afraid you’ve been taken in by some baseless tittle-tattle.”
“But I hear the challenge was quite public. Everyone saw Ravenhurst grab Lynley by his lapels at Lady Vange’s ball.”
There was no denying that bit. Emily could see how a clever man could build a credible story on a drunken man’s brief moment of indiscretion. “As it happens, you’re right that Ravenhurst did grab Lynley. I was there. I can assure you that no challenge was made. Poor Lord Ravenhurst was quite confused and in his cups.”
“You don’t understand. Lynley will be just like his father.”
“Are you speaking of the disaster? Can you tell me what happened?”
Emily procured her guest some tea, and when Lady Silsden had recovered somewhat, Emily encouraged her to tell the story.
“It was the summer of the great victory celebrations. The Tsar was here with his sister and a great many Russian ladies and gentlemen, and officers, of course. One officer caught the eye of Lynley’s mother, Caroline. The Russian was just as dashing as a soldier ought to be and quite the dancer. Lynley was with his parents in town to see all the pageantry, the reviews and enactments in the park, the fireworks at night.
“It was Lynley who realized Caroline was going to leave with the Russian. He tried to stop her as she climbed into the man’s carriage, and the man whipped him. He bears the scar, you know. Then—foolish, foolish boy—he told my brother. I’m sure Lynley had no idea of what would follow. My brother should have let her go, of course, faithless jade that she was, but he pursued them, and insisted on a duel. The Russian shot him dead.”
Lady Silsden held her teacup in trembling hands. Emily sat as calmly as she could. It would do no good to comment on the heartlessness of the account, but the image of Lynley’s imperfect mouth intruded to stir her feelings. She knew the sequel to this story. Lynley, a boy of fourteen, had blamed himself, had believed himself at fault for failing to stop the disaster.
When Lady Silsden managed a sip of tea and put down her cup, Emily asked, “What became of his mother?”
“Oh, Caroline went off with her Russian, but he never married her. He abandoned her in Paris, I believe. She died there some years later.”
“So Lynley was orphaned at fourteen?” His aunt’s lack of sympathy for his lost mother could not have helped a grieving boy.
�
�I went to him at once. I saw that he would need the strictest guidance to avoid going down the fatal paths that had consumed his parents. I knew I would have to take him in hand. And I did.”
“Then you must rely on his training and his good sense, ma’am.”
“Oh, but all my work went out the window when his uncle, his mother’s brother, took him away. In Spain there was nothing but debauchery.” Lady Silsden frowned.
“You must have been relieved to see him when he came home from Spain looking so fit and…undissipated.”
“He retreated to Lyndale, and the constables came with the tale of his being a highwayman...”
Emily gave a little start, which she hoped her guest did not notice.
“Oh, Miss Radstock, you must persuade Lynley not to fight Ravenhurst.”
Lady Silsden looked like a small gray bird huddled against a storm, feathers ruffled. Emily summoned her sympathies. His aunt was an old woman, largely alone in the world, fixed in her ways, anxiously desiring her own strict idea of what was best for Lynley without any understanding of his character.
“You may rely on me to speak with him directly, ma’am. And you really must not give way to needless alarm. My sister gives her party for us tonight, as you know, ma’am, and we’ll all be together.”
“Of course. But if you could speak to him...”
“I shall.”
“Have you set a date for your wedding?”
“We’re waiting for my mother’s return.”
Lady Silsden nodded and looked around the room. “That’s good. Perhaps your mother will have a chance to redo this room. The Egyptian mode is so out of fashion.”
* * * *
Lynley left London before dawn, a pair of warring memories driving him. In one flash he would see Em in the grasp of Barksted’s man, being hauled to a waiting carriage. In another flash he would see Em looking up at him, eyes alight with soft desire.
At Lyndale he found everything in its usual sober order; only Sultan was glad to see him. He wasted little time there. As he and the horse headed back to London, he wrestled his will into submission. He might want to go on spying with Emily Radstock and playing a daring game of dancing close to the flames of desire, but at the same time he knew he did not want a hired bullyboy to put rough hands on her again. She would feel betrayed that he had abandoned their partnership to act alone, but he refused to expose her to more danger, including danger from him. If they found themselves alone together again, he feared he would yield to that baser nature that his aunt had tried to check and his uncle had always encouraged.
From the moment he heard her talking to her sister Roz, he’d been intrigued. Then he had lifted his head above the green back of that sofa and seen her. Still, he had not felt any danger to his heart until they’d begun working together, until he’d begun to appreciate her mind and spirit.
Emily Radstock had followed the twists and turns of the case with ease. Alone in that scandalous bedroom, so chilled she nearly shook apart, Em had gone on thinking. She’d seen at once what the letter to Lord Strayde meant, while he had been lost in those other attractions to which he had considered himself immune—creamy skin and swells and hollows of sweet flesh, and a saucy mouth. He had been right to put a check on temptation by sending for Wilde and Miranda.
* * * *
Emily discovered that promising to speak with Lynley and actually speaking with him were two different things. Her first thought about how to reach him was through Phil. As she expected that Roz could use her help with final preparations for the dinner party, she went directly to her sister.
Even in the entry, where a footman greeted her, Emily sensed the bustle of a household preparing for an event, but she found Roz sitting calmly in her pale blue and gold drawing room. She had a sketch of her dining table and a pencil in hand.
“Seating your guests?” Emily glanced over at the great green damask sofa, but did not find Lynley there.
“It’s always a delicate matter. If I put Lynley’s aunt Silsden on my right, do you think Aunt Mary will be offended?”
Emily studied her sister’s sketch. It was pure Roz, thoughtful and correct, but she could see the difficulty of adding Lady Silsden into the usual mix of family and friends.
Roz glanced up. “As she is Lynley’s only relation who will attend, I feel that she perhaps deserves some particular notice. There are so many more guests on our side, so to speak.”
Emily nodded. A tray of untouched buns and jam sat on the small table next to Roz. “Are you not hungry?” Emily asked.
“Not so much. I feel a little off today. Have a bun if you like.”
Emily split a bun, finding it warm inside, and spread some lovely marmalade. “Roz, do you know where Lynley is this morning?”
“Oh, Phil said he left very early, somewhere he had to go.”
Emily dropped the bun, which landed jam first on her lap. Her heart beat with quick alarm. It was near eleven. A duel would have taken place at dawn. “Not to meet Ravenhurst?”
Roz looked up from her diagram. “Meet Ravenhurst?”
“Roz, Lady Silsden came to me this morning saying that it’s all over London that Lynley and Ravenhurst are to meet.”
“In a duel?” Roz frowned. She got up with an effort, one hand pressed to her back, and took a seat at Emily’s side. Emily grabbed a spoon from the tea tray and scraped at the jam on her skirt. Her hands shook. She had not expected to love or be loved. Over the years she had grown used to being dismissed by men as too bookish or too outspoken, a woman who wrote letters to the Times. She had resolved to be grateful to have her family to love, but she knew that loving them was easy.
Without warning Lynley had appeared in her life, demanding more of her than anyone else, more of her wit, her courage, and her trust. To think he might be gone from her life before she’d begun to spend her unused reserves of love, before she’d become the person she was meant to be, was a prospect so bleak, she did not know how she could endure it.
“Em,” Roz said quietly. “Lady Silsden can’t be right.”
“She can’t?”
“No.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Phil. Phil is upstairs at his dressing table. And Lynley would never meet anyone in a duel without Phil as his second. So, you need not worry.”
Emily stopped her futile scraping of the jam blotch. Her sister’s utter certainty, her confidence in her husband, was an aspect of marriage that changed the ordinary and familiar into something quite profound.
“Did you know that Lynley’s father was killed in a duel when his mother ran away with her Russian lover?”
“It must have been excessively painful for Lynley to lose both his parents in that way. That’s why I’m glad he has Phil, and now he has you.”
But he doesn’t have me, Emily thought. Not the way that Phil has you, not with utter confidence in each other. Even Emily’s parents had that.
Whatever had come over them for that brief interlude in the empty house, he had left her with no assurance of his feelings. There was only the exotic ring on her finger, like something a gypsy fortune-teller might wear, and a memory of kisses and touches that might leave her flesh aching and her heart quite confused.
“Em, I’ll have Phil send you a message. I’m sure he knows where Lynley went today.”
“Thank you, Roz.”
“And don’t forget, he has his aunt Silsden,” Roz reminded her.
* * * *
When Lynley returned to the club at four, an anxious Wilde greeted him. “The big man’s been looking everywhere for you,” he said, with a glance at the pistol case under Lynley’s arm and the valise in his hand.
“I’d best report then. Can you take these up to my room?”
“Done, sir.”
Lynley cast a brief, longing glance at his favorite sofa
in the coffee room. He was weary after fighting his own inclinations all day. He headed up the stairs for the big man’s office.
If Goldsworthy had been looking for him, then the big man had no idea that Lynley had been to Lyndale and back. He had returned with Sultan and stabled the stallion at Phil’s, where the head groom had been more than willing to look after Sultan. Bringing the horse to London was breaking his promise to Goldsworthy, but Lynley thought the spymaster would overlook the transgression when they got results. Besides, Lynley and his horse would be on their way before dawn to find that empty parsonage.
He knocked and entered, and Goldsworthy looked up.
“Ah, lad,” the big man said. “Glad you’re here. I’ve had the devil of a time trying to reach you. You have to leave London at once. Take the fastest vehicle you can get. Wilde can go round to the stables for something.”
“Where am I going in such a hurry?”
“After Lady Ravenhurst. She’s run off.”
Lynley took his usual seat opposite the monumental desk.
Goldsworthy frowned. “Can’t have any delay, lad. If you leave now, you can pick up the scent. We know the carriage she took, and we know she started on the Dover road.”
“Has Ravenhurst gone after her?”
“No. The man’s collapsed. He’s taken to his bed. But he summoned Chartwell. Ravenhurst thinks the Russians are using his wife as a courier.”
“What makes him suspect her?”
“Apparently, she’s off to meet Walhouse.”
Lynley, of all men, knew that running away with a lover was the desperate act of an unhappy woman. Passion did not make a woman a spy, but it did make her careless of all that she might abandon in her flight—husband, children, and even country.
He rose to his feet. There was less urgency than Goldsworthy supposed. In his pocket Lynley still had the letter he and Emily had found in Walhouse’s love nest. Lynley knew precisely where Lady Ravenhurst was going, how long it would take him to get there on Sultan, and what it would cost him to go after her.