After the Kiss

by Karen Ranney

  Margaret collected the slates from Dorothy, smiled her thanks for the help, and stored them in the bottom drawer of the cupboard.

  A moment later, she stood at the door of the cottage and said farewell to the girls.

  “I want you to practice your m’s and n’s, Hortense,” she admonished. “There are two hills in an m.”

  The girl nodded and smiled shyly.

  “And Dorothy, you’re not to read more than an hour with only one candle. The strain will hurt your eyes.”

  There were no books in their small, improvised school, but Margaret had devised a system to address that problem. Each girl must pen one story per week, but instead of Margaret grading it, she was to hand it to her reading partner to judge. That way, not only was a spirit of cooperation developed among the girls, but reading, writing, and composition practice were encouraged.

  “Yes, Miss Margaret.”

  She smiled at the title. They had adopted it quite easily after having heard Penelope address her as such.

  The smallest of her charges, little Mary, smiled a gap-toothed grin at her. “Can we go to the Standing Stones tomorrow, Miss Margaret?”

  The Stones were huge gray monoliths so old that they appeared to be part of the earth itself. The circle of stones had obviously been made by man, however. The granite blocks had been chiseled into rectangular shapes and erected on the hill behind the cottage. Sometimes Margaret and the girls climbed there in order to view the scenery below, or for a change of locale in which to have their lessons.

  “I will be away tomorrow, I’m afraid, Mary,” she said, cupping her hand gently around the little girl’s face. “I must go to London again.”

  Five faces stared up at her in disappointment.

  “When you return, then?” Nan asked.

  “If everyone does well on their sums, yes.”

  “Barbara cheats. I’ve seen her. She writes the answers on her sleeve.” Margaret glanced at the speaker.

  Of course. Abigail. The girl stared narrow-eyed at Barbara, who only stared back at her open mouthed.

  “She’s telling a fib, Miss Margaret,” Barbara protested, turning away from Abigail.

  “Am not,” Abigail sneered.

  “You are. I’m not a cheat,” Barbara said fiercely.

  Margaret stepped between them before Abigail could reach out and pull the other girl’s hair. She patted Barbara on the shoulder, frowned at Abigail, and sent them both on their way.

  Once the rest of the girls were gone, Margaret moved the table to a spot below the rafters, and standing atop it, touched the edge of the strongbox and pulled it to her inch by inch. Slowly she lowered it, then set it on the table before jumping down.

  The money from the sale of the first Journal would be enough to last her for some time if she was careful, but there was not, regrettably, enough for luxuries.

  Penelope had left London without hesitation, accompanying her to Silbury Village even though her future was uncertain. The past two years had been difficult ones, but through it all they’d shared their friendship. She could not let the occasion of Penelope’s marriage pass without marking it with a gift. There was, however, only one way she could afford it—to sell the second book earlier than she’d originally planned.

  A week ago she had written to the Earl of Babidge again and asked if he would be interested in buying the second volume. His enthusiastic assent had been forwarded to her from Samuel a few days ago.

  Margaret wrapped the book and set it on the cupboard.

  The anticipation she felt was unwarranted. Of course the Earl of Babidge knew the man called Montraine. He had been a guest at his ball, while she had been an interloper. But there was no reason for her to ask about him or ever see him again. They had shared an enchanted moment upon a dark terrace, but it was never to be repeated.

  She should not think of that night. It had been an improvident act, one of recklessness. Margaret admonished herself even as honesty surfaced. She wished they had kissed.

  The gear slipped, but failed to engage. Michael softly swore and adjusted it again. This time it slipped into the grooves properly. The softly whirring sound as he turned the crank was proof that it was properly aligned.

  Michael stood over the table in his library, his mathematical engine in pieces before him.

  He considered himself fortunate to have been of service in his life. Not only to his family, but to his country. He was proud of his accomplishments and especially of the machine he had devised. The engine was an invention intrinsically his. The creation of it had started with a thought, a theory. Could the more mundane duties of code breaking be performed by rote?

  He had begun by duplicating a clock’s mechanism, using the interconnecting gears as both a means of movement, and with a metal key, a method of propulsion. At first, the engine was little more than a rudimentary abacus. He’d punched out the numbers one through ten on a series of individual cards of heavy vellum. When two of these cards were inserted into a slot, small slate blocks on which numbers had been incised were turned over until the proper sum was displayed.

  His plans for developing the engine further changed the day he began adjusting the alignment of the inner and outer gears. He’d taken the engine apart, held the gears in his hands, rotating them slowly while an idea occurred to him. The teeth of the smaller gear was half the size of the larger, which meant that it would have to turn twice as fast. What if he numbered the smaller gear and added letters to the outer? A certain series of rotations would have to occur before each number and letter would be used again. That number of rotations could serve as a cipher key. The result was not a code solving machine, nor an abacus, but an engine that wrote ciphers.

  He’d tested the codes by asking his other Black Chamber associates, through Robert, to attempt to solve them. So far they had not been able to do so.

  The knock on the door of Michael’s library was followed almost instantly by the sight, not of Smytheton’s somber face, but the rather agreeable one of his closest friend.

  “If you’re working, I will return at another time,” Robert Adams said.

  Michael smiled invitingly. “I’ve put that blasted code of yours away for the moment,” he said.

  “Instead, you’re working on something much less abstract,” Robert said, coming to his side.

  Their friendship had begun as boys. Setton was not far from Robert’s boyhood home. They’d cut across fields and woods to meet each other, played Knight and Saracen, Roundhead and Cavalier on the old ramparts of Robert’s home, raced through the labyrinth of Setton’s corridors and hallways.

  They had known each other too long and too well to be impressed with each other’s consequence, even if Michael was now earl and his friend a force to be reckoned with in the government. The fact that Robert was unknown for the most part did not dilute his power. It might, in fact, have enhanced it. His title was innocuous and subservient, Junior Secretary of Foreign Affairs—designed, Michael suspected, to mask the degree of influence Robert actually wielded. One of his duties was acting as head of the Black Chamber.

  Another knock interrupted them. Smytheton appeared carrying a silver salver. “There’s word for you, sir. This came by messenger.”

  From the disdain in Smytheton’s voice, Michael could well imagine the messenger’s appearance. No doubt one of the small boys often pressed into service. Not clean but quick.

  Michael took the envelope from the tray.

  “I vow that man could peel the paint off a wall with his frown,” Robert said, grinning when the door shut behind Smytheton.

  “Smytheton doesn’t suffer fools gladly. I think I’m the only person he likes, and even that is conditional.”

  “At least he’s younger than Peterson. Does the old man still work for your mother, or have you pensioned him off?”

  “He’s determined not to retire until Smytheton does,” Michael said.

  Peterson had his nose out of joint because Smytheton hadn’t acquired his p
ost in the same fashion he had, coming up through the ranks. Smytheton was not disposed to like many people at all and simply ignored Peterson’s petulance, which only made the antipathy worse.

  Michael had long since decided that it was a blessing his house was not designed to house many servants. The constant bickering as to position and duties was enough to give a saint a headache. As it was, his valet appeared every two days to ensure himself of the state of Michael’s wardrobe, then complained the entire time that there was not sufficient storage space for the clothing he’d sent for, or for a room for himself.

  “I’ve offered to pension Peterson off,” Michael said. “But he has his pride. Besides, his father did not retire until he was eighty, and I think Peterson believes he would be a failure if he didn’t equal that achievement.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Seventy-two,” Michael said, smiling. He tore open the envelope Smytheton had handed him.

  I have agreed to purchase another of the Journals, Montraine. Mrs. Esterly will be at my home on the 14th.

  His breath caught. Odd, to feel that much anticipation to see a stranger again.

  “That look could only be caused by a woman,” Robert said. “A bridal candidate?” Robert smiled, an amused expression that indicated he saw too much.

  “Nothing,” Michael admitted, “so honorable as that.”

  He returned to his desk, sat behind it. Robert occupied the chair opposite him. “I have the most damnable curiosity about a woman. I met her once and yet she’s been constantly in my thoughts of late.”

  “It’s lust,” Robert offered, sitting back. “It alone binds men and women together. Women would have it otherwise, I think. Did you realize that it’s one of the seven deadly sins?”

  “Are you going to quiz me on them?” Michael asked, smiling.

  “There are those who say you never forget anything once you’ve read it. Let’s just say I’m testing a theory,” Robert said, a twinkle in his eye.

  Michael laughed and closed his eyes for a moment, saw the image of the page in his mind. One of his tutors had held secret thoughts of becoming a Jesuit. Michael’s religious training, therefore, had been thorough. In fact, his entire education had been both diverse and uncommon. His father had dismissed a string of tutors, not because any had failed in his duty, but because he’d wished Michael continually challenged.

  “Pride, covetousness, lust, anger, gluttony, envy, sloth,” Michael recited, then opened his eyes.

  “I’m impressed,” Robert said. He stood and investigated the cabinet against the wall with some familiarity. A few moments later he dropped into the chair, a glass of brandy in his hand. He pushed the one he’d poured for Michael across the desk.

  “Who is she?”

  “I’m not entirely sure,” Michael said. He didn’t have to close his eyes to remember her. There was a tiny mole high up on her left cheek as if to call attention to her eyes, wide and brimming with some emotion he had not been able to discern. Her face was oval, the shape of cameos and rare beauties. Her mouth, tinted pink, was curved in a tremulous smile.

  A lovely woman, but then, there were women of great beauty in London. Not only English women, but from any country in the known world. London seemed to be the hub of the universe at times, and the women glittering stars that occupied the heavens.

  Then what was the fascination he felt for this woman? In his top desk drawer was a faded glove. How many times had he removed it from its place of honor, studied the shape of it? A bit of nonsense unlike him.

  It was not at all rational.

  Why this one woman of all those created? He did not understand why he could not be as fascinated with one of his bridal candidates.

  He had enjoyed his relationships with women, considered them pleasurable. But they had never been counted as necessary to his well-being as was air or food. Lust was a secondary emotion, one that he had aligned, in his mind, next to the need for companionship. Desirable, but not wholly required in order to live.

  Lust—that was all this feeling was. Or curiosity. But the intensity of it surprised him.

  “She is selling a collection of books,” he said. “A rather arcane set of volumes entitled the Journals of Augustin X.”

  Robert remained silent for a moment, considered the brandy in his glass. “I’ve heard of those before. I wonder where?” He shook his head as if to jar loose a memory, then smiled ruefully. “It has slipped from me, I’m afraid.”

  “No doubt crowded out by all those other secrets of yours.”

  “I am but a Junior Secretary,” he said, grinning. “I exist only to serve.”

  Michael eyed him dubiously. “And I suppose it’s a rumor that you employ all those shadowy creatures of yours?”

  “Are you any closer to solving the Cyrillic cipher?” Robert asked with a smile. Evidently, the question had been too pointed.

  “No,” Michael said, making no effort to hide his irritation. “But I will.”

  Robert sighed. “I’d hoped you, at least, would have come to some conclusion. No one else has had any success, either.”

  The more difficult and important the cipher, the more individuals in the Black Chamber were assigned to it. Michael no more knew their names than they did his. Only that the Cyrillic cipher must be important indeed to warrant the attention it was receiving.

  But Michael had vowed to solve it first. He thrived on competition and suspected that was the very reason Robert had told him the cipher was being shared.

  Robert’s machinations made Michael smile. His old friend was not unlike a snake, so entwined in his own schemes that one day he would find himself feasting on his own tail.

  But for now, something even more fascinating than Robert’s stratagems intrigued him. Another type of mystery. That of the unforgettable Mrs. Esterly.

  When she came to Babby’s house to sell the Journal, he was also going to be present. Perhaps when he saw her again, the riddle would be solved, the attraction dissipated. It would be over once he saw her in the sunlight. She would be another attractive woman. Nothing more.

  He smiled, and toasted Robert with his brandy. His old friend gazed at him quizzically, but raised his own glass in salute.

  Chapter 7

  A wise courtesan will never allow passion

  to overwhelm her other senses.

  The Journals of Augustin X

  Because Silbury Village was of some repute due to the skill of its craftsmen, it was not entirely isolated; the London coach stopped here twice a week. A convenience, since it meant that she didn’t have to walk to the nearest crossroads.

  The journey from her cottage had been short enough, the walk easily passed in appreciation of the spring morning. Even the village seemed touched with the magic of it. The air was clear, almost crisp. Windows sparkled and flowers bloomed and the people she passed nodded and exchanged smiles. She gripped the wrapped book in her arms and responded in kind.

  Before she reached her destination, the inn that served as a post house for the coach, she was hailed by the two women she’d wanted most to avoid. She sighed inwardly, turned and waited for them to approach her.

  “My daughter tells me that you’re off to London, Mrs. Esterly.”

  Sarah Harrington beamed at Margaret, her face wreathed in a look of approval. Anne Coving stood beside her. A casual observer might take them to be no more than friends. But they were sisters, for all their disparity in appearance.

  Sarah was tall and slender, and favored dark colors. Anne was short and plump and tended to wear bright fabrics. Sarah’s face, while narrow and thin was almost always graced with a smile. The expression on Anne’s plump face made Margaret think she’d recently smelled something vile.

  “Abigail says that it is an adventure of sorts,” Anne said, her eyes narrowing.

  “I’m going to visit a friend,” Margaret explained. A lie by only the most strict interpretation. She had planned on staying with Maude and Samuel Plodgett overnight after transa
cting her business.

  “It will be the second time you have returned to London since the fire, won’t it?” Sarah asked.

  “Such a terrible thing,” Anne said, “to lose a husband that way.”

  Margaret nodded, but did not comment. Anne seemed to take great delight not only in tragedy, but in the repeating of it. If there was a tale to be told, the woman would be happy to relate it, the more sordid or distressing the better.

  “Dorothy is progressing quite well in her reading,” she said to Sarah. An almost desperate diversion. “I’m sure you are very proud of her.”

  Sarah’s smile broadened in pleasure.

  “Abigail has a great talent in drawing,” Margaret said, turning to Anne. What she did not say to Abigail’s mother was that her daughter was also most unpleasant. If one of the girls began to cry, it was because Abigail had pinched her. If an inkwell spilled, Abigail was the cause. The child also emulated her mother in that she was quick to spread tales, true or not.

  Out of the corner of her eye Margaret saw the coach approaching from the end of the street. She bid farewell to the two women and walked to the inn with a sense of welcome relief.

  Her traveling companions to London were a varied group. Two men dressed as gentlemen, an older lady who smelled of camphor and a young woman and her little boy whose antics were charming for the first hour but grating as the journey went on.

  Margaret wrapped the ends of her shawl around the Journal to further camouflage it. Her hands clasped it tightly as if the secrets contained within its covers would seep out into the air around her if she did not. She smiled at her own whimsy, and concentrated on the view outside the window.

  When Margaret arrived at the Earl of Babidge’s house, she was led to the same room where she and the earl had transacted their business previously. Instead of asking her to wait, however, the manservant simply tapped once and pushed the door open. She entered the library, expecting to see the affable earl.