London Calling

by Anna Elliott

  She could see the abandoned warehouse that the watchman had spoken of looming up ahead of her. The place certainly looked deserted‌—‌as though no one had entered in years. The windows were covered with half-rotten boards and the line of the roof sagged.

  Susanna felt a qualm‌—‌after all, what did she have to go on? A few words only, hastily spoken and perhaps imperfectly overheard.

  Then out of the blackness up ahead, a pair of men came reeling towards her. Both of them extremely drunk, to judge by the off-key rendition they were giving to a sentimental song.

  Susanna stepped backwards into an even narrower alleyway that branched off the lane and ran along the side of the warehouse. And then she froze. Up ahead, from behind the broken edges of the boards that had been nailed across one of the warehouse windows, came a faint yellow glow.

  The window was too high for her to reach, but she found a broken crate propped against the wall a short distance away. Heart pounding, Susanna carried it over and slowly, carefully, willing herself to make no noise, set it on the muddy ground just below the window.

  There was only a narrow chink in the boards, not even so wide as two of her fingers. But when she had climbed up on top of the crate and pressed her face against the gap, she found herself looking into a small, wood-paneled room‌—‌an office, maybe, of the long-gone warehouse foreman.

  The room was bare, save for a rough wooden table that stood at its center, and about this were seated a circle of men, their faces thrown into a high relief of light and shadow by the flame of a single oil lantern hung from the ceiling above.

  The man facing her was big, barrel-chested, with a harshly jutting brow and cold eyes. His mask was gone, but Susanna knew him at once as Philippe. The other men she supposed had been Philippe’s companions, though they were unknown to her. All save the man who sat slightly back from the table. A dark haired young man with a lean, hard-edged face. His dark eyes were watchful, but he sat with his arms folded across his chest and his long legs stretched out before him‌—‌his posture slouched back and casual to a degree bordering on insolence.

  Susanna had been prepared‌—‌she had recognized him outside on the street after all. But she still felt her heart contract at the sight of him. Still had to steady herself against the wall to keep from falling off her crate.

  James had indeed accepted a new assignment. One that had him now masquerading as one of a gang of French cutthroats.

  Susanna’s ears buzzed and she missed a few words of whatever the men were saying. The first words she heard were Philippe’s, spoken with an edge of irritation and in French.

  Susanna spared a brief moment to be grateful for her society lady’s education‌—‌which might not have prepared her for any useful employment, but which had at any rate ensured that she was fluent in that tongue.

  “You have succeeded?” Philippe demanded of James. “You have obtained the weapons?”

  “I have.” James tipped his head in a brief nod but said nothing more.

  Philippe sketched an impatient gesture in the air with one hand. “And where are they?”

  James did not reply at once. He leaned back in his chair, and eyed the other man a long moment before he spoke. “The weapons, my friend, are in a safe place.”

  “And where is that?” Philippe’s face darkened and his voice had an edge of anger, now.

  James smiled faintly, his gaze traveling about the circle of men. “If I told you‌—‌all of you‌—‌that, it would cease to be a safe place. The more people that know about a secret, the less it is likely to remain so.”

  “But this is intolerable!” Philippe struck the table before him. “I demand that you tell us where you have hidden them. What authority have you . . .”

  James’s voice cut across the other man’s like the lash of a whip. “My authority comes from those directing all our actions, and you had best not forget it. Our employers won’t thank you for questioning their orders.”

  Philippe sat back in his chair‌—‌though his face was still dark with anger. “But we know nothing about you,” he muttered. “You appear out of the blue, with apparent orders from the men above. But how do we know you are what you claim to be?”

  There was a faint murmur of agreement from some of the other men at the table. One man even reached for the knife he wore strapped to his belt.

  Susanna, frozen at the window, felt a lump of ice settle in the pit of her stomach.

  James lifted his shoulders, though, and said, pleasantly, “You do not know, nor can you. You are faced with a choice. Trust me, and risk being betrayed, or refuse to work with me, and risk the wrath of our superiors. Given the choice, I would take the former alternative, but the decision is entirely—”

  With a sudden, sickening lurch, Susanna felt the crate she was standing on crack and then give way completely, sending her to the ground with a jolt that reverberated up her spine‌—‌and a crash that sounded as loud as a gunshot.

  Susanna dragged herself upright, ignoring the pain in her chest as the breath that had been knocked out of her rushed back into her lungs. But her foot was still trapped in between two of the broken slats of the crate, and she wasted several heart-pounding seconds in trying to tug it free. Inside, she could hear the sounds of the men’s alarm: chairs scraping backwards across the floor, cries of Who’s there? and What was that?

  James’s voice, sounding cool and faintly bored, cut across them all. “Probably some drunken beggar. You know how they come round, looking for a place to sleep for the night. Stay here and decide the time and place for our next meeting. I’ll go and drive the fellow off.”

  And then‌—‌just as Susanna at last managed to free herself from the broken crate and scramble to her feet‌—‌James was there, emerging from a door further along the alleyway and crossing to her in a few rapid strides.

  His face was in shadow, his expression impossible to read. Though there was light enough for her to make out the tension in the line of his shoulders, the rigid set of his jaw. For an instant he did not speak, only stood looking down at her. And Susanna, for her part, could only stare, as well.

  For days, now, she had been afraid for him, her every nerve strung tight with the fear that she might never see him again. And now he was here, standing before her, safe and alive. A part of her wanted nothing more than to throw her arms around him, reassure herself that he truly was there. And part of her wanted to punch him in the jaw as hard as she could for the lies he had told her.

  At any rate, if she had been shocked to see James tonight, she had at least given him an equal shock with her presence. She could still recall that moment of absolute immobility that had struck him at the sight of her in the carriage. And now, even in the dark, he appeared as off-balance as she had ever seen him. His breathing sounded slightly uneven, and when he did move, it was to reach out and pull her into his arms.

  He held her tightly, so tightly that she could feel the hard planes of muscle in his arms and shoulders, the beat of his heart under the hand she had braced on his chest.

  “Good God, Susanna, what the devil’s chance was it that brought you here tonight? And what possessed you to follow me?” He drew back just enough that he could look down at her and spoke quickly, in a barely audible undertone. And before Susanna could answer, he went on, “You have to leave now‌—‌straight away. Get as far away from this place as you can.”

  Susanna’s head still spun. But she held onto him when he would have drawn away.

  “Not until you promise to tell me what this is all about, James.” She spoke in the same all-but-soundless whisper.

  She thought but could not be sure that a muscle jumped in James’s jaw. She knew at least that the arm she held felt abruptly as stiff‌—‌and as lifeless‌—‌as that of a stone statue. “I cannot.”

  “You cannot‌—‌or you will not?” Abruptly all the simmering fear and anger of the last days seemed to boil up inside her. “You lied to me, James! Deliberately lied.
Who exactly is sending those false letters you wrote to me from Derbyshire? Your agent? Some friend at the War Office?”

  James ran a hand down his face. When he spoke his whispered voice was tight with control. “I had no choice. If you knew—”

  “That is just the point!” Susanna cut him off. “I did not know! I still do not.”

  “Those men in there—” James began.

  Susanna interrupted again. A distant voice in her mind informed her that when this was all over she might be frightened‌—‌might think that the sensible choice would be to leave, just as James said. But for now she was too angry. “If you are going to say that those men in the warehouse are dangerous, please do not bother. I can see that well enough for myself. And if they were to find out that you are not who you pretend, they would kill you, without a moment’s thought. What would happen then, James? Did you even think of that? I would not have stopped you from taking this assignment, playing this part. But you did not even give me the chance! Nor even”‌—‌Susanna’s throat ached with the effort of holding her voice steady‌—‌“nor even the chance to tell you goodbye. Did you even stop to consider how I might feel if you were killed?”

  She saw James’s hands twitch, as though he were fighting the urge to clench his fingers. He let out a slow breath and said, “I did not want you to be—”

  “Afraid for you?” Susanna snapped. Despite herself, her voice shook. “It’s too late for that! I’ll never be able to trust you again, James. Every time you leave me, I’ll be afraid that you’ve done it again‌—‌placed yourself in danger without telling me. What kind of basis is that for a marriage?”

  She thought a quick flash of pain crossed James’s face, tightened the edges of his mouth. But then he let her go, his arms falling back to his sides. He stepped back, away from her, and said in the same even tone, “You are right. It is no basis at all. I’m sorry, Susanna. You would unquestionably be better off without me.”

  “What?” Susanna felt her breath go out, almost as from a physical blow. She had at times wondered whether James regretted their engagement. But it was only now, hearing the words from his mouth, that she realized she had never in her heart expected the fear to be proven right.

  But then she saw James’s hands. The rest of his body was taut and very still. But, just visible in the gloom of the alley, his hands shook.

  Susanna took a step forward, closing the distance between them, and looked up into James’s face. “You wish me to end our engagement?” She reached up and lightly touched his cheek. “Is that truly what you want?”

  She heard James draw a ragged breath, and he said, on an unsteady whisper, “What I want—”

  Slowly, he reached to touch her face as she had his, his fingers trailing lightly, gently, from her cheekbone to her jaw, and lower, to her throat and collarbone.

  Susanna shivered. It was still so dark that she could scarcely read his expression. But she thought he looked down at her as though he were trying to memorize the sight, preserve this moment in his mind.

  He shook his head and she felt another fine tremor run through the hand that rested once again against her cheek. “God, what I want—”

  From within the warehouse, a man’s voice‌—‌Philippe’s, she assumed‌—‌called out, “De Castres‌—‌what’s taking you so long? Have you found a whore out there or what?”

  Susanna heard a few raucous laughs from the other men at that, muffled by the warehouse wall.

  James jerked his hand back, but his reply was nonchalant, spoken in perfectly accented French. “I should be so lucky. Just a drunk, as we thought.”

  Then he lowered his voice again and looked back at Susanna. “I must go. I can’t even risk seeing you back to your carriage. Go quickly. And”‌—‌she thought a faint edge of a humorless smile curved his mouth‌—‌“though I know it’s entirely contrary to your nature, please try to stay safe.”

  Susanna moved towards him. “James—”

  But he was already walking swiftly towards the warehouse door from which he’d emerged. “I have to go.” He paused, just for a moment and looked back at her. “I’m sorry. I . . . ‌I have to go.”

  #

  Susanna had always thought the term ‘waking trance’ a product of some novelist’s overactive imagination. But as she made her way back towards the place where she had left her aunt and their carriage, she was barely conscious of her surroundings. One gloriously drunk old woman bellowing the words to ‘Robin Adair’ actually reeled into her as she passed by the public house. But Susanna barely felt it. It was, she thought, rather as though she were encased in a muffling gray cloud that prevented her feeling anything at all.

  Not an entirely unpleasant state of being. Except that she had already a queasiness in the pit of her stomach when she considered how she might feel once the numbness had passed.

  “Susanna? Susanna?”

  She realized abruptly that she had reached the carriage. And that her Aunt Ruth was leaning out of the window and saying her name.

  “I am sorry, Aunt Ruth‌—‌what did you say? I’m afraid I was not attending.”

  “That,” her aunt said dryly, “is moderately obvious. You have been standing there on the pavement for the past five minutes, staring at nothing at all.” Her aunt’s voice changed, growing kind and concerned. “My dear, are you all right? Did you find—” Ruth stopped. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  The coachman had jumped down from the driver’s seat and held out a hand to Susanna. She took it mechanically, climbing into the carriage and settling back into the seat opposite Aunt Ruth. Still feeling rather as though she were a child’s clockwork toy that had nearly run down.

  “I‌—‌yes. I suppose I did.” Susanna felt her lips twist slightly. “I found . . . ‌what I was looking for.”

  Ruth gave her another penetrating glance. But she asked nothing else. For which, Susanna thought, she would have been eternally grateful‌—‌if she had been able to feel anything at all just then.

  The carriage wheels lurched into motion, and she stared out the window, watching the street as they passed by. A few wisps of fog had begun to roll in, and figures came into view and disappeared again as though in some sort of dream. A flower-seller peddling wilted nosegays. Two children asleep in a doorway, their arms wrapped around each other.

  Susanna realized with another jolt that her aunt was speaking again. “I’m sorry, Aunt Ruth.” She made herself look away from the window, back at her aunt. “What was that you just asked?”

  “I asked whether you wouldn’t rather go home than go on to the assembly at Almack’s. After an experience like this one . . .” Ruth’s voice trailed off.

  Almack’s. The original plan of going to tonight’s assembly seemed so far off as to belong to another life. Still, Susanna thought of returning to the rented house. Undressing in her pretty, unfamiliar room, lying down on the unfamiliar bed‌—‌staring at the ceiling and attempting not to let every word James had spoken tonight replay over and over again in her head.

  “No, I would rather go,” Susanna said. “That is, if you are still feeling up to attending.”

  Ruth was still watching her closely. But she nodded and said, “Of course, my dear. And besides”‌—‌a faint smile touched the corners of Ruth’s mouth‌—‌“Lady Jersey would never forgive me if I failed to attend, after I made such a point of getting her to invite us tonight.”

  Ruth leaned forward, rapping on the carriage window. “Drive on to King’s Street, if you please.”

  Chapter 4

  The mood at Almack’s, Susanna decided after they had been there an hour, was one of sedate boredom.

  At first she thought it was merely her own preoccupation‌—‌in her present state she felt fully capable of finding a maharaja’s palace excruciatingly dull.

  But the Almack’s assembly rooms were hot and crowded and had little to recommend them. The main ballroom was large and bare, the ceiling supported by gilt c
olumns and the walls adorned with mirrors. Girls in pale, floating dresses, their flowers slightly wilting in the heat, sipped delicately at cups of lemonade and exchanged whispered confidences. Young men in the requisite black satin breeches and high starched collars stood about the room in awkward little knots.

  It was better than being alone with the unpleasant company of her own thoughts, Susanna thought. But only just.

  Aunt Ruth’s acquaintance‌—‌and their patroness for the night‌—‌Lady Sarah Villiers, Countess of Jersey, proved to be a dark-haired, vivacious woman of somewhere nearing thirty. She was‌—‌rather to Susanna’s surprise‌—‌very kind, and not unintelligent, as well. But before she had been in Lady Jersey’s company a quarter of an hour, Susanna had begun to understand the nickname of ‘Silence’ bestowed on the countess. The name was ironic‌—‌because Lady Jersey seemed to talk constantly, keeping up a steady stream of chatter with scarcely a pause for breath.

  “My dear, I am so dreadfully sorry to hear of what your aunt tells me of your young man’s disappearance. It is quite abominable of him to have gone off without a word‌—‌though I cannot believe he can have gone voluntarily, as pretty as you are. Of course, we all know what men are. But still, we will make every effort to assist you in finding your James. And if you do not, I shall make it my mission to introduce you to some gentlemen who will enable you to forget all about him!”

  The only blessing was that since the countess’s flow of talk never paused, Susanna was not required to give any replies save for the occasional murmur of assent.

  But‌—‌though they circled the floor twice and heard not a word in response to Lady Jersey’s enquiries about a James Ravenwood‌—‌Lady Jersey also appeared determined to begin at once with her scheme of introducing Susanna to other eligible young men. She kept dragging Susanna over to present her to one gentleman after another and insisting that the gentlemen ask Susanna for a dance.

  After dancing a set with young Lord Something-or-other‌—‌a thin, weedy young man looking half-strangled by the intricate folds of his neckcloth, who had stepped on Susanna’s feet no less than seven times‌—‌Susanna bowed to him, murmured something about having a headache and needing a moment’s rest. And then she ducked behind one of the gilded columns that outlined the room.