The Spymaster's Lady sl-1

by Joanna Bourne

  “He’s been in worse corners than this. You French don’t know half the things he’s done.”

  The cloud of misery that had been weighing upon her lightened somewhat. She must remember that Grey was no ordinary man. He had been in many dangerous snarls, and always he had untangled them and escaped. Perhaps he and Doyle were even now enacting some fiendishly clever plan, and he would come looking for her again as he promised. She would not put it past him.

  “I know almost nothing of Grey. I have not interested myself in the British, as there are any number of other nations to spy upon. It is a grave lack in my education. You, little brother, I know something of, from the time you worked in Milan.”

  “When did I become your little brother? I thought we were twins.”

  “We are, but you are seventeen minutes younger. Because of this, I have always bullied you unmercifully. I work these things out when I am playing a role, you see. I used to blackmail all your candy from you when we were children in Grafing, and I told tales on you and got you into trouble. Even now I tell my friends about your mistresses so the young ladies are all shocked with you. I am a terrible person when I’m your twin.”

  He chuckled weakly. “You’re a terrible person even when you aren’t, did you know that?”

  “I have several terrible people to be, within me, when I need them.” Twigs scratched her annoyingly as she stretched. “What does he look like? I have not seen him, you know.”

  “Skin like shoe leather. Wide across the shoulders. Big barrel of a chest…”

  “Not Doyle, as you understand quite well. I have seen Monsieur Doyle several times in Vienna when we were with great attention not noticing each other. What does Grey look like?”

  “He is the Head of Section for the British Intelligence Service. He is not for you, my child.”

  “Bien sûr. I am also, you understand, not for him. But I would still like to know what he looks like.”

  “Tall and battered around some. Not handsome.” That was all he had to say.

  “I hope you are more eloquent in reporting to your superiors, for of a certainty I am no wiser than I was three minutes ago.” She grimaced toward the unseen ceiling. “Which was doubtless your intention. You are right, though. It does not matter.”

  There was no picture of Grey in her mind. He was strong arms to harbor in and broad hands with calloused palms that had touched her everywhere. He was sternness and great certainty in deciding what must be done, so much certainty that the air around him was charged with it. He was the cleverest of spymasters, frightening when he was one’s enemy. He was the smell of clean soap and a roughness of his chin when he had not shaved for several hours. Those things, and a voice speaking the French of Toulouse, were all she had. Strange to know so much about him and not to know what he looked like.

  Adrian said, “Have you fallen in love with Grey? That wasn’t wise of you.”

  Sometimes, she was not wise. There were many people who could have told him this.

  He said, “You aren’t going to deny it, are you? Not to your twin.”

  She listened to the fire for a while. “When one says, ‘I will not let myself feel anything for that man,’ it is already too late.”

  “Why, Annique?”

  “I do not think such stupidity can have a reason.” She had most assuredly been stupid. “To love…it is a great madness for those in our profession.”

  “You’re right about that.” He shifted again, uncomfortably. “It was a woman who put that bullet in me. Did you know?”

  “One cannot tell from looking at the wound, as it happens.”

  “A remarkable girl. Something like you, in a way. A great player in the Game.”

  “You should still not let her shoot holes in you. You are also very good at this Game you play.”

  “We’re all daunting as demons. Did Grey get to you yet, or are you still a virgin?”

  She should not have been surprised. There was nothing this one would not say. “You make numberless assumptions, many of them wrong.”

  “I don’t think so. Has he?”

  “Has no one told you that you are nosy beyond belief?”

  “You don’t have to answer.”

  “But you will speculate upon this endlessly, whatever I say or do not say. And you will do it aloud. There is no shame in you, Adrian.”

  “None.” She heard the smile in his voice.

  She sighed. “Tiens. Your Monsieur Grey has done nothing at all to me, except that kiss which you saw, and perhaps some other careless bagatelles in these last few days, which I do not remember very well. It does not matter much, one way or the other, whether one has performed that particular act or not…And you may stop your foolish laughing, which will only make your shoulder ache.”

  “If Grey doesn’t hurry up and take you to bed, I swear I will. You should find out what you’ve missed.”

  “Very little, I suspect. This business of man and woman is not a club with secret passwords. Me, I know all there is to know of these things and—”

  “That’s what I thought. You’ve done nothing. Grey is six or seven kinds of a fool.”

  “This is a very indelicate conversation, and I do not believe I will have it with you any longer.”

  “If you get the chance, make love to him. He’s not a master of the art, like me, but—”

  “You may keep watch, you, in a more serious manner. And do not pander. It is unbecoming.” She pulled the cloak up so it covered him more securely.

  “I’m warm enough.”

  “Then you shall stay so. I am glad I did not make love to Grey. He annihilates any common sense I have, which is disturbing to me as a Frenchwoman, for we are a logical race. I am more a Frenchwoman than a spy. Did I tell you I am decided to retire from spying?”

  “Really? Governments all over Europe breathe a sigh of relief. Will you do it any time soon?”

  “The moment I deliver you to safety and perform one small final task I have set myself, I shall slip away to become obscure and harmless as a dormouse. Probably in your own England. It is a big place, according to the maps. I do not think your Service will find me.”

  “It’s hard for a blind woman to hide.” He was warning her. Always, just an inch beyond their conversation, hovered the uncomfortable truth—that they were enemies.

  “I shall manage. When we leave here, I shall take you to my smuggler friend up the coast, if he is not in prison again. He can be trusted utterly. We are here in his very domain, which is most fortunate for us. I do not think we could travel far, we two.”

  “You know where we are.” He was amused.

  “If this is the monastery of St. Honoré, I do. I hold many good maps within my head, little brother. It is a talent of mine. Also, I know the coast here well. When I was a child, we came to visit just this smuggler. He is an Englishman like you. One of my mother’s lovers. I have a picture of Englishmen not quite accurate, perhaps, from having met only spies and smugglers in my—”

  A sound that was not wind or the fall of rain or the faint rumble of the surf slipped into the pattern of the night. A distant pounding. She stopped talking instantly.

  Horses. They came from the direction of the coast. In a single surge of motion, Adrian was up, kicking the fire apart, smothering it.

  The beat of hooves grew louder and slowed. The riders turned aside, coming into the monastery.

  “It is better if we go separately,” she whispered. I will be his death. Adrian must abandon me and run. “You will go first. Out the back. I have cleared an escape route as far as the wall.”

  “Of course. An escape route. In between picking apples, you cleared an escape route. I’d expect no less.” Laughter rippled in his voice. For Adrian, disaster would always be a game.

  The monastery courtyard filled with clatter and men talking between themselves. They had come to search the buildings. The metallic scrape beside her said Adrian had gathered up the pistol and was checking it. Then came a small mi
scellany of sounds as he rooted through his bag. His knives would be finding their way to their accustomed spots about his person. One, in a sheath, landed in her lap.

  “Take that and put it away,” he said. “This is what we’re going to do—”

  “We will run. You go through the garden. I will—”

  “Shut up, Cub, and listen. I leave first. I’m going to take these Frenchmen for a stroll in the woods. No telling what accidents might befall them there.” He could have been talking of a pleasant evening’s entertainment—stopping at a café, then on to the theater. “You, ma petite, will keep your head down and stay put till they’ve gone after me.”

  If he walked silently into the rain, he would be safe. Instead, he would lead the hunters away from her. “Do not—”

  “Money.” He snaked a smooth, cool purse into her bodice, between her breasts. “Buy something pretty. When you get to England…” He was fitting his boots on, fast. “…forget about hiding. Go to the British Service and turn yourself in. They’ll make a deal with you for the Albion plans. And they’ll keep you safe from Leblanc.”

  “I will not, of course.”

  “Listen carefully. In London, go to Number Seven Meeks Street, not far from Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Meeks Street, off Braddy. Remember that.”

  “My memory is excellent. But I will not do it.”

  “I’ll see you there. Stay alive. Grey will kill me if you don’t.” He pulled his coat from the bracken, awkward and rustling as he put it on, because one of his arms was not working.

  He was most probably going to his death, so she used his true name. “Good luck, my Hawker.”

  “Why are all the best women French spies? Bad planning on somebody’s part.” He set his open hand, briefly, on her hair. “I would kiss you good-bye, sister mine, but I don’t think I could stand the comparison with Grey. When I’m gone, count to fifty, get out the window behind you, and take that escape route you’ve laid out through the garden. I’ll be headed the other way. You have a chance, I think.”

  Men approached the chapel. She could hear them. She took his sleeve to hold him one last minute and whispered, “The village of St. Grue is five miles north, up the coast. The smugglers are run by an Englishman named Josiah. The password is jasmine, like the flower. Tell him you are from me.”

  “That’s where I’ll aim. Good luck, Annique mia.”

  She heard his footsteps down the length of the chapel, then a scuffle as he climbed through one of the empty windows. A moment later, shots came. Two. Three. Four of them. He had showed himself to the men in the courtyard. Somehow, weak as he was, he must have made it over the wall. Men shouted and ran, yelling that he had escaped. Horses set steel on stones, riding for the gate.

  She stayed quietly where she was and listened. Perhaps they would all be fools…

  Sadly, they were not. One horse still shuffled on the stones outside. One man had remained behind to finish the search.

  So. She would deal with him. She lifted her cosh and took her staff from where it leaned across the top of the altar. She had swept the floor clean in the path she must take. It was entirely silent to creep the length of the chapel and press herself flat against the wall behind the door. The searcher was in no hurry. Long minutes passed before she heard boots on the stones outside. The latch lifted and the door creaked. He crossed the threshold.

  Paving stones crashed to the floor as the snare fell. He yelled. She was on him at once, using the cosh. It took only two blows to make him most thoroughly immobile.

  She and Adrian had discussed at length where a man would fall, tangled and fighting in the web that came down upon him. It was a pleasure to discover how correct they had been. He was sprawled unconscious upon the doorsill itself. Her prize was breathing, so it was not even a murder on her conscience.

  Altogether satisfactory. That was one man less to hunt Adrian. It had been worth the hour it had taken her to weave her trap.

  She knew him by the smell of his clothing before she felt his features. How remarkably persistent Henri was turning out to be. She cut strips of his shirt with Adrian’s knife and tied him up before she extracted him from the strings of her trap. Then she dragged him the length of the chapel to the pillar she had picked out. He carried a useful knife, which she collected from him. She also helped herself to his money, of which there seemed to be a good deal. There is no rain which does not water someone’s turnips.

  When she had finished, she wiped her hands on her dress—truly, she did not like touching Henri—and considered her alternatives. Should she go…or stay? Adrian might return. Grey would come, or Doyle, if either lived. Or Henri’s comrades might come looking for him. There would be visits from everyone, in fact, who was not lying in his blood out in the woods. This would be a most busy place, this chapel, if anyone survived.

  Most certainly she should leave immediately. She had Henri’s horse. Within a few miles of this spot were fifty friends who would help her go to England. She was ruled by grave responsibilities. Whether she gave the Albion plans to England or remained loyal to France, she must not let them fall into Leblanc’s hands. It was stupidity beyond measure to stay in this chapel on such an eventful night.

  If Grey came, he might be wounded. He might need help.

  And so her decision was made. There were various small businesses to attend to. She walked outside into the cold density of rain, to lead Henri’s horse to an inconspicuous spot in the briar jungle behind the chapel. It tried, several times, to bite her and succeeded once. Then there was her trap to set once more, with rocks and rope, above the door. It was Ovid, after all, who said that one’s hook should always be cast, for there will be fish in the pool where one least expects it.

  HAWKER crouched in the sand, feral and silent. They were closing in—not Leblanc’s men, but a gaggle of dragoons on patrol. Nowhere to hide. He was too weak to run.

  But somebody else was out here in the dunes tonight. Smugglers. The sound of gunfire had flushed them out. They had as much to fear from the dragoons as he did. And they had a boat.

  He flogged his body into motion, staggering toward the breakers. Mushy sand dragged at his feet. Nothing to see in this black fog. Nothing.

  Follow the sound. Annique walked around like this all the time. He could do it for a hundred yards.

  The boat was already yards out in the water, oars stroking with a regular slap. He splashed after it. “Attendez. Aidez-moi.” Damn cold stuff, seawater.

  Clomping and shouting their way over the crest of the dunes, came the dragoons. Gunshot skipped across the water. He should have learned to swim. It couldn’t be hard. Dogs did it.

  Waves knocked him down. His clothes weighed like lead. The ground disappeared beneath his feet, and he sank like a stone. He barely felt the arms that pulled him on board.

  “Ain’t one of ours, Josiah,” an English voice said. Sharp corners bit in as they rolled him over. A bullet pinged into the side of the boat.

  “Frenchie by the look of ’im.”

  “Throw ’im back.” Sussex voices reached a consensus. He was lifted roughly and shoved to the gunnels.

  “Slime-gut, buggering pus-suckers.” He skimmed back to consciousness. “Password’s…jasmine.”

  “That’s the king’s English, that is. Stow ’im aboard, lads, I won’t leave even a Cockney drown.” The voice of command was an older man with a Yorkshire accent. Someone leaned close. “Cover ’im up and let’s get out of here.”

  He was pushed into the bottom of the boat and became limp and unknowing as a fish.

  BIRDS chittered back and forth, discussing the coming day to see if they liked it, which was something they did before it became truly light. She sat beside Henri, listening to him grunt and thrash. He was trying to get out of the knots she’d tied. He would not succeed.

  When a single horseman entered the courtyard, she took up the cosh and got into position.

  The second fish in her net fought more strongly than the first. She was n
ot gentle with her cosh. This man, returning so soon, meant the hunt for Adrian was over. He must be dead, somewhere out in those trees. She was crying when she tied the man’s hands behind him.

  Then she checked to see whether she had crushed his skull, subduing him. He was unconscious but breathing. He was Grey.

  She did not often have a chance to indulge in her extensive collection of swear words. She did so now. Did Grey have no care for himself at all? Did he not know how dangerous she was? Nothing could be stupider than for Grey to come to this place, sneaking about, wearing another man’s coat so that she did not know him. She would tell him so when he woke up.

  She went quickly to wet a cloth in the nearest puddle. By the time she got back, he was groaning. She had not hurt him lethally, then, doubtless because his head was of solid, stupid rock. She washed his face with the cloth to bring him fully awake and as repayment for the several wet cloths he had slapped across her.

  “Annique? My God. You’re the one who set that trap?”

  “But of course. My friend, I must tell you. More than two hours ago, men rode into this monastery. Leblanc’s men. Adrian led them away, except for Henri, who is over there.” She waved in the general direction of Henri, who was wriggling noisily by the pillar she had attached him to. “Adrian has not come back. There were shots…He is so weak. And there were at least three of them.”

  “He’ll make it. He’s the sneakiest man alive. The men chasing us are great blundering dolts in the woods. City men. Untie me.”

  “Doyle is…?” She couldn’t finish the question.

  “Leading them in circles. They won’t get Doyle. He’s been doing this longer than you’ve been alive. And we killed a couple. Get these ropes off my hands.”

  “I do not think so.” She did run her finger over the ties she had made, but it was to check that they were quite secure. “I wish Doyle very well. You also, Grey. I wish you the good luck in your travels.” She spoke to him, this last time, in the intimate form of the language, the one used between friends and lovers. “I part company with you now, as has been my intention for some while. This should not amaze you.”