She rolled from the bed, tossed the sheets back, and scooped up last night’s abandoned garments before diving behind the dressing screen. She dropped the clothes and grabbed her chemise, slipping it on over her head, straining to hear what was being said.
“Evelyn didn’t know I’d been invited,” she heard her mother say. “Mrs. Vandervoort thought it would be a nice surprise for her. Where is my daughter?”
“Evie?” she heard Justin ask. She wriggled the petticoat up over her hips. “Oh, in the room.”
Evelyn peeked over the top of the screen as she scrambled into a shirtwaist. Justin had leaned his shoulder nonchalantly against the door, still obscuring Francesca’s view, settling in as if for a cozy chat.
Gads, he did it well! One would think he was either utterly innocent or that he had more brass than any man alive. She alone knew that the latter was closest to the truth.
“Poor lambkins,” he lowered his voice, “I think she’s nodded off. Hate to wake her. She’s been up all night seeing to last-minute details about the wedding. You’ll be proud of her, Lady Broughton, when you see the wonders she’s worked.”
“I am always been proud of my daughter,” Lady Broughton said calmly, but with a stiffness that Evelyn barely recognized.
Furiously, Evelyn looked about for the blue serge skirt she’d worn— Ah! There! She pounced on it and snapped it open, stepping into it and wrenching it over her hips.
“And well you should be, ma’am,” Justin said gravely. “She’s an extraordinary woman.”
Evelyn dragged her hair back from her face, twisting it savagely into a knot and securing it with a comb.
“Hm,” Francesca said slowly. “I understand why Evelyn might be burning the midnight oil, Mr. Powell, but I confess to being surprised at finding you here.”
The question was implicit. Evelyn held her breath.
“Oh. Well, I was out bird-watching. Good night for birding. Bright moon, no wind.”
“I’d forgotten you were an expert ornithologist,” Evelyn’s mother said consideringly.
She saw Justin shrug, the muscles in his shoulders bunching with oiled grace. “Not an expert, per se.”
“Didn’t Evie say you’d discovered a species?”
“Ah, yes. Bubo Formosa Plurimus.” He paused as he always did at this point and added, “Minor.”
Francesca was silent a long moment. “You know, it’s been years since I was at the convent school, but I was always a dab hand with languages. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t that translate into something like ‘Most Beautiful Owl’?” she asked. She paused—as Justin had—and added, “‘Small’?”
“Ah, mostly.” He sounded distinctly uncomfortable.
“Or maybe,” Francesca murmured in an absorbed tone, “it would be better translated as ‘Most Beautiful Little Owl,’ or even better, ‘Most Beautiful Owlet.’ ”
Owlet? But he was always calling her . . . Her hands froze, arrested in the act of buttoning the skirt.
Why, he’d never discovered a bird. He’d been speaking about her. Hadn’t he said something to Herr Dekker about the bird flying into his window? He’d been making fun of her!
The bounder! Doubtless, he thought himself fabulously clever. Well, as soon as she—
“But I’m keeping you from explaining what exactly you are doing here in my daughter’s room while she sleeps.”
All thoughts of Justin’s duplicity vanished. Evelyn waited, her heart hammering in her chest.
“Oh, that.” His voice was all cheery ease again. “Only been here since sunrise. I was coming back from the woods when I saw Evie’s light on and her moving about inside. So, I decided to come say ’allo. We’ve become great friends, your daughter and I.”
“Really. How ‘great’?”
Evelyn choked at her mother’s flat tone, but Justin was made of better—or was that worse?—stuff. She could almost see his expression, perfectly oblivious to her mother’s implied accusation.
“Oh, very great,” Justin enthused. She would never trust that candid tone again. “She’s a pip.”
She stabbed another pin into her hair. There. She was as ready as she was ever going to be. She only hoped she was half as good at dissemblance as Justin. She took her place on the chaise, tucked her bare feet under her, laid her head on the arm, and called out in what she hoped was a sleepy voice, “Who’s a pip?”
She noted the slight tensing of Justin’s broad shoulders, and then he was flinging the door wide, stepping back, and allowing her mother to sweep into the room. Justin turned to face Evelyn, beaming with bonhomie.
She pushed herself to a sitting position. “Mother? Mother! What are you doing here!” she cried, pushing to her feet and racing across the room to meet her mother halfway. Her mother enfolded her in a fond embrace. Only after she felt her mother’s arm wrap around her did Evelyn realize how much she wanted her here, her guidance and counsel.
Amazing. Why, ever since Verity’s coming-out, she’d been the one family members came to to organize things, manage things, and find solutions. But now, suddenly, she wanted her mother.
Evelyn’s eyes stung and she clung more tightly.
“Why, Evelyn dear!” her mother exclaimed. “Are you all right?”
This was stupid. Evelyn pushed herself away and smiled brightly. “Yes,” she said, “yes, of course! It’s just that I didn’t expect to see you, and when I did, I realized how much I missed you!”
“You missed me?” Francesca asked, wide-eyed. “Well, I missed you, too,” she said, sounding a little giddy. Hadn’t she ever told her mother she missed her? How strange.
Evelyn took her hand and led her to the chair beside her desk. “Sit down and tell me why you are here and so early—and where is Father?”
Francesca laughed. “At home in bed, I should imagine. He couldn’t come. I arrived just a short while ago and couldn’t resist coming to see you at once. Happily, you were already awake, or mostly so, or so Mr. Powell was kind enough to inform me. He guarded your slumber quite vigilantly.”
Francesca looked over her shoulder at Justin, who stood by the doorway smiling benevolently. The ass.
She returned her attention to Evelyn. “Remember when Mrs. Vandervoort and I met at your aunt Agatha’s offices? Well, chance led us to meet again a few days later. One thing led to another and we’ve become friends.
“When she invited us to the abbey for her wedding celebration, I was most pleased to accept.”
Evelyn squeezed her mother’s hand. “I’m so glad you did.”
“I was to arrive last night, but a train derailed—no, no! You mustn’t look like that. It was a freight train, nothing lost but a good deal of coal. Still, we were forced to wait while they cleared the tracks.”
“How tiresome for you,” Evelyn exclaimed.
“Not at all. It happened that there were other wedding guests on the train: Lord and Lady Dalton, the Gould-Hedgeses, and Lord Stow. Between the lot of us we made quite a lively party. Played charades all night,” she finished.
From the corner of her eye, Evelyn saw Justin’s fatuous smile fade. Something her mother had said had surprised him.
“I’m glad you didn’t find it too distressing.”
“Not at all.” Francesca leaned over and kissed Evelyn’s cheek and in doing so dislodged a pile of correspondence from the corner of the desk. Letters and envelopes fluttered to the ground.
“Oh, bother! Now look what I’ve done!” she exclaimed, bending over to retrieve the fallen pile. She scooped up one after another letter, pausing at the third and frowning. With a cluck of her tongue, she rifled through the letters she held. She studied them with a furrowed brow. “Well, that’s odd,” she said.
“What’s odd, Lady Broughton?” Evelyn looked up to find Justin standing near. She hadn’t even heard him come over. His expression was mild.
“These letters from Agatha,” she replied. “They can’t be from her.”
“What do you mean
?” Once again, it was Justin who spoke.
“They can’t be,” Francesca insisted, shaking her head in bewilderment. “Either these are forged, or the ones I’ve been receiving from her are.”
“Why would you say that?” Evelyn asked.
“Because these are posted from all sorts of foreign destinations, whereas the letters we’ve received were written from one place, the same location in France.”
Evelyn felt Justin’s tension.
“That doesn’t make any sense. Why would someone pretend to be Agatha writing to you from foreign countries?” her mother murmured. She looked up, laughing a little at the absurdity of it. “Ah, well. I suppose we’ll just have to wait until Agatha returns and ask her.”
Evelyn didn’t feel amused and, judging from the dangerous glint in Justin’s eyes, neither did he. A horrifying explanation for the letters had occurred to her, and as her thoughts raced back over the last months—and all the letters supposedly from foreign countries written in an unfamiliar hand, the vaguely labeled crates delivered—the suspicion grew into a conviction.
Justin had not been the only person “set up.”
She met his gaze. His expression was cautionary. He thought the same thing. But how was she involved? What role could she possibly play?
As an alternate bait? Another red herring?
Suddenly the bedroom door flew open. Merry stood in the door, panting for breath, her hand at her chest. “Vite! Vite! Your mother is here! Mon Dieu! You have to get rid of . . .” Her voice trailed off as her gaze fell on Francesca. Lady Broughton had swiveled slowly in her chair at Merry’s dramatic entrance and was regarding the puffing maid with a faintly inimical gaze.
“Why, hello, Merry,” she said smoothly. “So nice to see you. I trust you are well?”
Merry’s head bobbed up and down, her eyes bulging as if she were regarding some dangerous beast instead of Evelyn’s sweet mother.
“Good,” said Francesca. “Pray, don’t let me keep you from speaking. What fascinating thing were you encouraging my daughter to ‘get rid of’?”
“Ah. . . . This mess!” Merry grinned with gargoyle brightness. “Yes! Il un scandale!” She tched in disgust.
“Ah!” Justin said, drawing Evelyn’s attention. “I hear the sound of a work crew being assembled and that means it is time for me to bid you ladies adieu.”
“Must you?” Evelyn couldn’t control the tincture of panic that escaped into her voice and tried to hide it with a bright smile.
Her mother glanced at her, surprised she’d been so forward. Evelyn didn’t care. She wanted to know what he thought, what she should do. She wasn’t a spy! She was a wedding planner! This was his area of expertise, not hers!
“Yes. I’m sure you want to conduct your reunion in privacy. But I promise I’ll be back later to help you drag all these what-nots to their appointed place. And I’ll send Beverly for that other thing,” he said. “Pleasure to see you again, Lady Broughton. Miss Molière.”
And before Evelyn could protest further, he bowed and made his escape.
As Justin closed the bedroom door behind him, his face became transformed. He strode past a housemaid who took one look at him and scurried out of his way, linens clutched to her chest.
At the end of the long hall, Beverly appeared, panting. “Sir!” he called. “Sir! Stow is here.”
“I know,” Justin answered without breaking stride. How the devil had Beverly known to look for him here? And he could have sworn that Merry had come expressly to warn Evie to get him out of her bedroom before Lady Broughton arrived. It was an interesting thread to follow and, had not other matters been far more pressing, one he would have.
“What room has Stow been assigned?”
“The third down from yours. But he’s in the dining room now, taking an early breakfast with the other guests who’ve just arrived.” He swung around as Justin strode past him and trotted after him. “Where are you going?”
“To see Bernard,” Justin answered grimly. “I’ll need to talk to you immediately after. Meet me in my room in forty-five minutes.”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“Forty-five minutes,” Justin repeated and, forcing a congenial smile, pushed open the door to the dining hall.
“There you are!” He paused at the threshold and gazed about in feigned delight. “You are Mrs. Vandervoort’s latest arriving guests, are you not? Jolly good. No, no, madame, pray don’t halt your breakfast on my account. I’m just the owner of the place, what?”
He smiled engagingly at the stout brunette who, along with her two male companions, looked up at his entrance, fork half-raised to her open mouth.
The two gentlemen rose. “Pleased to meet you. . . .” The taller gentleman hesitated, clearly embarrassed that he did not know the name of the man who was, in whatever roundabout way, his host.
“Powell. Justin Powell. Likewise, Mr. . . . ?” he trailed off invitingly.
“Sir Bernard Stow. And these are my companions, Tom and Ida Gould-Hedges.”
“Charmed,” Justin said before turning back to Bernard. “This is good luck. I was actually looking for you, sir.”
“Me?” Bernard didn’t do it nearly as well as Justin did. His gaze clearly held a warning.
“Yes, you, sir. There’s some confusion over which bags are yours. They have the lot spread out in the back hall and the poor maid is in tears, not wanting to make a mistake. She’s never served such exalted guests, poor creature. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course,” piped in the brunette lady, her round face kind.
“Would you mind popping down the hall and clearing the matter up? Won’t take but a minute.”
“Er, yes, I suppose.” Bernard crumpled his napkin with rather more force than necessary and dashed it next to his plate before excusing himself. Wordlessly, he exited into the hall. With one last smile at the Gould-Hedgeses, Justin followed, closing the door firmly behind him.
He did not look at Bernard. He didn’t trust himself. Not yet. Instead, he moved past him, and heard his superior fall into step behind him, hastening to catch up. Only after he’d led Bernard into a small niche off of the front sitting room did he swing to face him.
“You had better have a bloody good reason for this, Justin,” Bernard said in a flat voice.
“Oh, I do,” Justin muttered, and unleashed a right hook straight at Bernard’s jaw.
Chapter 22
JUSTIN WASN’T SUICIDAL. Whether or not he liked it, he was an officer in the army, and Bernard was the man from whom he took his orders. At the very last instant, he pulled his punch. The blow, which would have felled a man much larger than Bernard, flew by his face, grazing his cheek.
Still, Justin could not deny his satisfaction when Bernard jerked back seconds too late to have avoided the blow—if Justin’s intent had been to hit him—and realized it. Sweat broke out on his forehead and his hand shook as he took a handkerchief from his coat pocket and mopped his face.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded in a hoarse whisper. “Have you lost you mind, man?”
“No. But I begin to think I work for a madman,” Justin said with controlled fury. “That was just a demonstration, Bernard.”
“Are you threatening me?” Bernard asked in amazement.
“Yes,” Justin answered. “Oh, yes.”
“I won’t stand here and listen to this. I’m your—”
“You’re nothing right now, Bernard. Nothing to me except a source of information.”
The coldness in Justin’s eyes caused Bernard to start. Until that moment he’d never realized just how dangerous a man worked for him. Had worked for him. Because he would certainly have Justin’s rank for this outrage, once the present situation was cleaned up.
Right now, however, Bernard needed Justin, and Bernard was the ultimate pragmatist—even more so than Justin. Except that Justin apparently wasn’t as pragmatic as Bernard had assumed, which begged the question: What ha
d changed him?
“I assume you’ve discovered the crate is empty.”
“Yes.”
“That was the one thing I feared.” Bernard shrugged, delving into a pocket for his silver cigarette case. Casually, he selected an American blend and tapped it on the lid, his thoughts racing, picking through and discarding different options. He would pace as close to the truth as he dared, and see just how much his one-time prize pupil had hypothesized.
For a second, his face reflected his regret. It was criminal, really, this waste of Justin’s talents.
“We used you to find an agent. Not just any agent, but an extraordinary one, and extraordinarily dangerous.” He watched Justin’s face carefully. “But I see you’ve already surmised as much. He’s been working for years. Always in the shadows, always a step ahead. We know virtually nothing about him other than that he’s always at the center of international intrigue, passing out vital information to the highest bidder.”
“Including us?”
Bernard should have seen that coming. “Occasionally,” he admitted.
“And that’s the reason you want to find him,” Justin said thoughtfully. “You don’t want to take him into custody. You want to identify him. Because then you can feed him whatever information you want.”
“Bravo. You were ever a cunning lad.” Bernard lit the cigarette and took a puff.
Justin wasn’t interested in praise. His thoughts were running down different avenues. “That’s why all the blinds and double blinds. You set me to guard an empty crate because you knew I’d keep it out of his hands or die in the effort. For as soon as your spy realized he’d been gulled, he’d fade back into the woodwork.
“You had to keep me between him and the crate so he’d keep trying to get at it and you’d have more opportunities to identify him. I suppose I should be flattered by your faith in me.”
Bernard wisely refrained from speaking.
“Do you realize he thinks Evelyn is me? He found the crate in her room and broke into it. Unfortunately I must have chased him off when I arrived.”
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