Catharine. A dull ache bloomed in his chest every time his mind returned to her. At least when his thoughts were consumed with worry for the children, they provided a respite from the unrelenting heartache. Here it was, three days since he’d seen her with Biedermeier, and he could still conjure the feeling of devastation, of shock, that coursed through him as he clung to the vines beneath her window. The sensation was as sharp and new as ever—the passage of days had brought no relief. He could not stop his mind from filling in what must have happened later, after he’d turned away in disgust. The imagined scene was a rock lodged in his throat, cutting off his air supply. The worst part was, if he were being honest with himself, Catharine was part of the reason he hadn’t yet gone to the Home Office. If the gunmaker were tried for treason, would she end up entangled in it?
He thought back to her visit to his rooms on Chancery Lane. She had been so distressed as she entreated him to help. When she’d come to him that day in his rooms, he thought he was seeing her true self. As they’d lain together after making love, she’d seemed girlish, shy, embarrassed even, as she’d exhorted him to say something. To have thought he was special, to have thought he was giving her something of value, when all the while she was splitting her affections between him and Biedermeier…and God knew who else. His cheeks heated with the shame of it all.
When he’d asked for and extracted a promise that she would quit Madame Cherie’s, he thought they’d come to a silent understanding, that a promise had been swirling in the air, a promise that would be spoken once this business with the school experiment was over. The worst part was how utterly she caused him to question his own judgment. How could he have been so deluded?
Because she was an excellent actress. Occam’s razor. It was the most logical conclusion. It was all about amusement for her. She’d told him as much at their first meeting. She’d set herself up at Madame Cherie’s because she wanted to be amused, a woman willing to play at selling herself for diversion. He wasted his time worrying about whether a visit to the Home Office would endanger her.
No, a small part of him said. No. He knew her. There had to be something else going on.
“You don’t look well, Dr. Burnham.”
James startled and whipped his gaze to the sound of the voice. Biedermeier leaned against the frame of the doorway to the schoolroom. He hadn’t seen the man since they’d both returned from London, Biedermeier having spent Monday doing business—paying bribes, most likely—at the proof house.
He didn’t have to work to sort through a swirl of opposing thoughts and conflicting emotions when he saw the man, because they all fell away and were replaced by fury. Pure, white-hot fury.
“Good God, man, what’s the matter?”
The gunmaker’s appearance caused everything to snap into focus. It was time to stop dallying and face the future. James forced a deep breath into his lungs. “Nothing. How may I help you?” Tell me now because I guarantee it will be the last time I do.
“I wanted to let you know I’ll be traveling to town again this coming Friday. I have some business to attend to.”
So do I. “Oh?”
“Yes, some business and some pleasure. And then a party.”
“A party. How nice.”
“Yes, the bawdy house I frequent—it’s quite exclusive—is having a grand anniversary bash on Saturday.”
Is it now? A plan began to form in James’s newly hardened mind.
“I thought you might want to retrieve your notebooks from the office. Or that I should at least let you know my plans so you don’t end up needing them and not being able to get them.”
“Yes, thank you. I probably should retrieve them,” James said, his placid tone belying the hatred roiling in his gut.
“Would it be convenient to come get them now?” asked Biedermeier.
James pressed his lips together. “Yes, quite convenient.”
Catharine was dismayed when, on Tuesday morning, Lucinda announced that Lord Blackstone was waiting in the front parlor. Yesterday, she’d told the servants she was not at home to callers. She knew she couldn’t simply hide in her bedchamber forever—and certainly not from Blackstone—but she’d hoped for at least a few more days of respite.
“I’m sorry, my lady. I conferred with Chilton before disturbing you. It’s just that…well…an earl! I’ve put him in the formal drawing room.”
Catharine threw back the bedclothes. “Of course you did the right thing, Lucinda.”
Fifteen minutes later, bundled into a blue-and-green-striped day dress with her hair piled hastily atop her head, Catharine hurried downstairs, hoping she didn’t look like she felt: sluggish and heartsick. She wondered which version of Blackstone would be waiting for her, the cool spymaster she’d always known, or his more recent incarnation, which she didn’t quite know how to characterize.
He stood when she entered, and she could see that it was the latter. Blackstone…her friend? For the first time in days her grief receded just a little. To make friends with the impervious spymaster—what an odd and unexpected byproduct of the mess she’d created.
His dark eyes narrowed as they assessed her. She sat on the sofa and gestured for him to sit.
“You look like you’ve been brooding.”
“Shall I ring for tea?”
“No, this isn’t a social call.”
“What a shock.”
He pursed his lips. “Well, that’s not entirely true. I did intend to inquire after your well-being. I’m not very good at this.”
“At what?”
He paused before answering with a question. “Friendship?”
She smiled. “Don’t worry, I’m not either.”
Cocking his head, he regarded her intently. “I find myself rather concerned about you. I want you to be happy. It’s quite unexpected. That’s friendship, isn’t it?” he asked, smiling a little.
“I think that’s generally how it’s done, or so I am told. That’s the extent of it, though, correct? You don’t find yourself wildly attracted to me, do you?” she teased.
The smile widened into a grin. “Not in the least.”
“Excellent.” She stood and reached for the bell pull. “We are definitely friends then, whether we like it or no. So I’m ringing for tea, and we shall muddle through the protocol together.”
As the tea service was set up, they chatted about the news from the war. Blackstone surprised her by passing on a few of the ton’s latest on-dits. One of the benefits of being a spy, it seemed, was that one was perpetually caught up on the latest gossip.
Something inside her was thawing. For the first time in a long while she could imagine her future. She would be very sad to be alone. Well, not to be alone, really, but to be without James. Telling James the truth would be heartbreaking, but she had to do it.
Still, sitting here with Blackstone reminded her that there might be something beyond the heartbreak. For the first time since girlhood she contemplated life without a mask. She might be ready, she thought, to simply be herself—a woman who had been very lucky to serve her country, who had a few dear friends, and who lived a full life. A woman who had known the deep respect and friendship of a treasured husband, and a woman who had known great, intense love, if only for a brief time.
She refilled the earl’s cup. “I’m so glad you’ve come. There’s nothing like a visit from a friend to lift one’s spirits, is there?”
“Visits,” he said, nodding his thanks for the tea. “That is what friends do, isn’t it? How do people with multiple friends ever get anything done?”
“Most people don’t spend all their time trying to save England from its enemies.” She smiled. “But I’ve diverted you from your true purpose. You’d said this wasn’t a social call.”
“Not merely a social call. But you’re correct. I came to ask you something, something you’re not going to like.” She set her cup down in order to give him her full attention. “Will you come to Madame Cherie’s soirée on Saturday?
”
She should have been upset by the request, but she merely felt the heavy yoke of obligation settling itself around her neck again. “Must I?”
“Of course not. I will understand if you feel you cannot. It’s just that I want everything to appear normal. I don’t want Biedermeier to find your absence suspicious, since you told him you’d be there. I’m led to believe there will be no private assignations at the party.”
“That’s right.”
“I’ll stay with you the whole time. In fact, I’ll positively monopolize you. You can make apologetic eyes at him across the room.”
“Will that work? Will he let you dominate my company?”
“I’m an earl. It comes in handy sometimes.”
“And what about after the soirée?” she asked, voicing the unspoken question that was looming. The answer could mean the difference between the mission’s success or failure.
“To be worried about later. My immediate concern is that nothing seems suspicious to him on Saturday. We’re playing a long game here, and I want to protect the progress we’ve made so far.”
She sighed. Attending the party wouldn’t cost her anything. It would be selfish to refuse. “I’ll come.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s not as if I have anything else to do.” She tried for flippancy, but was embarrassed by the hitch in her voice.
“Your pardon? The ever-popular Viscountess Cranbrook has a hole in her social calendar?”
“Yes, well, I find myself less and less interested in the amusements I used to enjoy. And, frankly, without that, I’m not left with much.” She looked at the floor. Telling the truth was difficult, but gratifying.
“Why don’t you talk to him?”
Startled, she looked up to find the earl’s keen stare fixed on her. His large frame was sprawled casually against the green velvet settee, but underneath his repose was an edge of seriousness. And those mahogany eyes, they never missed anything. “We had an…understanding,” she said. They hadn’t spoken the words aloud, but that kiss in the park…that kiss had sealed it as surely as if he’d presented her with a ring. “I breached it. I lied to him, too.”
“And he won’t be persuaded to forgive? My guess is that even a man with the most exacting standards would make an exception for a woman like you.”
“I thought you weren’t attracted to me!”
He grinned. “Wildly. I said I wasn’t wildly attracted to you.”
She shook her head sadly, even as she smiled, appreciating the banter. “No. It’s over. It has to be. It’s not just Biedermeier. It’s…everything. I’ve spent the last few years living a terribly shallow life, Blackstone. I don’t apologize for it, but I’m not the woman he thought I was.” She swallowed. “I don’t deserve him.”
It was the truth. Perhaps James could forgive the betrayal. But in a perverse way, she didn’t want him to. It was part of what made him who he was. It was one of the reasons she loved him.
Chapter Seventeen
James called at Mr. Phillips’s home early Saturday morning—earlier than was proper, but he wanted to catch the man before he departed for the Society’s weekly meeting of the executive committee.
He wasn’t surprised, after being ushered into Mr. Phillips’s study, to find him already hard at work, even though it was not yet light outside. They may have had their differences of opinion about the Society’s activities, but the former vicar was deeply devoted to their cause. It made James feel better about what he meant to ask.
Mr. Phillips stood. “Dr. Burnham, is everything all right?”
Taken aback by his colleague’s ashen face, peppered with yesterday’s whiskers, James wondered if perhaps he should ask the same question. “Yes. I apologize for calling at such an irregular hour, but I hoped to catch you before you left for the meeting. I have something to discuss with you. A request, really.”
“By all means.” Mr. Phillips gestured to a brown leather chair that faced the desk. “I’ve left Mr. Atleigh to conduct this morning’s meeting. I have a…medical matter to attend to, but not until later this morning. So I’ve plenty of time.”
James had heard about the Marquess of Haverly’s illness: a bout with a lung ailment that had dragged out for some weeks. The rumors suggested he was on his deathbed. He wondered if the other rumors were true. If they were, Mr. Phillips was about to lose his beloved. James tried to think how best to introduce his proposal, given the fact that Mr. Phillips was likely to be distracted. Perhaps the direct approach was best. He cleared his throat. “I need to find homes for twenty children. Immediately.”
To his credit, Mr. Phillips’s mild expression did not change. Only a slight widening of his eyes indicated his surprise. “Involved in a bit of a side project, are you?”
There was no way around it. “Yes. And I should have told you, but I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“It doesn’t matter. The point is, twenty children are soon to find themselves on the street, and I want to help them.”
“How soon?”
As soon as he went to the damned Home Office. “Soon. Perhaps in less than a week.”
“England is full of homeless children.”
“Yes, but I know these children. I have a responsibility to them.”
“And where are they now?”
“They labor in a Birmingham gun works that is about to be shut down.”
“And you are suggesting…”
“I’m not asking the Society to take this on, to fund anything. I have money.” He planned to ask Catharine, to confront her at Madame Cherie’s party tonight. She owed him that much. If she refused, he would ask his aunt to go to his mother again. The irony hadn’t escaped him: either way, a doxy would be financing the endeavor. “My plan is to build a school. A small residential school where they can live and learn, unoppressed by a life of hard labor. Like Mr. Coram’s Foundling Hospital, but this will be smaller, more personal and homelike. I’ll train them for trades. I just need some time, so I need to find them temporary homes until I can make the necessary arrangements. I can’t explain why, but my hand has been forced.”
Mr. Phillips sat silent for a long while. James knew his plan sounded wildly eccentric. Perhaps leveling with the man had been a mistake.
“Surely you’re not asking me to board twenty children. I have only two bedchambers here. And we’d need a governess, or a nurse, wouldn’t we, until the school could open?”
We! The man had said we! For the first time since that awful night he’d seen Catharine with Biedermeier, James felt a flicker of hope. “No, no, of course I’m not asking you to take them! I had hoped you might use your influence to help me find a number of foster families. If a family could take one or two, it wouldn’t be such a great burden to any one person. They’re good children. And I’ll pay for their upkeep myself.”
Mr. Phillips steepled his fingers and contemplated James. “You can’t tell me any more about this?”
“Not yet. Soon. It will all come out shortly.” James nearly groaned thinking of the flurry of attention the story of a French sympathizer supplying the British army with faulty guns would garner. He hoped that, perhaps, in the midst of the maelstrom, he could spirit the children away and avoid the glare of publicity. “I must ask you to trust me.”
Mr. Phillips sighed and slumped back in his chair, suddenly looking much older than his forty years. “I’m inclined to help you, against my better judgment. Despite what you might think, I do care about the welfare of children. My opposition within the confines of the Society has merely been about using its resources as effectively as possible, about addressing the problems that seem most tractable.”
“Of course. I understand,” he said, tempering his enthusiasm with a serious tone.
“But you’ve got to give me something,” Mr. Phillips continued. “How did this all come about?”
James glanced at the floor, huffed a small sigh of resignation, then reestablished eye contact wit
h his colleague. “I fell in love with the wrong person.”
Mr. Phillips let the silence settle as he narrowed his eyes and cocked his head. Then, finally, he flashed a sad smile. “I understand.”
It wasn’t that he lacked ambition, thought Mr. Angus Atleigh as he welcomed early arrivals to the Society’s executive meeting, tapping his fingers on the large table. It was just that he was a practical sort. He was good at executing, coordinating. That was why, he supposed, Mr. Phillips had asked him to stand for the position of vice-president. Mr. Phillips oversaw the broad direction of their work, leaving his deputy to look after the details.
He had to admit that sitting at the head of the table made him a little nervous. Give him a dozen meetings with members of Parliament to schedule, or a sheaf of statistics to make sense of, and he was in his element. People were harder. A man never knew exactly what they were thinking, and their actions didn’t always unfold logically. That’s why he rarely conducted any field work, why he seldom spoke in meetings. He preferred to think things through before he formed an opinion. After that, he could turn his attention to articulating his thoughts. And it was something that required his attention. He didn’t have the easy way with words that many of the others did.
He shook his head. For God’s sake! He’d been asked to lead a meeting! The men arriving were friends and colleagues. And they were expecting nothing more than a routine gathering, where the assembled would inform one another about progress made as they amassed information for their report.
He checked his watch. Ten minutes yet. Some fresh air before the meeting might be just the thing. Exiting the parlor that had been converted to a meeting room, he nearly collided with Michael, Mr. Phillips’s footman, who was often dispatched to the Society’s office on meeting days.
“I beg your pardon, sir. I was just coming to find you.”
“What is it, Michael?”
“There’s a gentleman here asking to see the man in charge. Shall I have him come back when Mr. Phillips is here, or will you see him?”
“Not one of our members?”
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