Beauty and the Spymaster

by Moriah Densley

  She’d have to eat crow and ask Mr. Grey for yet more aid.

  Where could he be? She could ask his mother, or go back inside the house and wait. Perhaps she could steal a bite of cheese and bread from the kitchen. A dozen paces later, spots flashed across her vision in tandem with the throbbing, and she contemplated sitting right there on the gravel lane and waiting for the apocalypse.

  The pain was making her daft. What she wouldn’t give for a swallow of laudanum…

  After a few deep breaths, her ears registered strange bird noises. Out of place, the wobbly cooing of pigeons. Dozens of them. Following the sound across the lawn and around the courtyard, she spied a rookery in the shade of red-leaved sugar maples towering over a hundred feet to compete with the tallest spire of the abbey. The bursting pattern of the branches and lacy leaves gave the impression of raining blood.

  The turret door ajar, she stepped inside and took the winding tower stairs one at a time, driven by a perverse sense of curiosity but slowed by her poor state. As she neared the top, a pungent alkali smell competing with the sweet musty scent of mold almost made her turn back, but then she heard pacing and scuffling from booted feet through the flapping and cooing.

  The stairway opened into a loft, and her eyes adjusted to the light through the arched windows. Rows of boxes housed a variety of what had to be a hundred pigeons. Julian Grey stood with his head bowed over one of the boxes. Coat discarded on the back of the lone chair in the room, his shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow and his unruly hair bound at the nape.

  She rested an arm against the doorway and opened her mouth to speak—

  Her equilibrium jarred, then her vision spun. One moment she’d been upright, about to start a conversation, and the next, she wheezed for breath, blinking as blurred orbs focused into settling dust. Above, a view of the turreted ceiling seemed to spiral away into space. Squalling birds and the uproar of them all taking flight assaulted her ears and dropped a cloud of feathers.

  A cold edge left her throat, as did a crushing weight. Helena coughed, desperate to catch her breath, and let her limbs sprawl helplessly on the floor. Julian Grey stared down at her as though he’d slain a unicorn by accident, a dagger still grasped in his fist. Her brain helpfully informed her that being thrown to the floor had hurt every spot between her bruised head and swollen ankle.

  “What in hell?” he complained, raking a hand through the strands of hair falling loose. Nostrils flared, jaw clenched, he paced the floor and cursed under his breath.

  “Good morning, Mr. Grey,” she croaked then broke into anther coughing fit. Without warning he bent and scooped under her shoulders and knees then placed her in the chair. “Remind me to never again startle you.”

  She smoothed her skirts over her knees then arranged the hem over her boots, but he didn’t seem to have noticed the improper display. Either she truly looked a fright or she’d lost her touch. Following his gaze to the top of her head, she patted her hair and found a feather sticking straight out at the crown. She twirled the dun- and blue-colored feather by the quill, irked that he’d still not said a word. Not a word she could repeat, at any rate.

  “So, you collect pigeons?” she offered, feeling awkward under his drilling stare.

  Another contradiction. He had the mien of a hardened man, and it was difficult to believe he was a retiring country clergyman who raised pet pigeons. Who reacted quite violently to being startled. She’d seen such an extreme response to surprise before; from Alfred after he’d returned from the Russian War. She’d taken on the task of waking him in the mornings — a poke on the shoulder with a long stick — after he’d nearly strangled his valet.

  Beating wings and a clumsy sounding landing attracted her attention to the window behind Mr. Grey. He half turned and looked at the bird, his gaze passing between the window and Helena seated in the chair. What was he wary of? She looked again and noticed a roll of leather bound to the bird’s leg — a carrier pigeon.

  Clearly Mr. Grey didn’t want her to notice, so she addressed it directly, “Now this makes a bit more sense, but not much. Most hale gentlemen are interested in wine, wenching, and warfare. You, however, seem to have spent a great deal of effort cultivating pigeons.”

  He scowled and glanced back and forth again, likely wishing she would disappear.

  “By all means, please read your message. It must be urgent; just look at that poor bird.” It paced across the windowsill looking oblivious, head bobbing and the leather roll scraping with each step.

  Wordlessly he showed her his back and tended to the bird. She waited while he rifled around a drawer, scratched a message on a tiny square of paper, wrapped it in a leather roll, then tied it to the leg of a sleek silver pigeon that he’d drawn from one of the boxes. He released it through the window, watched it fly away, then slowly turned.

  He stared her down again, and she wondered what on earth was the matter. This time she was determined not to fill the silence, though she was dying to inquire if he was communicating with other rectories about the state of their prayer books. Then she regretted studying him, because she noticed that like his mother, he had a slightly freckled complexion at odds with his excessively severe features. Strangely endearing, perhaps even attractive when she considered he probably had a spattering of freckles across the back of his shoulders, cut like those of a dock worker.

  She’d thought Lord Chauncey was one of the few men in England taller than six feet, but Mr. Grey easily matched Chauncey’s height and girth, without the signs of depravity that had begun to tax his figure. No paunch hung over Grey’s belt, and his neck rippled with tendons and steely muscle when he turned his head. Same for his forearms; she’d put money on his being able to crush bricks with his bare hands. He’d almost crushed her throat by accident only minutes ago.

  “Do you speak Latin?” his voice sounded even harsher in the echoing room. Deep but with a sharp edge that wasn’t pretty. A voice made for shouting orders, not whispering promises in the dark.

  “Latin? Hardly. Why?”

  He shook his head once and scrutinized her until she was certain she had more feathers sticking out of her hair. She waited him out again, which bothered her less now that she had absolutely nothing to say to him.

  “I wish you hadn’t come here.”

  He’d already whittled under her composure, so that thorn found its mark. She nodded in acquiescence, certain she wore none of her discomfort on her face. “While I’m hardly one to impose my company where it’s unwelcome, I regret to report I lack the wherewithal for removing it. That brings me to the purpose for which I came in search of you.” She patted the pocket of her skirt where thousands of pounds in jewels lay hidden. “If you will please convey me to the next post stop, I am prepared to pay handsomely for your services.”

  “Services?” He snorted and shuffled his feet before settling against the window with his hands gripping the ledge. It drew her eyes to his hands, rough-looking and large, a reminder of their potential for violence. “I don’t want your money.”

  She waited to see if he would make a suggestion with his eyes. No once-over, no hungry stare or lascivious smile.

  He narrowed one eye and pulled a corner of his mouth in a grimace. “And you may cut short that line of thought — I don’t want your body, either, Lady Chauncey.”

  How easily he’d interpreted the silence. Or perhaps her reputation loomed larger than she’d thought. “Just as well. I confess to being in less than ideal condition for bed sport at present, though I must say I don’t often hear those words spoken.”

  The appraising look she’d been waiting for finally happened; he studied her from head to toe and no doubt found much to criticize. “I’ll bet not. It’s no secret you’ve made your way on the vices of men.”

  She gave a careless hum; only a yawn could’ve been more dismissive. “Now that we’ve established my wicked ways, perhaps you might divulge what it is you do want, Mr. Grey.” She rested her hands on the arms of the cha
ir and regarded him with the expression she’d wear if she were a queen on a throne addressing her subject. “Since you want me gone as badly as I do, we should reach an accord without further ado.”

  “I never called you wicked.”

  She blinked, expressing silent displeasure with the tangent. “The implication was sufficient. Really, there’s no need to go roughshod with words. It’s like eating a lemon whole when a spritz will do.”

  He pushed off the window ledge then paced a circle around the chair. “On the contrary, I think you might do perfectly. If you truly are who you say.”

  She? Duplicitous? And in her state? Helena held back a bubble of laughter and settled for a Humph. “I am the plainest creature you will ever meet in regard to motive.”

  His could be the discerning gaze of a priest condemning a sinner, but it didn’t feel that way. He regarded her with narrowed eyes, and she could practically hear the wheels turning in his head. It was calculating evaluation; him taking her measure. Whatever for, she couldn’t say. “Might be so, but the best in deception would say just that.”

  She sighed, registering the suspicious turn in the conversation, and wondered if she’d walked headlong into another dangerous situation. “Now I must contradict myself about the lemons, and ask you to be direct with your meaning.”

  “I don’t want you to leave, Lady Chauncey.” He paused before her then dropped to a crouch, eye to eye. She waited for a shiver of foreboding to rake over her spine, but it didn’t come. She stared back, daring him to look away. He didn’t, and the contest became painfully obvious. Improbably, he winked. “I might have need of you yet.”

  He’d already said he didn’t want her money or her paramour services. “I can’t imagine what favor a humble country vicar might ask of the possibly wicked Helena Duncombe.”

  His drilling silver eyes finally crinkled at the edges as he chuckled. “I knew you were more clever than you let on.” He lifted her hand, studying her knuckles where scrapes and the remnants of green bruises mottled the skin. Badly, she wanted to pull her hand away and hide it in her skirts, but she pretended not to care. “We’ve already established your particular talent for discerning what men want and molding yourself to fit their idea of perfection.”

  The conversation bordered on the bizarre, and she’d best put an end to it. She moved forward in order to rise. “Mr. Grey—”

  “Sir Julian,” he corrected, pinning her down with his hands over hers on the armrest. “I was knighted to the Order of the Garter after the war in Crimea.”

  “You’re a soldier.” Relief washed over her: finally something about him made sense.

  “Formerly, but now in a looser sense of the word.”

  She’d have dropped her forehead into a palm if her hands weren’t held captive. “Mr. Grey — Sir Julian. Whatever it is you want from me, please have out with it. I owe you a great debt and promise to fulfill it so long as I am able.”

  His searching expression made her feel naked. He seemed to look through every defense, past her calm, her pride, and deeper past her skin to where her secret self ever warred between anxiety and indifference. It was exhausting, but she never let anyone see—

  “You are a soul in commotion,” he muttered, his steel-colored eyes boring through her. She couldn’t move, held in thrall. “I regret I shall give you yet more unrest.”

  She needed to swallow but seemed to have forgotten how. “Somehow I don’t think we’re talking about pigeons anymore. But I said I would repay my debt to you, and I will.” Good — the resolve she’d intended came through in her voice.

  “I have need of your finely honed powers of observation. And I wager you know something about pressing a subject for results without betraying your true purpose. It is a delicate balance, and difficult to do when the stakes are high.”

  She cocked her head and raised a brow. “Yes, Sir Julian. I am an expert at manipulating people; let us not tie a bow on it.”

  He mirrored her raised brow then nodded in acquiescence. “What if I told you my life here is not what it seems? That neither am I?”

  “Then I would say this conversation just became dull. I discerned that ages ago.”

  He chuckled again, but it sounded like genuine enjoyment instead of posturing as he’d done before. “Ages? Why, I must be a miserable vicar indeed.”

  “My husband is a seasoned combat veteran. You bested him within moments and had him on the retreat.”

  “He was quite drunk. And I give my mother’s rifle some credit, as well as your quick thinking. Not bad at all, my lady — that bit about sanctuary law.”

  “I’m also an expert on the masculine physique, if you will.” She managed it with minimal innuendo. “I can’t claim to have bedded many of the clergy, but so few hone their muscles and sinews to resemble a pugilist.”

  “The Bibles here are particularly heavy. And I learned to keep fit in the army — it’s a habit.”

  “At least your military record explains the colorful profanity.”

  “Another bad habit for which I must repent yet again, thanks to your surprise entrance.”

  “You didn’t want me to know you keep carrier pigeons. The only reason I can imagine for avoiding the telegraph in this modern age is that you don’t want your disreputable communication sent over the wire.”

  “The nearest telegraph relay is in Dover. The birds are merely a convenience and faster than the post.”

  “And you’re needlessly suspicious of me, an ordinary citizen. Let us not dance around it any longer — either you’re a smuggler or a spy, Sir Julian. Which is it?”

  First his jaw rippled in the corner as he clenched and relaxed it, then he rubbed the spot with a thumb, which she took as a sign of discomfort. That could only mean she’d guessed the truth.

  “Here’s where it becomes taxing for you.” His voice dropped even lower, and she strained to hear it. “I must ask for not only your aid, but also for your trust. I cannot explain, and I need you to obey blindly.”

  She bit back saying, “Well that’s rich.” She could imagine all sorts of trouble to land in with blind obedience. “While I am guilty of moral failings, treason is not among them.”

  “Do I look like a smuggler to you, Lady Chauncey?” He did a half turn, gesturing with his hands, probably past the walls to the whole of his isolated, somewhat rickety estate.

  “Appearances can be deceiving. How do I know you’re not storing gunpowder in the cellar because you’re plotting to blow up Parliament? I’ll have no part in it.”

  “Patriotic words for a foreign national of...”

  “Italy.” She wove the tangent away, thinking his game of subterfuge wore thin. “I plainly am a citizen of the world. Do not make the mistake of assuming that because I am an unrepentant adulteress I am also a criminal. If you cannot understand how a person is partly bad yet partly good, then ours is a doomed partnership.” She didn’t like his wolfish smile.

  “I too am both partly bad and good, my lady. Trust me as far as you are able, and in time you will see how we strive for the good of England, and ultimately the world. Our deeds will prove it.”

  “I hope so, Sir Julian. Otherwise I cannot imagine a worse treachery from a Companion of the Garter. Or any man charged by the realm with duty.”

  “I know a worse one.” He seemed to aim that at her. With her impatient expression, she invited him to have it out. “Every man battles his demons, but it must be done in private. Doing it with his fists, with his wife and children on the receiving end, is a betrayal I cannot pardon.”

  If she hadn’t learned from his mother that Sir Julian’s father had been like Lord Chauncey, she’d have told him to mind his own business. She wondered if he was also about to suggest she strike back.

  “You do know sooner or later he will kill you.”

  Of course she knew that. She’d seen the white-hot fury in his eyes that she couldn’t have provoked despite his accusation that she drove him to it. He transformed into a man
she didn’t recognize. Demons, as Sir Julian had said. If she was unlucky enough to be at hand when he was angry enough and drunk enough, he would probably unleash his worst, and she wouldn’t wake up afterward.

  He’d nearly killed Sophia the last time; the worst failure imaginable as a mother. She’d never been so frightened in all her life as when she’d thrown back the hothouse door to the sight of Chauncey holding Sophia down by the hair and beating her on the back with a riding crop. The shattered glass, the blood spattered on the walls — Helena’s heart had quit, and her chest went hollow. She’d thought Sophia was already dead. Sheer panic had turned her blood to ice and hollowed her bones. She barely remembered charging at Chauncey and didn’t feel the blows as he turned his wrath on her while Collins dragged Sophia out of the hothouse—

  “Where did you go just now?” Sir Julian’s voice brought her back to the present and made her aware of shivering.

  “Nowhere I’d care to revisit.”

  He nodded, his eyes searching again. She looked at her lap, not eager to display the remnants of her worst nightmare in her expression. She shook off the rest of the memory, reassured by the reality that Chauncey was thwarted for now, and neither of them had any idea where their daughter had disappeared. “So I’ve pledged my skills, such as they are, to your undisclosed yet noncriminal pursuit. Lead the way, Sir Julian.”

  “Not so fast.” He huffed then held out his hand. She didn’t want to take it. The previous night, she’d found his touch reassuring and remotely stimulating; the last hardship she needed was attraction to the dour Sir Julian, who’d already made it clear he found her repulsive. “The time isn’t right. You’ll need some training, and time to heal.”

  He grasped her hand and pulled her out of the chair, and she tried not to wince. “Nonsense. I’m fit as a fiddle.” Her ankle buckled, and she had to rest a hand on the back of the chair for balance.