Beauty and the Spymaster

by Moriah Densley

  He segued into a bid for charity, mentioning families in the parish who had lost their houses in a fire. How terrible; while she’d never been without a roof over her head, she knew what it was like to be helpless. When the collection plate passed around, she dropped in the emerald she’d tried to give to the Greys but had found returned in her case. Making sure no one was watching, she also removed her pearl earbobs and put them in.

  Sir Julian expressed concern about the children whose parents had perished in the workhouse, and at his description, her eyes misted, her imagination all too vivid. A coal-smudged orphan, standing barefooted in the street, clutching her broken toy? It must’ve been the third week of the month — Helena dabbed her eyes and silently counted the grapes carved into the organ pipes to keep from bursting into tears.

  Glancing around to be certain no one was watching, she reached down her corset at the side of her bust and retrieved the folded bank notes she kept there for emergencies. Hungry orphans were definitely an emergency. She passed the collection plate to the next person then startled to see Sir Julian observing her. He hadn’t fumbled a single word of his sermon, but his bemused expression made it clear he’d been watching awhile. Probably long enough to see her flash an indecent amount of skin in order to fish the money out of her décolleté.

  She smiled blandly, daring him to make something of it.

  At first she thought she imagined he’d directed the scripture at her, “God loves a cheerful giver.” But then he shot a sideways glance in her direction, and she was sure he had meant it for her.

  The parishioners who waylaid him to chat at the church doors seemed to adore him, which made little sense to Helena considering his surly nature. And no one else seemed to find him too forceful to be a country vicar; she’d been a bit relieved to hear he was in truth some sort of government spy. She wandered the old graveyard, trying to pronounce the consonant-heavy Saxon names until he locked the church and was ready to escort her and Mrs. Grey home.

  The past week with endless messages in and out of the rookery, he’d become increasingly anxious, and of course wouldn’t say a word. No more information regarding their mission had been forthcoming either, but he’d asked dozens of questions about the people on the guest list, and he’d given her pages of information to memorize. She felt sorry for whichever of the poor pigeons who had brought in that load.

  Sir Julian had seemed surprised by her capacity to retain information, and she’d been irritated that he’d assumed low intelligence of her. On the contrary, she owed her success only in part to her looks, and largely to her ability to manage people; remembering their names, families, interests, friends, and political leanings. Never without brilliant conversation and personable concern… skills that wouldn’t hurt Sir Julian to cultivate.

  “What’s the matter?” he said without looking her way as his hands worked the reins.

  The practically ancient curricle wasn’t built for three, but she sat squeezed between Sir Julian and his mother anyway. Helena’s shoulder probably pinned down his elbow.

  “You’re unusually quiet. I hope you didn’t find the sermon overly distressing.”

  She managed a smile, which he couldn’t see. “I heard nothing that wasn’t true. The only distressing part was the sight of you preaching from a pulpit. I’m still recovering from the shock.”

  He responded with a half-hearted Humph. Another few miles went past, and he added, “Are you worried we’ll encounter Chauncey? I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him or his men since the cannon incident.”

  “No, that’s not it. He’s either cast his net elsewhere, or you’ve scared him off.”

  “You seem troubled.”

  The wheels striking another deep rut at the wrong angle made her wish she could grab the side for support; the jostling had angled her ribs directly into her corset, and it made her eyes water. “Oh my, Sir Julian. I’m not certain you should confuse me by proving a thoughtful, solicitous gentleman. I was just getting used to you.”

  Mrs. Grey chuckled, a rare event, as she rarely spoke and held herself aloof of Helena and Sir Julian’s conversation despite spending the majority of each day in their company.

  “And now you’ve injured my tender feelings,” he said flatly.

  She made an effort to appear more lively the rest of the day, but with limited success, apparently. When he asked again after dinner what weighed on her mind, she confessed, “The last I saw of Sophia — my daughter — she was gravely injured. If I know anyone clever enough to manage a grand escape despite that, it is she. But I am her mother, after all, and I can’t help but worry that she is lying cold and bleeding in a ditch somewhere, calling my name.” She rubbed her arms, wishing her imagination weren’t so vivid. “It has been more than two weeks and not a word.”

  He nodded, his brows furrowed in a stern look, but she was learning that it was his thoughtful expression… it also served to convey a dozen other emotions that didn’t necessarily indicate displeasure. “You won’t like this. But you should see it.” Before she could ask what, he retrieved a folded newspaper from under the book left on the hearthside leather armchair.

  She opened it and scanned past headlines about Americans and their skirmishes, Prince Albert’s new sewage pumping station, and some poor soul in the East End who had been murdered with a stuffed deer head… then she saw it: Miss Anne-Sophronia Duncombe of Eastleigh, Hampshire has been reported missing… why Mr. Conrad Cox, solicitor for the family, declined to comment… rumors that the heiress was in truth kidnapped…

  Resisting the urge to tear the paper in two, she sat and tried not to burst the seams of her stays with her gasping breath. Who had taken the story to the papers? Could it be Chauncey? What was he getting at? And what would happen to Sophia — with every literate person in Christendom on the lookout for her, how could she avoid being caught? Imagining what Chauncey would do to her in his furious state…

  She couldn’t breathe. Her hands grasped air as though she could contain it and force it into her lungs. Panic robbed her of reason; she stood and ran for the door, desperate to—

  “Where are you going?” Julian blocked the way, and she nearly clobbered him before comprehending she was behaving like a lunatic.

  She resisted tugging on her hair and wrung her hands instead. “I have to do something.” Pacing the floor was useless, but sitting made her feel like a thousand insects were crawling over her skin. “I can’t do a damned thing.”

  Weeks’ worth of worry and fear and grief that had been locked away threatened to blow out in a tangled mess. She saw the open stairway and rushed for it. If she was going to fall apart, at least she could do it in private.

  It wasn’t just the stupid newspaper article, but the glaring truth: that every sacrifice, of deflecting his anger onto her so he wouldn’t hurt Sophia, the manipulating and pleading — always the degradation of begging — could all be for naught because of one careless journalist. He had his investigators, and all he needed was one rumor, and he would find her.

  Oh, what would he do if he got his hands on Sophia now? A whimper escaped her throat, and then she couldn’t help the sobbing. The first four steps seemed like mountains. When leaning on the wall only helped her climb the next few stairs, she got down on her hands and knees and tried to crawl. Sophia was all she had, all she cared about. And she’d been the one to pay for her mother’s folly.

  The futility of escaping to nowhere didn’t register; she couldn’t think past the awful, desperate sadness pounding a hole through her chest where her heart should be beating—

  Strong arms grabbed her by the waist, and at first she panicked, flailing her fists and kicking. Once she recognized Sir Julian’s smoky leather scent, she quit fighting — just in time for all her injuries to complain with a chorus of throbbing. The pain made her go limp, and she let Julian lift her and tuck her against his chest. He carried her the rest of the way up the tower steps. She swallowed and hiccoughed, frantic to stop weeping, but trying t
o quit made it worse.

  After pushing the door open with his foot, he closed it behind them the same way, then paused, likely uncertain of what to do with the mess of wailing woman in his arms. He pressed his back to the wall then slid down, placing her across his lap. Awkwardly he patted the top of her head, lingered a moment, then dropped his hand to the floor.

  “There, there.” His rough whisper was a cross between a rusty hinge and a wolf growl. “Have it out, that’s all right.”

  “I’m a frightful mess,” she moaned. “Don’t look.” He tucked her head against his shoulder, and she soaked his shirt before managing to shut off the waterworks. “I hate the third week.”

  “What?”

  Who wanted to explain the female monthly cycle to Sir Julian? Not her. “Never mind.” It took several sniffles before he offered his handkerchief.

  “I remember my mother cried and cried after she shot my father. I was only ten years old, but I remember her broken arm hanging limp, and how she chambered, aimed, and pulled the trigger with her one good arm.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “He’d hit me, over and over, until I couldn’t see straight. But I remember her screaming. Then the blast, then the shadow over me crumpled, and there he lay in a pool of blood.” Sir Julian patted her shoulder as though he had no idea how to comfort a person. “I didn’t understand until I was older how she could kill the man then weep with a broken heart about it.”

  Helena sat up and swallowed. “That is a horrible story.” Her voice sounded groggy. “And I’m not upset over conflicting feelings for Lord Chauncey — I wish him to hell.”

  He went still, and she sensed his chagrin in the tensed muscles of his neck and arms. “Then what is it?”

  “I’m frightened beyond bearing. But there’s nothing to be done—” The untruth of it stalled her words. The article! “Mr. Cox!”

  At the same moment, Julian asked, “What about Cox, the solicitor?”

  She wanted to grab his bristly face and kiss him square on the mouth. Of course — Sophia would know to contact her mother’s personal solicitor, not the estate’s. Mr. Cox had been her devoted counselor and lawyer for years; if there was anyone she trusted to help her daughter, it was he.

  “Can you trust him?” Julian said, echoing her thoughts yet again.

  “With my life. Can we contact him?” She wrestled to climb out, finding his grip impossible to break until he responded by loosening his arms. He even gave her a helpful-but-alarming push on the hind end as she stood. “I must write a letter at once.” The thrill of hope nearly made her giddy.

  “I can send a bird.”

  “To London?”

  He hesitated, scowling again with the expression she could now identify as pensive. “What address?”

  “Threadneedle Street.”

  He nodded, clearly displeased with having to reveal he was in communication with people in the financial heart of London. “Write the letter, I’ll send it right away. It will arrive in a matter of hours.”

  She couldn’t help it; she threw her arms around his neck and squeezed. Letting go before he had to decide whether or not to embrace her in return didn’t make the moment any less stilted.

  Only one explanation existed for the sudden change in rapport between them; he’d finally come around to being attracted to her. Poor timing — she had only one matter on her mind, and that was finding out if Mr. Cox had heard from Sophia.

  Chapter Six

  The afternoon, evening, and long, sleepless night she waited before a pearled brown pigeon landed in the rookery the next morning were the longest hours of Helena’s life. Or so she’d thought, until reading the reply from Mr. Cox, in which he expressed regret that he hadn’t been contacted by Sophia. Helena asked again a week later, then two weeks later, and so on, with the same result.

  She scoured the papers for any hint of Sophia; there was plenty of speculation, as the kidnapping story had tickled the collective fancy of the ton. Either misfortune had befallen her, or she was the cleverest, canniest girl in all the world. She’d vanished. Chauncey made no secret of peppering the continent with his investigators, under the guise of searching for his “dear missing daughter.” The loving concern in his quotes made Helena ill and served as a reminder that Chauncey was no fool. Neither would he be thwarted.

  Each day she waited both for the best and worst news possible, yet neither came.

  It was completely foreign and a half-guilty experience, but every night Helena prayed that someone benevolent would help her daughter and keep her safe. Since it was on behalf of Sophia, who was an innocent in the conflict, Helena figured God wouldn’t mind. She’d still not been struck down by lightning, which she took as permission to continue. Anything at all that could help…

  A noise in the doorway of the rookery startled her and the birds perched in their boxes; she spun around to see Sir Julian, wearing his riding coat and boots, dew soaking his hat. She’d yet to become accustomed to the sight of him clean-shaven; it gave his features a knife-edged look she wished was less dashing.

  “Pea Brain and Drunkard are still at The Dolphin, but Scratcher has gone.” He’d just reported that one of Chauncey’s investigators — whose names they didn’t know — had left the town inn while the other two remained behind. They’d openly admitted to Julian that their purpose was to stalk Helena on the chance that she’d send for Sophia.

  Another reason she was grateful for Sir Julian’s birds — a letter could be intercepted, but no one thought of carrier pigeons.

  “All right,” she answered. “Thank you for telling me.” She was about to sit in the chair, the only clean surface in the rookery, when Sir Julian stayed her with a hand.

  “I know you don’t want to think of it, but we can’t wait another day to sail for France.”

  Oh. Right. Her agreement to help Sir Julian and his mysterious colleagues with their secretive yet non-criminal operation. Lately, she hadn’t given much thought to the Comte d’Anjou’s party, but at least she’d had the foresight to send for a decent wardrobe. Sir Julian had nearly laid an egg when the frippery-stuffed trunks were delivered, which only supported her theory that he’d never had a woman before. At least, not close enough to be involved in the mundane aspects of caring for one. Hair oil, stockings, complexion cream, garter ribbons and dress hooks, and, heaven forbid, monthly rags — Sir Julian was mortified by all of it, as though he had expected her to float down on a cloud each morning, magically groomed and dressed.

  She nodded, trying not to be obvious about watching out the window for the bird she hoped would arrive that morning with the latest news from Mr. Cox. The past week he’d hinted that he might have something to tell, and she’d gone half mad wondering. “I shall be packed and ready to go within the hour.”

  “I’ve been thinking…” He hung his coat on a hook, then his hat, and she made a point of not watching him — not his athletic, unapologetically masculine style of movement, nor the way his shirt stretched across a back and shoulders pleasantly bulked with muscle. They tapered into his trim waist, a build she thought appealing.

  She found him increasingly desirable, and he’d grown more and more distant. In turn she took care never to be seen without his mother if she set foot outside the house for the sake of his reputation. Still she had the impression from him that he feared catching an infectious disease from her presence.

  “Thinking? I avoid it whenever poss—” Beating wings approached the tower, and Helena turned in time to see a pigeon land on the window ledge and trip the wire that rang the bell.

  Hallelujah — a yellow string was tied to the leather roll around its leg; that meant the message was for her. All other arrivals she left for Sir Julian, who at least trusted her enough to leave her alone inside the rookery. His messages all came in Latin, but he appeared skeptical when she swore she didn’t understand it.

  Trying not to frighten the bird with her unsteady hands, she unfastened the roll then set the animal i
n its box. The script was tiny:

  Subject made contact. Assisting with arrangements for secure situation. Aided by a trusted friend. Subject sends regards. Suggest you go abroad, will aid our efforts. – CC

  The cryptic language had been Sir Julian’s idea, insurance against a message being intercepted. Helena reread it to be certain it meant what she supposed. She became aware of him standing at her shoulder, not exactly crowding her, but she sensed his anticipation in his shallow breath. Not to mention these days there seemed to be some sort of energy vibrating in the space between them.

  “Sophia has written Mr. Cox, and he’s enlisted one of my own friends to help find her a safe place to stay, and he says I can help their plans by going abroad.” She sucked in air, realizing she’d blurted it all in one breath. “That’s perfect, since we’re leaving for Paris. Today.” She resisted squeezing his arm or embracing his neck; instead she paced the room. “That must mean she’s planning to come back to England, and Mr. Cox wants to distract Chauncey with my crossing to the continent. He’ll follow me instead. It’s brilliant.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  She scowled. “Why ever not?”

  “Once we arrive in Paris, there will be times I cannot protect you. Chauncey has proven relentless. I fear he will corner you.”

  She inhaled to reply then paused. “I know that.” She’d been about to say everything would go well, but really — that never happened. “Honestly, I’ve been expecting it every day. I think he’s waiting in every dark room, behind every door. Sooner or later he will be.”

  “That’s why you need protecting—”

  She managed a smile. “While I appreciate your hospitality and especially your protection, I am aware it can’t go on forever. I’ll take my chances in Paris.”