An Unwilling Spy

by Janis Linford

  Dagger and knife struck with a clang. Finch drove the other man against the wall in a flail of arms and savage thrusts. Crawley’s arm swung down, the dagger clear in the light

  ‘Look out,’ she cried.

  Finch met the deadly strike with a snarl. Using a deceptive twist of his wrist, he turned his blade and slashed. Crawley threw his head back and with a horrible gurgle, fell with a sickening thud to the floor.

  He jerked once, twice and tried to talk. Nothing came from his mouth except blood. Another jerk and his eyes glazed over, his head falling to the side.

  Her heart beat like the hooves of a bolting horse. Mr. Crawley. Dead. Right in front of her —

  Finch, breathing heavily, barked at her. ‘Go back to your room.’

  She stood mute, frozen to the floor. Blood poured from the man’s cut throat and spread across the timber boards. In stunned numbness she watched it trickle towards her boots.

  Finch straightened from his crouched position, blood on his hands and jacket. She stared at the red wetness, her mouth slack.

  On an oath, Finch jerked his head towards the stairs. ‘Go, Lily. Now. And stay there!’

  The image of the dead man wavered in front of her eyes as she climbed the stairs. In her room she locked the door with trembling fingers. The man, the blood —

  Cramps gripped her stomach and with a groan she stumbled to the dresser and heaved into the pitcher. Afterward she curled up on the bed with the cloak over her head, shuddering and hiccupping, her mind reeling.

  Danger from French sympathizers had never seemed real. Merely a menace she’d thought Finch had exaggerated. Tonight had shown her it was not a game.

  Savage spies, without a care for life or limb, were ready to kill at any moment. This time she’d been lucky but from now on she’d have to treat her new profession more seriously. As deadly serious as Finch.

  She touched her cheek and drew in a shaky breath. Crawley’s dagger hadn’t scratched her but the frisson of the cold hard metal still lingered there. If not for Finch, she would have been maimed or killed.

  A knock at the door. Her pulse jumped but at the sound of Finch’s urgent voice, she staggered to the door and let him in.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ he demanded.

  He strode in with his bag, dumped it on the floor and placed his hands upon her shoulders. ‘Adeline? Did he hurt you?’ His eyes raked over her cheeks, her chest and her hands.

  She shook her dazed head and hiccupped. ‘You moved so fast his dagger didn’t reach me.’

  Finch scanned her face a moment longer then grunted and moved past her, grabbing her cloak from the bed.

  A wave of nausea overwhelmed her again and she clutched her stomach. ‘I must thank you,’ she stammered, ‘for saving me. But how did you know I was in trouble?’

  ‘Heard you on the stairs.’

  So she hadn’t been as quiet as she’d supposed. Or maybe Finch had excellent hearing. Either way, he’d appeared in the hallway without her being aware of his presence. A skill that would be invaluable to learn.

  Finch’s jaw jutted out at a dangerous angle. ‘You were supposed to stay in your room.’

  She nodded miserably. ‘I know but I wanted water. You do realize it’s been two days since I washed?’

  ‘Is that right?’

  He came to stand in front of her, the cloak balled in his fist. Not a drop of blood marred his skin. Her gaze dropped to his jacket. The horrible stains were gone. Only a damp patch remained where he’d washed them off.

  ‘Lesson number three,’ he growled. ‘Cleanliness isn’t important when danger is present.’

  His charcoal eyes darkened to a stormy black. She bit her lip, barely able to look him in the face. ‘Yes, I see that now. But I didn’t understand that Mr. Crawley could be … could be ...’

  Her voice died at Finch’s lack of warmth. Half of her wanted to run as far from him as she could and the other half wanted to stick to him like tar. He’d given her his protection even when she’d ignored his commands.

  Unable to meet his furious expression, she dropped her head and stared blindly at the floor. Her sniffle sounded loud in the room.

  ‘For pity’s sake,’ he muttered. He thrust the cloak at her. ‘Use this.’

  She wiped her eyes with the edge of the hood. Her first real test as a spy and she had failed in spectacular fashion.

  ‘All right?’ he asked gruffly.

  Chills raced along her skin and she shivered. ‘I think so.’ More probably she was still in shock but she must gather her wits and do her best to stay focused.

  ‘Good,’ Finch said briskly. ‘We can’t waste any more time.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  He grabbed his satchel and ushered her out the door, flicking a glance around the landing. ‘There may be others. We must leave immediately.’

  Chapter Eight

  She nearly tripped over the trailing edge of her cloak as she descended the stairs. Finch’s hand shot out and steadied her until she’d righted her footing. At her whispered words of thanks, he held his finger to his mouth. ‘Quietly.’

  She folded her cloak into a neater bundle then proceeded with more caution, trying to step like Finch without making a sound.

  Her foot stalled on the bottom step, her muscles tense. She didn’t want to see Mr. Crawley’s crumpled form again. She clenched her jaw and peered past the corner of the wall into the hallway. The body had been moved and the floor wiped clean. There was nothing to show that a violent murder had taken place there tonight.

  Finch whispered in her ear, his breath snaking past the nape of her neck. ‘Make for the back room.’

  She turned her head and found his lips close to hers. They were finely drawn, almost sensual. ‘What if the maid’s there?’ she breathed, taking in the scent of his skin and watching the flare of his eyes as they trailed over her face.

  ‘She’s not. I’ve checked. She’s in the taproom.’

  Nothing for it then, although she didn’t want to leave the safety of the stairs. Maybe that had something to do with Finch’s proximity or maybe she couldn’t face the murder scene. Whatever the reason, her stomach clenched but clearly she couldn’t remain here. Taking a deep breath, she stepped warily down the hallway and hurriedly skirted the spot where Crawley had fallen.

  The back room turned out to be a pantry, full of cuts of meat and herbs that hung from hooks in the ceiling. Cheeses and loaves of bread sat on a counter and jars of preserved apples sat on open shelves. Finch put down four coins, took two loaves and a cheese wedge, and tucked them all into his satchel.

  At her inquiring look, he said, ‘Provisions.’ He eased back the bolt on the outside door and led her out into the night.

  Cold fingers of air pinched her face and nose. Goosebumps traveled down her back and she hissed in a breath, the night air sharp in her throat. Wearing her cloak instead of carrying it would have made more sense but Finch didn’t allow her time to put it on.

  With a subtle push in her back, he urged her away from the inn and across the yard to a coach hitched with two black horses. The vehicle merged with the shadows of the surrounding beech trees and except for the slight jingle of the horses’ harness, she wouldn’t have known it was there.

  She had never ridden in a coach but she’d always thought she’d enjoy looking out the window and watching the scenery go by. But her trip tonight would be nothing like that.

  ‘Everything organized?’ Finch murmured to Gannet, who sat on the box seat holding the horses’ reins.

  ‘Ready to go. Blacksmith did a grand job. Won’t have any worries there.’

  Finch ran his gaze over the coach and bent to check underneath it. What he hoped to see in the weak moonlight, when everything cast such deep shadows, she couldn’t fathom.

  He straightened, his voice low. ‘And Crawley?’

  ‘Left him with an axe in his hand. Only thing I could find.’

  Finch stroked his beard and stared towards the hi
llside beyond the coach. ‘I guess that will have to do.’

  An uneasy feeling stirred in the pit of her stomach as she followed his line of sight. Mr. Crawley lay in the forest for animals and ants to find? She shuddered and averted her eyes. These men had no respect for the dead, but feeling again Mr. Crawley’s knife against her cheek, she didn’t pity him too much.

  She climbed into the coach and wrapped her cloak around her. Finch joined her, sitting opposite, and pulled out a pistol from his satchel, aiming it at the window. ‘Get down and stay down.’

  Her heart stuttered. Had he spotted another sympathizer? She cowered in her seat, her head below the window, and clung to the wall as the coach moved off. Not until they’d traveled for some little time did Finch pocket his gun and uncoil the tenseness in his body.

  ‘You may relax, Adeline. There’s no-one following us.’

  She sat up slowly, her head pounding. ‘Are you sure?’ She stared out at the dark countryside, sincerely grateful to have Finch with her.

  ‘Do you doubt me?’

  No, she did not. His ability to observe people and to know their intentions had proved uncanny. ‘I guess you have a certain skill,’ she conceded, ‘but what will happen when someone finds Mr. Crawley?’

  ‘Hopefully, they’ll believe he had an accident collecting wood.’

  ‘And if they don’t?’

  ‘We should be long gone.’

  She sniffed. ‘That is your plan? To run from danger?’

  ‘Never underestimate the advantages of flight.’ His voice came low, threaded with irritation. ‘And would you have me risk your safety?’

  No. That she could answer in complete honesty but he didn’t have to be so … so tetchy. Perhaps killing a man didn’t wholly agree with him.

  She gave him a moment to calm down before asking, ‘Are we going to stop at another inn?’

  He stretched out his legs, taking up the available space between the seats. She tried not to glance at his muscular calves, encased in boots worn supple with use, but they were right in front of her.

  ‘No. We can’t risk it.’

  ‘But —’

  ‘Adeline, you’ve reached your limit.’

  She frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The number of questions I am prepared to answer tonight.’

  ‘You’re limiting my questions? How am I to find out anything if I cannot ask?’

  ‘That’s two more.’ He sighed and laid his head back against the wall. ‘Why don’t you rest? We have a long night ahead of us.’

  Her tongue clicked and she looked out the window. He had a thousand ways to keep his knowledge to himself but she had always been a girl who liked to know.

  They left the forest behind. Fields, gray and ghostly in the moonlight, swept past them on either side of the road. The rattle and sway of the coach lulled her aching body and she yawned, too tired to worry about where they were going.

  She rearranged her cloak and bunched the hood under her head. Tomorrow would be here soon enough and she could worry about the network then — and how she would hold her own with the man sitting across from her.

  She slept curled in the corner of the coach and only opened her sleep-laden eyes when they changed the horses at posting stations. On and on they went, Gannet and Finch swapping the driving from time to time. How they managed on such little sleep she didn’t know. She was completely done in.

  Towards morning when the light stole into the carriage and nudged at her eyelids, she jerked awake to find Finch watching her. A reflection from the window glass angled across his face, and for a moment she could have sworn she saw him smile, but all too quickly his face straightened into the impassive mask she knew so well.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘I trust you feel better?’

  Better would be a loose description. Rested certainly, but with her neck so stiff she could hardly turn her head. ‘I’m fine. Where are we?’

  ‘Kent.’

  She sat up straighter and rubbed the muscles at the back of her head until she could look out the window. Nothing broke the skyline, except windswept grasses for as far as she could see.

  Soon they rumbled into a town on the coast. The houses were simple fishermen’s cottages set back from the beach, in streets that ran parallel to the water. In some respects they reminded her of Weymouth.

  She turned to Finch but he anticipated her question. ‘This is Deal.’ He sat forward on the seat, his fingers around the pistol that had re-emerged from his pocket.

  ‘Do we stop here?’ she asked as the coach negotiated a corner.

  ‘Yes. This is the home of the network.’

  Her mouth grew dry. Traveling in the coach, cocooned within its solid walls, she’d been able to deny the existence of the network and the role she would be expected to play. Now she would have to face whatever awaited her.

  They turned down a narrow street and stopped outside a small white-washed building. Two storied, it had a high brick wall covered in climbing roses that fronted the street. Dormer windows overlooked a side courtyard but apart from that there was nothing remarkable about the place. It looked just the same as the other houses in the street.

  Finch opened the coach door and climbed down, his satchel tucked under his arm. She followed and breathed in the sea air, a smell that immediately lifted her spirits.

  Gannet, who looked dead-tired, didn’t linger and drove the coach down a lane that ran past the house on the far side, presumably to a yard at the back. Finch unlocked a wooden gate in the brick wall then motioned with his head. ‘Follow me.’

  She stepped through into a square flagged courtyard dominated by a lemon tree heavy with fruit. The lemons were still green and a few had fallen, their skins bruised or pecked by birds.

  Finch locked the gate behind them and led her to the back door of the house. They were met on the threshold by a round-faced man whose dark hair looked like it had been chewed by a horse. His eyes shifted past Finch to swiftly take in her person. She didn’t know whether she came up to his expectations but at the lift of his mouth, decided she had passed his inspection.

  ‘Mallard, meet our new agent.’ Finch nodded in her direction.

  ‘This is the woman Peregrine has chosen?’ His sharp eyes twinkled at Finch. ‘Lucky man to have such a pretty recruit.’ He gave her a grin, his cheeks round and glistening with warmth. ‘Welcome. I am the cook and general slave and I hope you settle in well.’

  His jovial manner relaxed her and she stepped forward with a smile. ‘Thank you. I’m sure you’re more than a slave though, especially as you have a bird name.’

  He laughed. ‘Might be at that but Finch will tell you.’

  ‘There’s not much to tell.’ A ghost of a smile crossed Finch’s face.

  Mallard playfully punched him on the arm. ‘Ignore him. He’s just jealous of my good cooking.’

  Mallard waggled his eyebrows and she chuckled, surprised to find her tension easing. At least he had greeted her with a measure of warmth. Maybe the other spies wouldn’t be intimidating after all.

  Finch moved inside and dumped his satchel on a chair. ‘Peregrine wants to see you first,’ he said when she entered, ‘but then you can settle into your room.’

  She nodded, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes. The kitchen in which they were standing had a cupboard lining one wall. A tabby cat sat on the windowsill and a pot of something bubbled on the stove.

  Mallard returned to a table to chop some rosemary leaves and added them to the pot. When he lifted the lid, a wonderful aroma of barley and vegetables filled the room and her stomach rumbled. The small amount of food she’d eaten on the journey seemed like a lifetime ago.

  ‘I’m a little surprised you’re cooking,’ she said to Mallard. ‘Doesn’t the network employ maids?’

  Mallard shook his head. ‘Maids, footmen and groomsmen might compromise us. We can’t take the chance that someone might talk about the work here.’

  His hard stare was at o
dds with his jovial manner and she flushed. Of course. She should have realized that. ‘Well, I think your food smells wonderful.’

  Mallard cocked a brow at Finch. ‘Hear that? Wonderful she said.’

  ‘I heard,’ Finch said. ‘But don’t let it go to your head.’

  Mallard just grinned as another man, neatly dressed in a dark blue jacket that fitted his athletic build to perfection, wandered into the room. ‘Our lady recruit?’ he asked with an uplifted brow towards Finch.

  So she was expected and it wasn’t hard to understand his interest. A woman spy was unconventional.

  Finch turned to her with a smile that showed his even white teeth. ‘Meet Heron, one of our senior spies who works in naval espionage.’

  That caught her attention. ‘What is that, exactly?’

  ‘Spying at sea,’ Heron said. ‘Checking for smugglers, informants, that sort of thing.’

  Her heart somersaulted as she met his speculative eyes. ‘That must be … a busy job.’

  He smiled but there was a steely edge behind his eyes that made her think he’d seen too many horrible things. ‘It is but I’m guessing you might know something about that already.’

  She smiled weakly and was thankful when Finch asked her to follow him into a short hallway. She could hear other agents talking in distant rooms before Finch stopped at a heavy oak door and knocked. ‘After you,’ he said, opening it.

  She stepped inside the room and froze. ‘Mr. Booth?’ she stammered. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Ah, Miss Perran. I see you are delighted to meet me, although here I’m known as Peregrine. I am the director of the network and everyone here works for me.’

  Her feet stayed rooted to the floor. Mr. Booth and Peregrine were one and the same? Oh no. She’d hoped to start anew with a director who hadn’t formed any judgments about her. However Peregrine, whose attention to detail surpassed every man she knew, would be under no illusions as to her skills or attitude.

  ‘Come in.’ He waved at her from behind his heavy desk. ‘Welcome to The Nest.’