To Sketch a Sphinx

by Rebecca Connolly

  He paused, looking them over before smiling to himself. “This is a high Society infiltration, which will require you both to be arrayed as such.”

  “Oh no…” Hal groaned, shaking her head slowly.

  John was not so apprehensive, but he would also claim ignorance.

  Weaver snorted once, covering his mouth.

  That was never good.

  “Tilda, therefore, will be your first stop this evening, once we’re done here.” Tailor lifted a thick, greying brow. “She will see you suitably outfitted, I believe.”

  “Undoubtedly,” Weaver echoed with a sage nod.

  “The costumer?” John prodded, looking between the other two men.

  Both nodded. “A valuable asset, I can assure you,” Tailor told him firmly, ending any protests or questions John might have countered with next.

  A sudden vision of himself dressed as a peacock with a powdered wig and rouge suddenly flashed into his mind, and his enthusiasm began to deflate with every beat of his heart.

  “All very well,” Hal chimed in, still calmer than before, “I have no quarrel with the task set before us. But why the marriage?”

  Tailor and Weaver looked at each other, an unspoken, unreadable message passing between them. “That is purely for respectability,” Weaver said slowly, returning his attention to her. “We’ll have it annulled when the mission is over. We’ll call it fraud, neither of you will suffer for it.”

  Now it was John whose brows shot up. His personal cover had him working for Bow Street, and so he did, thereby allowing himself some insight into the rule of law and the justice it lived by. Annulments were nigh impossible to obtain, the reasoning behind them equally impossible to prove.

  “You want us to marry for respectability, and then get an annulment based on fraud, for respectability?” Hal’s question was less incredulous and more dubious.

  John could echo the same, though dismay was currently his primary emotion. “Why not make it a marriage in name only?” he asked, forcing his voice to be more restrained than hers.

  Tailor’s mouth tightened briefly. “Because then you could not get married again, should you wish to.”

  Hal scoffed loudly. “Because that’s likely to happen, isn’t it?”

  “It’s meant to help you,” Weaver insisted in the most cajoling tone John had ever heard the man employ. “Suppose you get into trouble legally on this mission.”

  “Why am I the one who failed?” Hal demanded, not at all consoled. “Why not him?”

  Her finger jabbing in his direction seemed to actually cause a prodding sensation between his ribs, and his torso tightened in discomfort.

  Weaver sighed in resignation. “Look, we’re doing this for protection all around. If all goes well, this marriage never took place, and there will be no witnesses to say it did.”

  “You’re killing everyone in this room?” Hal made a point of looking at the rest of the room’s occupants. “How ambitious.”

  John exhaled in irritation and gave her a dark look. “Are you going to be like this for the entire mission?”

  She met his eyes squarely. “Probably.”

  Dipping his chin in acknowledgement, John looked at Tailor. “Do I have to agree in the vows?”

  Tailor frowned, then gestured to the quiet man still sitting behind them. “Priest here will see that everything is done properly, and he’ll also see that evidence is destroyed properly when the time comes.”

  Hal folded her arms across her chest, rocking herself up on the balls of her feet, then back down. “And if something goes wrong with that evidence destruction?”

  “Then you may have a marriage in name only, and we will set the pair of you up with false identities to start a life somewhere else,” Tailor responded with more candor than John expected. “Happy?”

  A small smile crossed Hal’s lips, rendering her features somehow fairer and yet more feral, her eyes narrowing. “So, you’re saying we won’t be damned for bigamy. You can arrange that?”

  “For heaven’s sake, Hal,” Weaver groaned as Priest coughed in surprise from his seat.

  “What?” Hal inquired with a shrug of her trim shoulders. “I don’t want to be kept out of Heaven for the sake of your most convenient arrangement.”

  Tailor sighed and glanced behind him. “Priest?”

  “Tailor?” came the apparently easy answer.

  “Can you ensure the state of Hal’s immortal soul with regards to this matter?”

  The question was a ridiculous one, and John couldn’t believe they were indulging her like this. It wasn’t an ideal situation for beginning a mission, it was true, and the permanence of the connection might have been in question, but the reasoning was sound, as were the potential ramifications. He wouldn’t claim to know much about the Almighty, but surely the value in their mission, and the righteous valor of their assignment, would outweigh any technicality as far as their eternal fate was concerned.

  If Hal possessed a spiritual or religious bone in her body, he would be astonished. Knowing that, he could only suspect that she was toying with their superiors and doing all she could to draw this out.

  Why, exactly, was less certain, but he was weary with the game already.

  “Probably,” Priest affirmed with a nod. “I have it on good authority that he is a most forgiving being, and if he allows me to continue to lead part of his flock, with all my missions have required of me, I cannot see him being particularly stringent on this matter.”

  It was all John could do not to roll his eyes.

  Hal seemed almost disgruntled by the statement, which cheered John considerably.

  “So?” Weaver pressed with a sigh. “May we proceed?”

  John looked at Hal and found Hal looking at him.

  He lifted a brow in silent query. She lifted one back, the arch of hers quite perfect in shape and height.

  It taunted him more than he would admit.

  “Yes,” John heard himself say, the admission startling once it was out.

  The corner of Hal’s lips quirked, and something itched at the corner of John’s, though they stayed resolutely where they were.

  “We might as well,” Hal murmured, turning her attention to the others before them. “A special license, I presume?”

  Priest produced the exact license from an inner pocket of his coat. “You presume correctly. And don’t worry, I’ll cover the cost myself.”

  “We’re covering the cost,” Weaver corrected with a roll of his eyes. “The coffers of the government are at your disposal.”

  Priest grinned, his eyes crinkling. “Even better. I shall send the bill for my services along, as well.” He stepped forward, sobering only slightly, and extending his hands out in welcome to the pair of them. “Shall we begin?”

  “Hold! I insist you hold!” called a voice from beyond the room.

  Hal whirled to face the door, eyes wide. John only looked with mild interest. It was barely a legal marriage and was happening in secret, how could anyone protest it?

  A tall man in dark, dirty clothing appeared, his fair hair bared, though just as filthy as the rest of him. He paused at the entry, looking around and beaming quickly. “Am I too late to give the bride away?”

  John’s brows shot up even as Hal ran to the man and threw her arms around him.

  It would seem Trick had arrived.

  “You’re just in time,” Weaver told the newcomer.

  Hal whirled to face their superiors, her arm slipping around her brother’s waist. “You told him?”

  Weaver and Tailor shrugged with eerie synchrony. “Call it a bit of ironic sentimentality.”

  “I was counselled as to your mission,” Trick told his sister, though loud enough for John to hear. “I insisted on having you be protected legally, which is why this marriage is happening. I couldn’t possibly let you go through with it without being present myself.” He grinned down at her, his teeth almost blinding in their whiteness compared to the dirt that seemed to b
e everywhere else about him. “It may be the only wedding you have, Hank.”

  Hal frowned up at him, then surprised the entire room by delivering a stunning right hook to her brother’s upper arm. He recoiled with unmasked pain, and John found himself oddly proud of his bride-to-be.

  He also made a note to avoid situations where he might receive the same.

  “Dammit, Hank,” Trick grunted, rolling his shoulder as though testing it. “I’ve got to work later.”

  “That is your problem, not mine, Hunt,” came the unconcerned reply. She smiled at him with more fondness than John had seen in her expression at any given time.

  Despite her harridan-like nature in all else, there was no mistaking her adoration for her brother, nor the closeness between them. Surely, there was something to be said for that.

  “Right,” Priest said slowly, eyeing the group once more. “It would seem the bride has a suitable escort to give her away, which is hardly what I was most concerned about with this particular wedding. Nevertheless…” He exhaled loudly and gestured to an imagined aisle teasingly. “Now shall we begin?”

  Chapter Three

  “Absolutely not.”

  “You have to.”

  “I don’t believe I do. Not a required part of the mission in any way, shape, or form.”

  “You seem to be under the impression that you have any say in the matter, Sphinx. I can assure you, I have been given complete freedom to dress the pair of you as I wish, and what I wish is for you to not stand out on your mission for being such a complete illustration of drudgery and dullness.”

  Hal snorted a laugh behind her hand as she allowed two of Tilda’s girls to take her measurements, glancing over the screen separating her from her new husband as they were fitted for their respective wardrobes. They’d been married all of an hour at most, exchanged only a handful of words beyond their vows, and still he was as surly and fussy as she had ever known him to be.

  Granted, their exchanges had all been limited and related to missions they’d both been consulted on. She had no idea how he behaved socially, if he did so at all. She couldn’t see him having many social engagements to attend, or indeed being invited to them, given his stoic nature and disinclination to look favorable or pleasing at any moment.

  And, at this particular moment, he was protesting rather vigorously to a cravat being tied in a way that can only be described as towering and involved many complicated twists.

  It looked ridiculous on him, even she could say that.

  “If you could straighten up a bit, miss,” the assistant before her asked with all deference. “You’re slouching, and I mustn’t measure your form that way. It would lead to the most unbecoming fit of gown.”

  Sobering quickly, Hal did as she was bid, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin. “Apologies, Belle.”

  That earned her a smile. “Not at all, miss.”

  Truth be told, Hal hadn’t had to worry about her posture, form, or figure in years. Though she was only twenty-six, which would hardly qualify her to be relegated to the shelf of spinsterdom, she had not gone out in Society for a very long time. Not since Hunter had been seen in a respectable gathering, come to think, as he had publicly been accused of dreadful things that night and the entire family fell into ruin and disgrace.

  Not in truth, of course, but it had to be said and done with enough manufactured proof to be believed. As Hunter had been acting the boorish brute for a few years prior in preparation for his role in the covert field, it did not take much for everything to be believed.

  Hal was relieved of the duty to engage socially after that, and so she had become every bit the hermit she was rumored to be. She had no friends to speak of and an absent brother her only family.

  Except now she had a husband.

  In name only, it was true, but still.

  The fact sank into the pit of her stomach hard, and she blinked as Belle continued to measure her. A husband, of all things. No wonder Hunter had appeared from the depths of the city to attend the formality. Hal was never supposed to have a wedding or husband of any kind.

  Belle suddenly cinched the fabric around Hal’s torso tightly, taking her by surprise. “Steady on,” Hal protested breathlessly. “What’s the point of this?”

  “Sorry, miss,” Belle said around a mouthful of pins. “Fashions in Paris are starting to turn closer to the body. We’ll have to tighten your stays.”

  Hal’s cheeks flamed, and she prayed Sphinx wouldn’t hear them.

  “Fine,” she hissed low to avoid eavesdroppers. “But please, let me breathe. I’ll work on comportment, but I must have movement.”

  The fabric around her loosened just enough to give her breath once more, but only just.

  She would take it.

  “Tilda, I really must protest,” Sphinx insisted, his tone turning plaintive.

  “Really? I had no idea,” came the tall woman’s response.

  Hal peered over the top of the screen, her lips curving with curiosity. Sphinx was grimacing, his chin high in the air as Tilda continued to work at the linen about his neck. He wore no waistcoat or jacket, hands propped on his waist, and his stockinged feet curled in abject protest on the floor. It would have been a pitiable picture had this not all felt like some overdone theatrical.

  She couldn’t laugh at the prospect, much as she was amused by the sight; she knew she would likely have her hair trussed up in a way that would pain her, find herself tripping over the length of her skirts and petticoats, and exposing more of her shoulders and arms than had been seen in a decade.

  As if her thought had been heard, the straps of her chemise were drawn to the side, drawing a reluctant groan from her. “Why?”

  “Just for estimates, miss,” Belle reassured her as the other girl measured the distance between the edges with a strip of fabric. “A glimpse of shoulder is de rigueur in Paris.”

  “I’m beginning to think this is punishment for some crime I have committed,” Hal muttered as she obediently spread her arms out when bid.

  She heard a grunt from the other side of the screen. “Agreed. Any idea how we have offended the powers that be so heinously?”

  Hal smiled and looked towards the ceiling as though it would assist in carrying her voice. “I did manage to forget Tailor’s birthday this year until the day after. Think that would do it?”

  “Not likely,” came the strangely not disparaging voice. “If it had been Weaver, perhaps, but Tailor isn’t so vengeful.”

  “True enough.” Hal sighed and made a face. “Could we be receiving punishment on behalf of our siblings, then? Trick and Rook?”

  A thoughtful sound emerged. “That could be. I don’t know your sibling all that well, but I could certainly see mine causing enough trouble that it could impact me.”

  “So can I.” Hal laughed as she imagined Rook being up to mischief even while on assignment.

  “Marvelous,” Sphinx replied dryly. “I think everybody can see him doing something.”

  “I concur,” Tilda told them both. “Believe me, both of your brothers are capable of trouble enough to pull the both of you into the mess.”

  Hal rose up onto her tiptoes to look over the screen at the elegant costumer. “I didn’t know you knew Trick.”

  Tilda glanced over at her with a sly, bemused look. “Oh, love. Believe me, I have known Trick for years and years. I daresay I know more about his missions than you do.”

  There was a humbling thought, and Hal lowered herself back down as she considered that. She’d known Tilda often helped with several branches of the government’s covert operations, but she hadn’t suspected anything so incredibly involved. She was a special asset to the London League, of course, but they weren’t the only ones running missions and investigations in London itself.

  Just how entangled was Tilda in this covert world of theirs?

  “May I ask why we are being trussed up like this before we get to Paris?” Sphinx asked Tilda with the same mild, dry tone
he always seemed to use. “If I understand things right, we are to be staying with Hal’s relations. Surely, they will not expect us to arrive in Paris already arrayed fashionably.”

  “What are you saying, Sphinx?” Hal demanded with a grin that he wouldn’t see. “Are you implying that I am not a fashionable lady?”

  Belle smiled at Hal’s obvious jab, and Hal winked playfully.

  “Are you telling me that you are?” Sphinx asked her without much concern. “I have seen no proof of this, but it is not as though we meet socially. Perhaps I am mistaken.”

  She had to scowl at that. “No, you’re right. Not that my relations would know that, as we are not close, but all the same, I am no fashion plate.”

  Tilda huffed loudly. “You’re a bloody rotten pair, the both of you. Ungrateful wretches.”

  “Tilda…” Hal pleaded, fearing they might have actually offended the woman to such a degree as to earn her wrath.

  “Hush,” she said at once. “Did you think I did not notice that neither of you has any sense of fashion? I can assure you, I knew it from the first sight of you. As much as I would enjoy sending you off to make a spectacle of yourselves, I will resist the urge.” She sniffed as though it was a grand and generous sacrifice on her part.

  Belatedly, Hal thought of thanking her anyway out of sheer deference.

  Luckily, her husband was much quicker. “We are very grateful,” he said, and Hal could only hope he conveyed the proper sincerity in his expression.

  If his face could contort in such a human way.

  She was not entirely certain it could.

  “You will be perfectly middling in the fashion you wear upon your arrival at your new destination,” Tilda assured them as she began to form the shape of a waistcoat on Sphinx with rather bold fabric. “Enough that Hal’s fashionable relatives will wrinkle their noses up and insist that you have a new trousseau ordered. Upon which suggestion, you will reply that, owing to your recent nuptials, you have a new trousseau that has been sent ahead of you to the finest modiste in Paris. I will provide you with the name and address, at which time, these sumptuous items will be made available to you.”