Not this time.
Not with her.
“There.”
The word surprised him as he said it, and a heartbeat later he nodded, seeing now what his mind acknowledged before his eyes did.
“There,” he said again. “Fetch me another piece of paper, will you?”
She was already handing him one before he finished the request, and he looked at it, then up at her in puzzled surprise.
“What?” Hal lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug as she took her chair again. “I knew you had it from the first ‘there.’ Seemed to me you’d want to take it down, so I didn’t see the need to wait for the invitation.”
“I’ll make a note of that for future reference.” He flashed her a quick smile and returned to the note. “Right. Let’s see what you really say, pet.”
“Do you always talk to your puzzles?” Hal teased, leaning an elbow on the table.
“Only if it needs the encouragement.” He squinted for a moment, then started writing down the letters in question. “But it seems she’s in a giving mood.”
Hal grunted once. “Good for her. Care to share?”
John nodded and showed her the page of letters he’d written, biting back a laugh.
She stared at it, then gave him a dark look. “What does it really say?”
“Exactly what I wrote. Look.” He set the paper down and began to divide the jumble into words with slashes between the letters. “We are trained to only read things in a certain format. Change the format, and you change the significance. You see?” He slid the paper to her again, this time his smile for her nod.
“Yes, I do. But who are we to meet in Place Royale by the third tree to the west?” She glanced up, a furrow between her fair brows. “Surely, not Madame Moreau herself.”
John shook his head and sat back. “Not likely. Weaver did say we would have contacts here, and they would make themselves known. This is likely one of them. We know we can trust Madame Moreau, so I have no reason to suspect a trap.”
Hal nodded, then picked up the original note and compared it to the translation John had written. “Pratt.”
“Hal?”
“How the bloody hell did you see this in that?” She rustled the pages in turn for emphasis, slouching forward in unladylike fashion as she studied them. “There is no possible way to know where the message was in all of that in the time you accomplished this.”
John chuckled and folded his arms, taking a selfish moment to feel quite proud of himself. “Of course it’s possible. I just did it.”
The papers hit the table beneath pressing palms, the sound of the thumping echoing almost ominously, despite the diminutive size of the table itself. “So help me, Pratt, I will throttle you in ways they don’t teach at the Convent or anywhere else.”
“I’m afraid to ask.” He sat up and rested an arm on the table, flicking his fingers at the letter. “This is what I’m trained to do, Hal. I search for patterns, for hints, for anomalies… Especially anomalies, because that’s usually where I start to get somewhere. Anything that doesn’t fit is suspicious. How do I do it at the speed I do? Practice. And it’s not always fast, I can assure you. This one was fairly simple compared to other projects I’ve had.”
Hal twisted her lips, the furrow between her brows deepening. “Teach me.”
John’s eyes shot to her face, though her attention was still on the letter. There was something about the determined set of her jaw and the way it contrasted with the fullness of her cheeks that fascinated him, to say nothing of the faintest pink hue right at the place where jaw and cheekbone united. Something about the simplicity of her look this morning that he admired, and the unadorned air about her that he welcomed. Would have encouraged.
Wanted to keep.
He swallowed and returned his attention to the letter. “All right,” he murmured, clearing his throat. “Take a look at the original letter again. Look for patterns, hints, and…?”
“Anomalies.” Hal nodded and bit her lip as her eyes scanned.
He could barely see her do so, but he felt the teeth on that lip as though it were his own.
Perhaps he needed to drink coffee in the mornings, too. Clearly, he was not functioning well.
“Here,” Hal said at last, pointing at a word. “Parasol. We know that didn’t happen, so it clearly doesn’t fit.”
John nodded once. “Very good. So, if we look at that…”
An hour later, the first lesson complete, the pair of them strolled along the paths in Place Royale with other fashionable members of Paris Society, ambling aimlessly as they all were in high finery that would never have been seen outside of a ballroom in London.
Aimless ambling had never sat well with John, nor would it ever.
But without an identity to their contact, there was nothing else to do until they reached the third tree to the west. What were they to do by that tree without making it obvious that they were waiting?
“How are we supposed to meet our contact in such a popular park in the middle of the day?” Hal hissed as they walked.
“I have no idea,” John replied. “I leave that to the actual spies.”
He would swear later he could hear his wife scowl. “Clever, Pratt. So very clever.”
“I try.”
Really, he just couldn’t help himself; the witty quips seemed to just fly from his lips around her even when he knew it would irritate her.
Especially when he knew it would irritate her.
The Shopkeepers would be searching for his body one of these days. They would never find it.
They reached the tree in question, and Hal made a show of resting beneath its shade, as any proper lady would, while John stood by and observed their surroundings as any polite but bored gentleman would.
And they waited.
“Isn’t this lovely?” Hal grumbled after a few minutes. “We should have our portraits painted thusly.”
“Just because you haven’t spent much time out of doors in the last fifteen years does not mean the outdoors are an evil,” John pointed out calmly. “Breathe in the fresh air.”
“There is no fresh air to be had in Paris, you dolt. And if you’ve seen the sun outside of a window for more than ten minutes at a time since the age of twelve, I will eat these lace gloves.” She made an indignant huff and looked away. “Impossible man.”
John smirked and continued to look where he would in an attempt to spot their contact.
“Excusez-moi, monsieur… Des pièces à épargner?” a gravelly voice from his right.
“Non,” John said quickly, stepping back even as he turned to face the old beggar. “Je suis désolé…”
A grunt emanated from the beggar. “Thought not. Englishmen are always cheap.”
The clarity of the pure English tone would have dropped John’s jaw had he not spent years practicing locking it in place. “Ange. Have you any coins in your reticule?”
Hal was beside him in a moment, her fingers digging into the beaded pouch. “Oh, I think so. Let me see…”
“Call me Ruse,” the man said in a low tone, the croaking aspect from before vanishing completely. “Welcome to Paris.”
“Oh, bother, I could have sworn…” Hal said aloud without raising her voice in an obvious manner, her hand still fumbling within her reticule, her eyes on their companion.
He nodded at her in acknowledgment. “An invitation will arrive for you both this afternoon for an evening engagement tomorrow. You will accept, and your relations will also be pleased to do so. It would behoove you to make the acquaintance of Monsieur Leclerc, and to welcome any closer association.”
“No, Ange,” John said out of instinct, “that is too much.”
“Quite right,” she replied, jingling her reticule further.
“Leclerc cannot be trusted,” Ruse went on. “But he will be useful. We have reason to believe he is a courier of sorts, so if you can do something there…”
“Leave it to me,” Hal murmured in an almost dark, satisf
ied tone.
Ruse surprised them by grinning. “Trick hinted you might like that. He sends his regards, by the way.”
Hal only offered a low laugh in response.
John wasn’t sure what she meant by that.
“Above all else, be discreet.” Ruse looked between the two of them severely. “Trust no one. No one is what they seem in France these days.” He flashed another quick grin. “Yours truly aside.”
“That should do it, no?” Hal fished a coin from her reticule and handed it over, carefully avoiding touching the dirty palm. “How do we contact you?” she asked in a much softer tone.
Ruse’s lips twisted to one side. “Place a single candle in your parlor window.”
“You have us under surveillance?” John asked, his brows shooting up.
“Oh, Sphinx.” Ruse laughed darkly. “You have no idea where we are and just how closely we lurk. This is a crucial mission, and none of us are willing to risk failure.” His fingers closed around the coin Hal had given him. “Merci beaucoup, madame. Dieu vous bénissez.”
“Vous aussi,” Hal replied, but their only known contact was already shuffling away, his gait staggering to the left, stumbling as other patrons of the park took pains to avoid him.
John watched him go, then offered an arm to his wife. “Well, Ange,” he sighed, “shall we venture back?”
“Let’s walk a few moments more,” she suggested softly, her hand curving around his upper arm as if for protection. “There is a great deal more to think about now.”
John nodded in agreement and exhaled slowly as they left the shade of the tree, thoughts awhirl. “The sun and air will do us both good.”
Hal prodded his side hard with her elbow, and he smiled at the pressure.
Chapter Eight
“It is extraordinaire that you have already received an invitation since you’ve been here. Marvelous! Did we meet Monsieur Savatier at the theatre? I must have made the introduction, indeed I must. Lovely family, beautiful wife, and quite respectable by any standards. He was a soldier for the emperor, you know, though we mustn’t admire such things now. But he is favored of His Majesty, so we must admire that. This will set you both up in Paris, I am sure of it. Do you like cards, Pratt? There is destined to be excellent French wine at Savatier’s, you can be sure, and cards and wine are an excellent pairing.”
“Do you think he expects me to react or reply at any time?” Pratt asked Hal softly, leaning close while her cousin continued to prattle on about everything and nothing.
Hal clamped down on her bottom lip to stifle a giggle. “Not really. He must be eager to attend tonight.”
Pratt grunted once. “Well, he is making me less so with his excessive enthusiasm. Make it stop.”
“Shh!” She gave him a scolding smile. “We have to pretend tonight. You know that.”
“I don’t see why I have to pretend I enjoy being social,” Pratt muttered. “I’m already pretending far too much.”
Something about that statement stiffened Hal’s spine and made her shift uncomfortably. Was that a note of bitterness she heard in his voice? What else was he pretending that he could possibly resent? The opera hadn’t been terrible, and they had started to find details for their mission there. They were remarkably relaxed at her cousin’s home, never had to stand on ceremony, and were left to themselves for the most part. The children ran amok with regularity but rarely got in their way.
What was he pretending there?
Was he pretending with her?
The thought sent her gnawing on the inside of her cheek, anxiety and insecurity warring within her, and soon her own resentment joined in. They had only spoken about the mission and details, never about anything particularly personal, and unless he was bitter about being married to her for the time being, the only thing he might have pretended at was cordiality with her.
If that bothered him, there were bigger problems than their mission lying under the surface.
She wasn’t pretending at cordiality with him. She wasn’t pretending when she asked to learn about finding the code in the letter. She wasn’t pretending in her determination to accomplish their mission.
She wasn’t pretending at all when it came to him.
Was she wrong? Should she have been more guarded with him? With the mission? Should she have been pretending and protecting herself constantly?
Perhaps this was why she hadn’t been selected for operations at the Convent. She wasn’t an operative at heart, and she wasn’t an operative by nature.
That was hardly the mentality she needed at this moment, considering the carriage was just pulling up to their destination wherein she would have to pretend to be a British émigré without drawing any attention while pretending to be one.
Lovely.
“Ah, yes,” her cousin said, puffing his chest out as he moved for the door. “You will be impressed, I think. Come, come.”
Hal looked across the carriage at Victoire, who seemed almost exasperated by her husband. “Forgive him, please,” she pleaded with a laugh in her sweetly accented voice. “He feels so alive around other people.”
“You don’t feel the same way?” Hal asked, tilting her head ever so slightly.
Victoire sighed as she scooted to the edge of her seat, preparing to leave the carriage. “I much prefer a quiet evening at home. Ah well. Perhaps one day.” She offered a fleeting smile, then took her husband’s hand and exited.
“Not any time soon, unfortunately,” Pratt murmured with some sympathy. “Not with her children. Well, shall we?”
Hal scowled as Pratt moved out of the carriage and offered a hand to her. “No need to be so cheery. Really, one will mistake you for the sun.”
Pratt’s furrowed brow would have made her scowl further had the others not been watching. “What are you talking about?”
“Never you mind,” she huffed as she took his hand and stepped down. With a smile entirely for the benefit of Jean and Victoire, Hal gripped her husband’s elbow. “Lead on, cousin.”
Needing no further encouragement, Jean did so, chattering away as he had before, while Hal and Pratt followed.
“Are you nervous?” Pratt asked in a quiet tone. “You seem a bit abrupt.”
“Perhaps that’s just my nature finally in full effect,” Hal snapped. She exhaled shortly through her nose, trying to force a calm she did not feel. “No, I am not nervous. The idea of pretending has me irritable.”
That, at least, was true, and he could take it for what he would. There was no need to elaborate or expound, and she could have some relief in speaking her mind, even if it was not in full.
He’d never know.
“I can understand that.” He sighed heavily and shook his head. “We’re not field operatives, you and I. But we need not pretend too far out of our nature. The only real pretending would be our opinions on England, if we are able to express them, right?”
Was that all he thought they were pretending? All he thought she was talking about?
Intriguing.
“I suppose,” she said slowly, doing her best not to look up at him.
He nodded as though he hadn’t heard her response. “We would never be able to maintain the subterfuge of pretended characteristics of our natures with the same continuity regardless of the audience. So why not be ourselves?”
“Because we are not actually a married couple?” Hal quipped before she could help herself.
Pratt stopped her and gave her a serious look, one brow rising. “I beg your pardon, Ange. I think you will find that we are married, and certain individuals went to great pains to bring that about. The fact that neither you nor I were particularly thrilled by those pains is irrelevant now.”
Hal made a face, some of the tension leaving her spine as she looked down at the tips of her slippers.
“I suppose,” she replied again, this time with reluctant acceptance.
Pratt pressed two fingers beneath her chin and tipped her face up towards his. “An
ge, we may not have gotten along in the past, but I’d like to think that, in the last few days, we’ve become friends, at least. If that’s true, we’re certainly among the rarity in British Society. Surely, we don’t have to pretend that there is, in part, some affection in our marriage.”
There was nothing to do but sigh very softly at that, and Hal allowed herself to smile up at him. “No, John,” she admitted, loving the smile she received at the use of his given name. “No, we don’t have to pretend that.”
His eyes searched hers for a moment, even in the fading light of evening, as though he were deciphering the code written there, and then he nodded, his smile still in place. “Then I suppose we need not pretend much at all.”
Hal grinned without reservation, her heart feeling lighter than it had since leaving London. “Apparently not.”
“Mes cousins, vous venez?” Jean called, waiting for them just outside the door to Monsieur Savatier’s home.
“Oui, oui, nous arrivons,” Pratt replied as he winked at Hal and dropped his hand from her chin, leaving the skin almost chilled in his absence.
They turned and hurried to follow, Hall pulling herself closer to her husband than she had done before.
“What did Ruse mean when he suggested you could do something with Leclerc’s potential role?” Pratt hissed while they were still out of earshot of the others.
Hal smiled slyly up at him. “One of the skills I did manage to acquire in my life that would have served me well is the ability to pick a pocket without detection. Very few people know that, including my dear, devoted godfather.”
Pratt barked a laugh and shook his head. “Of course you can. Well, well, Ange, perhaps tonight will be entirely devoted to you.”
“Perhaps it will.” She shrugged a shoulder as though it was possible, if not entirely plausible. “I’m sure you’ll find some useful occupation for the evening.”
“Impudent, wife.”
“Thank you, husband.”
Pratt nudged her side gently in response, and Hal could have beamed the entire night because of it.
But there was work to be done, and despite their teasing, they would both need to take part.
To Sketch a Sphinx Page 9