Rogue Spy

by Joanna Bourne

  “Our clerk copies legal briefs, most recently for a case concerning inheritance of a woolen mill in Yorkshire. Servants in the attic. Next door, at Fifty-eight . . .” They walked, and he organized what he knew and laid it out for her. “Across the street, at Number Twenty-nine, the house belongs to a sea captain’s widow who lets rooms. We have an old woman who feeds cats in the basement. The ground floor is a retired nanny. One floor up . . .” House by house, he matched windows to inhabitants.

  They came to the corner, where Semple Street ran into Medwall Street. Cami sighed and tucked the parasol under her arm, evidently feeling it had served its purpose in establishing her role. “We Baldoni say, ‘One insight is worth a hundred facts.’ But I have no insights, except to say the men and women of Semple Street are ordinary as rocks. It’s as if somebody went to the warehouse and bought dull people as a wholesale lot.”

  Cami’s mind saw patterns when the facts were still scattered like stars across the sky. “There’s something we’re not seeing.”

  “We will continue to not see it, no matter how long we linger in this vicinity.” Cami shook her head. So strange to see her in these bright, frilly clothes with such a serious expression on her face. “I’ll go home and take out a map and stare at it till the very writing crawls away to hide from my intense scrutiny.” Impatient now, she turned and started down Medwall Street. “It’s my turn to be informative. I’ll show you where the Baldoni will be busy. If the Merchant gets this far, they’ll deal with him. It should be safe. The Merchant will doubtless have discharged his pistols somewhat before he gets here.”

  “Cami . . .” There wasn’t anything to say. The stark fact that she would probably be dead within minutes of meeting the Merchant lay between them. Neither of them wanted to say that in simple words.

  “I’ll wait for you tonight in my bedroom. Come to me,” she said.

  Everything—daylight, the street, house sparrows hopping on the pavement, people walking by—receded. He was overwhelmed by the memory of her body, laid back on white sheets, her legs open to him.

  “To love you again,” he said.

  She said, “To talk and for the joy of your company. Also, I expect to have trouble sleeping.”

  “That’s a prosaic reason for inviting me.”

  “I’m lining up the next twelve hours and filling them with simple things. Chocolates and good red wine and you. Will you come?”

  “Yes.”

  Last night, in the coldest hour before dawn, he’d left her bed and climbed down from her window. No dog barked, nobody stirred, but he slipped away from the house with the uneasy certainty his presence had been known. Instinct had set the hairs prickling on the back of his neck.

  He’d climb up to her room again tonight. Instinct be damned.

  Cami said, “And there is Mr. Hawker, leaning against a horse. What a surprise.”

  Hawker waited for them at the corner, his shoulder against the flank of a bay mare, the hoof curled up to rest on his thighs. He was cleaning the hoof with a little pick. Nobody had to get close to see he was cursing.

  “He does that well,” Cami said.

  “He’s putting something in there to give himself a lame horse to walk slowly past whatever he wants to look at.”

  “A coin, probably, under the shoe. It’s very convincing and does little harm. Do you think a Baldoni ever worked for the British Service at some point? You seem to know a lot of the family secrets.”

  “I wouldn’t be at all surprised.”

  When they got close enough, Hawker looked up and was amiable, pretending to a slight acquaintance. The hoof was returned to the pavement. The hat was tipped. Hawk was gallant in Cami’s direction. Cami smiled and twirled her parasol and was bitingly sarcastic.

  “Next street up,” Hawker said, shaking his head as if he were handing over bad news about the horse, “the hackney’s pulled over to the curb. Tenn’s on the box. Doyle’s waiting for you inside. Last-minute advice.”

  Beside him, Cami constructed a tight little smile. “I will excuse myself, then. I have no wish to meet Mr. Doyle again.”

  Hawker said, “Leave her here with me. I’ll take care of her.”

  Forty-five

  If you do not teach your son to be a thief, you make an honest tradesman of him.

  A BALDONI SAYING

  Cami waited till Pax was out of hearing range. Then she turned to this Service agent, Mr. Hawker. She said, “If you have something to say to me you don’t want Pax to hear, this is as good a time as any.”

  He leaned against the horse, arms folded. They had patient horses in whatever stable the British Service used. She wondered what the stable owners thought of all the horses lost and injured by Service agents over the years. Did the British Service come up with excuse after excuse or did they change livery stables with some frequency?

  Hawker said, “There’s a puzzle that’s been bothering me. That house—Number Fifty-six—means nothing. Semple Street means nothing.”

  She said, “That is a brilliant summation of my own views.”

  “But the Merchant wants to meet you there. Why is that, Miss Baldoni?”

  “Because life is not tediously predictable, Mr. Hawker. Maybe his tailor lives there.”

  “Or maybe you were told to lure Pax out where he’ll be easy to kill.”

  That hadn’t occurred to her, not once. “You think I’m setting a trap for Pax.”

  “Who tells us what the Merchant said?” Hawker stepped toward her suddenly, ignoring the horse sidling behind him. “One person. You can say anything you want, can’t you?”

  She stood with him, eye to eye. Not a tall man, Mr. Hawker. “More than that. I can say anything I want and be believed. I’m Baldoni.”

  “And a liar from the cradle.”

  “I sucked it in with my mother’s milk.” She faced him and waited.

  “Pax moves around a lot and he works on his own. Hard to trace. Hard to predict. Maybe your job is to bring him out in the open tomorrow for the Merchant to kill.”

  “A bit overelaborate, Mr. Hawker. Why would I do that?”

  “You’re a French spy.”

  “Not French, Mr. Hawker. Tuscan.” She rolled her shoulders in a shrug and turned away. “And I don’t spy for the French.”

  “You’re Caché.” Hawker’s voice was sharp as thorns. “That’s close enough. The only reason I don’t use this”—the knife was a blur of black that whipped toward her till it was a cold prick at her jugular—“is that Pax wouldn’t like it.” The knife stayed where it was. He leaned closer and whispered, “If you hurt him again, I’ll carve that pretty face of yours into ribbons.”

  She said, “Look down.”

  A second passed before he dropped his eyes. He’d already figured it out.

  Her pretty yellow parasol with the delicate flounces now ended in a six-inch steel spike, sharpened to a dagger point. It touched his chest, right below the heart.

  Baldoni don’t let their eyes talk about what their hands are doing. Whoever had spawned this dangerous boy held the same views. Nothing at all moved in his eyes.

  He let the knife drop from one hand and caught it with the other. He stowed it away in the inner recesses of his jacket, point downward. He said, “If I came after you, I’d pick a moment when you’re not armed.”

  “You’re a bloodthirsty fellow.” She slid the catch of the parasol back into place and retracted the spike. “If I ever decide you need killing—and I might make that decision any minute now—I’ll do it with a rifle from some distance. From behind.”

  “Like a good Baldoni.”

  “No. A good Baldoni would do creative things with your organs of generation while you were still breathing, then mutilate your corpse and leave it for your friends to find. Baldoni don’t waste a death.” She tapped the parasol lightly, making sure the trigger mechanism was locked.

  “You’re good,” Hawker said. “If you wanted to kill Pax, he’d be dead. If you wanted to blind him, he
’d be blind.”

  “He’s safe from me.” Lifting her head, she saw Pax coming toward her in long, loose strides, looking neither left nor right. Coming to her. She said, “And I’m safe from you till I bring the Merchant out of hiding. After that . . . I fear I may suffer some unfortunate accident. Maybe you’ll get that job. You seem suited to it.”

  “Is that what you think?” Hawker watched her steadily. “But you’ll be there tomorrow, won’t you, to do your dance with the Merchant?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded once, as if he’d proved something. “Then I’ll get you away from Semple Street if the Service decides to arrest you. Be ready.”

  Forty-six

  Do not attempt to change the course of a river.

  A BALDONI SAYING

  Midnight. Pax made himself a shadow down the alley and along the back wall of the Baldoni household. It was a high stone wall with glass on top. He slung his coat over to ease the way. He was soft and silent landing inside the yard.

  The yard looked empty. The lantern hung at the kitchen door still left big pools of dark to hide in. No dogs came sniffing to investigate him. To all appearances, the Baldoni household slept, peaceful and unguarded . . . tonight, when the Merchant was loose in London and Cami lay in bed upstairs.

  No. He didn’t believe it.

  Somebody was awake in this yard, watching and waiting. More than one, probably.

  And his instincts said he, in particular, was expected. So he’d arrive, as expected.

  He didn’t bother being surreptitious through the yard. He passed the old stable—the beasts needed for tomorrow were breathing in the stalls. By some family tradition, youthful Baldoni males slept separate from the house, above the stable in what had been the grooms’ quarters. Beyond that, the long shed held a pony cart. They’d be rolling that out before it was light.

  Usually he didn’t make a lot of noise walking. Tonight he clicked his boots down enough so he wouldn’t surprise anybody. Other nights, on other forays, into other strongholds, he’d take an hour to cross thirty feet. He’d locate the guards and dispose of them, one by one. He’d ease his way by unexpected routes past them, around them, behind them. Tonight he didn’t have to bother with any of that.

  He walked into the center of the . . . he was calling it a courtyard in his mind. The Baldoni stamped their opinion so firmly on the yard that it struggled to be orderly and beautiful, even in the dreary climate of London.

  Cami’s window was lit softly, glowing with only a hearth fire inside, no welcoming lamp. But she was waiting for him.

  Bernardo Baldoni stepped out of the oblong darkness of the kitchen doorway. It was no surprise to see the old man. No surprise at all.

  “You’ve chosen an unusual place to take the night air, Mr. Paxton,” Bernardo said.

  “You as well. Were you waiting for me?”

  “Let us say I came outside for one last smoke before retiring.” Bernardo came forward till they stood a few feet apart. He carried a cheroot—a small, neat, expensive one—cupped in the hand that held it so the red glowing tip didn’t show. He held it up. “May I offer you one?”

  “I never acquired the habit.”

  “The life you lead affords few indulgences.” Bernardo raised the cheroot, breathed in, held the smoke a moment, and breathed out. When Bernardo spoke again, it was to change the subject. “I saw your sketch of the Merchant. You’re a very good artist.”

  “Thank you.”

  They seemed to be alone. At least, he didn’t feel any other watchers. No itch between his shoulder blades. No tug at his attention from one window or the other. The night felt empty, except for him and Bernardo.

  Bernardo said, “Your work is particularly impressive for a man who has had so little leisure to practice the arts of peace.”

  “Chalks and ink are portable. I find time to sketch.”

  “Your lethal skills are also portable.” Bernardo gestured, leaving a thin line of red on the night where his hand passed.

  If Bernardo was taking a roundabout route to warn him away from Cami, he was wasting his time. “Cami knows what I am. If you want to warn her about me, wait till after tomorrow. She has enough on her plate.”

  “We will not disturb her peace of mind tonight, of all nights.” Bernardo was silhouetted from the side as he glanced toward the window where Cami slept. “The Baldoni have a long memory, back to the days when the great Medici ruled Florence and made it the most beautiful and dangerous city in Europe. The Tuscans understand the man of action who is also an artist. The man of death who also creates beauty.”

  Nothing he could say to that. A light Italian shrug seemed the appropriate answer.

  He understood the intertwining of art and violence. There’d been days in the mountains when he and his men paralleled the advance of the French, walking through the burned-out villages the invaders had left in their wake. He’d sit in an empty stable or lean against the wall of a goatherd’s hut, lost in drawing some small, everyday thing—a broken mug, an old man’s left hand, a pair of boots. Maybe it had kept him sane.

  “You come to visit my niece,” Bernardo said bluntly. “At night.”

  “Yes.” Nothing to do but admit it. This wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have with Cami’s uncle, on a dark night, twenty feet from her bedroom window. “If there’s fault to be found, it’s mine.”

  Bernardo took smoke again, held it, blew it out. The fire-breathing dragon, guarding the tower where Cami slept. “My niece, my little Sara, the child who sat on my knee in the Villa Baldoni in Tuscany, is gone forever. I will miss her. But I am coming to be quite fond of the woman who has returned to us.” He said softly, calmly, with easy dignity, “What do you intend with my niece, Mr. Paxton?”

  A Baldoni threat didn’t need to be laid out more plainly. It was there, stark and obvious as the bricks of a wall.

  Truth? He was going to get into her room and make love to her. He’d be with her tomorrow. Then he’d be with her the next day and all the foreseeable days after that. He said, “I plan to keep her alive tomorrow.”

  “I hope you will.” Bernardo spoke in the same deliberate way. Unhurried. “The Baldoni will be there in our roles and our places. Your plans are well considered. But in the end it is she who must face the Merchant, and you who must be there to protect her.” He grimaced and tossed the cheroot down on the cobblestone and ground it out. “If you live to be an old man, Mr. Paxton, you, too, may someday send others to do work you would wish to do yourself. I give you the task of defending our Cami.”

  “I intend to.”

  “You will remove her the minute that snake is taken and give her to us. She will not be put into the hands of the Service. Not for an hour. You understand that.”

  “I’ll get her out of there.”

  “She must leave England. I have considered where in Europe she will be safest—”

  “She’ll be with me.”

  Bernardo looked once more in the direction of Cami’s room. “Are you going to marry my niece, Mr. Paxton?”

  “If she’ll have me. Yes.”

  Bernardo nodded. “In my youth, men requested permission of a woman’s family before asking her to marry. Like many customs and traditions it has been disrupted by these years of war.”

  “I haven’t asked her.” He hadn’t said the words. The hour of eleven o’clock, tomorrow, lay like an insurmountable cliff, blocking off the days beyond. He wasn’t planning past tomorrow.

  “Fortunata and I approve, standing in the place of her grandfather. But it is, of course, Cami who will decide. We do not live in the Middle Ages.”

  He had a feeling the Baldoni still lived in the Middle Ages.

  “We will discuss settlements at some point,” Bernardo went on. “The legal documentation will be complex, as she owns property in several nations.”

  Cami had money? That was going to complicate things. If it was any great amount, he hoped she liked managing the stuff. He sure as hell didn’t
want to.

  “You do not ask what property or how much,” Bernardo said.

  “I’ll worry about that when the time comes.”

  “Very wise.” Bernardo began walking, beckoning him along to his side. “You are wondering whether you can come to her in her chamber tonight. The answer is no.”

  That, he answered with another Italianate shrug that said everything and nothing. He’d acquired a selection of such shrugs on his travels.

  “Since you will so soon be one of us,” Bernardo continued, “we have prepared a bed for you with some of the young men. Bachelors’ quarters, you might call it.” Bernardo indicated the stable they were walking toward. “We are crowded in our accommodations here in London, but we’ve doubled up again and emptied a bed for you. It’s the last bed in the row upstairs. Don’t disturb the others going by.”

  “I thank you for the hospitality.”

  He didn’t have to see Bernardo to imagine the ironical smile. “Good night, Mr. Paxton. Sleep well.”

  Forty-seven

  We are young only once, because God is merciful.

  A BALDONI SAYING

  A candle next to the door showed six beds lined up against the long wall under the slanted ceiling. Five beds held young men and boys, asleep. Pillows and blankets gave a glimpse of Baldoni faces, hard to tell apart in the weak light. Most of them looked old enough to shave. Barely. He’d probably been introduced to them.

  These and some others would be the gang of laborers who would soon be taking furniture from a house one street south of Semple. They’d be the men who would hide in a load of hay being delivered to an inn on the southern corner of Semple and Medwall.

  A dog, sleeping between the first two beds, woke and looked at him, accepted him, and resettled its head between front paws and closed its eyes. It was a well-trained Baldoni dog and didn’t bark when familiar smells came and went in the night.