by The Spy
“In London? Not difficult. P is for Piss?” James grinned. “For the Thames is surely full of it.”
It was a mild joke, only slightly off-color. There was no reason for Phillip to stare at him in that startled manner.
“Oh, come on, Flip. Don’t be such a girl. A bloke can say ‘piss,’ can’t he?”
“Of course a bloke can say ‘p—piss.’ ”
James rolled his eyes in friendly disgust. Phillip looked as though he were about to wash his own mouth out with soap. James watched him as he bent to pick up another book. Squatting quickly, James moved to help him gather up the mess.
Phillipa jumped as James’s thigh bumped her own. She was still shaking from the shock of his arrival. She’d thought he’d stay out much later, seemingly being a wealthy fellow with nothing better to do with his time.
Thank heavens she’d come up with that lie about a primer for Robbie . . . although now that she thought about it, it was a perfect solution to Robbie’s reluctance to read.
Moreover, Mr. Cunnington had believed it. Tension and a tremor of guilt made her stomach shiver. He was very trusting, this man who might be good or evil . . .
He reached across her vision for another book, then dumped the lot in her arms. The back of his hand brushed her breast as he did so and she lost her grip on the pile she held.
Books tumbled between them once more. James laughed and shook his head at her.
“Damn, Flip. How many thumbs do you have?”
“S—sorry.” Phillipa bent to gather them again. James laid a hand on her shoulder. It was heavy and warm. Warm enough to ignite her inappropriate lust once more.
“Flip, look at me.”
His deep voice was gentle. She looked up into his brown eyes, clutching the books to her chest.
James squeezed her shoulder. “Flip, I know you aren’t quite what you claim.”
Phillipa’s heart stopped quite still. She’d been found out already.
James continued, his gaze kind. “I know you’re not really a tutor. I know you’re not as old as you claim. And I know you’ve been hungry, probably for quite a while.”
He didn’t know. Her secret was safe for now. Then the kindness of his words made it through her relief and she felt the burn of tears behind her eyes. She looked down quickly and began tidying the books she held.
“You don’t have to be afraid of me, Flip,” James continued. “I don’t give a whit that you lied, because in the most important way, you told the truth. You can help Robbie, perhaps more than anyone else who has tried. You’ve experienced some things in your life, I imagine. Things that will help you reach a boy who never had a chance to find out what he was capable of.”
She raised her face to gaze at him somberly. Who was this man? He seemed so warm, so open, yet somehow he never quite showed himself to her. Every time she might have learned something significant about him, he had deflected her with a jest, or a light half-answer, or changed the subject altogether.
He might be someone she could trust. He might even be able to help her, but how could she be sure?
No. Until she knew more about him, she could not risk it.
James’s chuckle turned her musings aside. “Lord, Flip. The look on your face. What are you thinking now?”
“I’m thinking that Robbie was lucky that you found him.”
“Oh, he found us.”
“Us?”
James removed his hand and stood, unbuttoning his fine court frock coat as he did so. “Pour me a whisky, will you, while I go change? Then we shall see if we can think of something that begins with P.”
Phillipa watched him move across the room. Gone again. Still, it was for the best—before she threw herself on his mercy and his broad hard chest and wept out her troubles into his shirtfront.
Odd, however, that she missed him when he left the room.
Chapter Ten
Dear God, would the man never leave? Phillipa let her forehead fall down on the last page of their nearly finished primer in exhausted frustration. “Z must be for Zebra, James. It’s the only word we’ve got.”
“What about Z is for Zephyr?”
Phillipa gritted her teeth. “Oh, lovely. That’s tangible,” she said. “Robbie,” she called to the boy playing on the floor behind them. He’d been granted the day off from his lessons, only to discover a rain too heavy to allow tree-climbing in the garden. Phillipa had ordered him to create blood and havoc on the carpet instead. Robbie had gleefully obliged. “Do you know what a zephyr is?”
“No.” Robbie didn’t look up from his prized collection of painted lead soldiers. From the look of things, he was about to squash Napoleon forever.
Phillipa raised her head to send James a triumphant look.
He snorted. “Robbie,” he said, “do you know what a zebra is?”
“No.”
Phillipa let her head fall back down. They’d worked most of the night and all morning and she was beyond tired. Worse still, she was hungry.
Working with James had been difficult and full of stimulating opinionated debate. She’d had to stand her ground against his forcefulness with a strength she hadn’t known she had. But she had come to think of this book as the key to teaching Robbie and none of James’s flights of creative fancy were going to spoil it.
Yet somehow the entire project had been more fun than she’d ever had in her life. They had twenty-five pages of alphabet illustrated with some very serviceable drawings produced by James. All that remained now was Z.
“Zip, zap, zup,” she muttered. Then she yawned into the desk blotter. James’s chuckle rumbled through the room. She looked up at him blearily.
He smiled at her. “Who would have thought Z would be harder than X?”
“Ah, but you were brilliant. I never would have thought of X is for Rex, which is on every coin of the realm.”
He gave a playful bow. “Thank you, my good man. But let us not forget the mind behind Q is for Quarrel—one of which can be seen every half-block in London.”
She propped her chin on her fist and grinned. “I never knew I had it in me.”
His brown eyes twinkled back at her. He had a wonderful smile, she mused in suddenly contented weariness. Open and warm and playful. She liked working with him, liked playing with him as well.
James looked down at the weary young fellow behind his desk and shook his head. Sometimes Phillip seemed to go off into such daydreams. Still, they had been up quite late together.
He snapped his fingers before Phillip’s eyes. “You need some rest, man. You’re drifting.”
Phillip blinked and sat up straight. “No, not yet. I want to finish this. We only need one more letter.”
“Z is for Zap,” muttered Robbie behind them. “Saw the bell tower of St. Mary-le-Bow hit by lightning once. Zap!” He knocked down a soldier with a darting fingertip. “Zap! Zap!”
James blinked. “I do believe Napoleon’s troops have run into a bit of a storm.”
Phillip was grinning again. He reached for the last page and wrote quickly. “Zap! Why not? It’s our book. We can use Zap if we like!”
Bending over Phillip and the book, James quickly sketched out a rather nice zigzagged shape beside Phillip’s writing—a lightning bolt. They both tilted their heads to admire the finished product.
“Yes, it is our book.” Smiling as well, James reached out to tousle Phillip’s hair and was surprised when he flinched away.
Phillip blushed and sent him a half-shrug. “Sorry,” he muttered.
Odd. Still, young men were notoriously sensitive about such things. James reminded himself of the delicacy of youthful masculine pride. It wouldn’t do to treat Phillip like Robbie.
Instead, he ought to treat him as he would Collis or Stubbs. A respected equal. And he did respect Phillip. The fellow was smart and quick, obviously a real survivor.
James pursed his lips, thinking. Just the sort of young fellow the club needed, in fact. An educated apprentice, one without f
amily ties, young enough to train up properly? James would have to fight the other Liars off with a sword. If only James could get Phillip to shed that girlish sensitivity of his.
A loud growl echoed through the room. Robbie looked up in surprise. James laughed out loud. “Gentlemen, I think there’s a bear loose in this house.”
Phillip let out an embarrassed snort. “That was my stomach, I admit it.”
“Go. Off to the kitchens with the both of you. Tell Cook that I ordered an early dinner all around. I’ll take a tray in here. Time to get some of my work done.” He grinned at Phillip to take the sting from his words.
Robbie clambered up willingly enough and Phillip walked the boy to the door of the study. Then he stopped and looked back to where James had now seated himself behind the desk. “Thank you, sir. This will truly help Robbie, I think.”
“You’re very welcome, Sir Flip,” James teased.
But Phillip wasn’t teasing. His green eyes were deadly serious. James was taken aback by the emotion he thought he saw there.
“It meant a great deal to me, sir.” Then Phillip turned and left with a curious stately dignity that somehow sat well on those thin shoulders.
James shook his head. “You are a very odd duck, Mr. Phillip Walters,” he murmured to the empty study. “I wonder who you really are?”
Later as James strode through the door of the club, he considered his options. There were only two men currently with the Liars who had worked with Rupert Atwater. One was Simon, former spymaster and now James’s own brother-in-law.
Although James was very fond of his former superior and new family member, he’d rather not consult Simon just yet, for Simon and Dalton were close as well. James didn’t want Dalton to catch on to this not-so-terribly-official mission.
Kurt, on the other hand . . .
Kurt wouldn’t breathe a word unless specifically questioned by Dalton—not so much out of any sense of loyalty to James as out of a general disinclination to human speech.
As usual, Kurt could be found reigning over his princely domain. Pots bubbled on the massive stove and the smell of baking filled the air. The kitchen would have felt positively homey had it not been occupied by one of the most dangerous men in the civilized world.
The giant assassin was chopping, James was pleased to see. Aside from the fact that watching Kurt use a knife for any purpose was like watching an artist at work, this also meant that after a rousing session of cutting things into tiny little bits, Kurt would likely be feeling positively mellow—for Kurt.
James entered with respectful silence and made his way carefully to the rough table at the far end of the kitchen. He parked one buttock on the tabletop and waited patiently for Kurt to complete the dismemberment of several plucked birds.
Most people made themselves scarce when Kurt worked his magic with the deadly flying knives, but James was fascinated. True, there was one moment when even James had to shut his eyes . . .
The sound of steel bisecting bone slowed, then stopped altogether. James risked opening one eye to see Kurt tossing his—er, bird remains—into a pan and then wiping his hands thoroughly with a piece of toweling. Kurt then abruptly tossed the bloodstained towel in James’s direction.
James only had a moment to consider—catch or dodge? He decided to catch and found himself the lucky recipient of an approving grunt from Kurt, who then turned away to delicately sprinkle herb trimmings onto the pan of birds. There would never be a better time to question him.
Trying to hide the fact that he was holding the grisly towel with two fingers, James approached the large block where Kurt was working. “That looks . . . delicious.” Actually it did, although James thought he might head on back to the house for his supper. Not that he was squeamish or anything.
Kurt did not answer, nor had James truly expected him to. He surreptitiously dropped the towel back over the gory area of the chopping block and breathed in relief. “So, Kurt, I was wondering if you could help me out with a bit of club history.”
Not a word, but James did earn a noncommittal glance from beneath two bushy brows. He decided to consider that as encouragement and went on. “Some years ago there was a cryptologist named Atwater. Do you recall him?”
Kurt grunted. “Skinny bloke. Pretty wife. She were a right good cook.”
James was startled by such loquacity. Goodness, Kurt must have fond memories indeed. “Yes, that would be Isabella. She was Spanish, I believe?”
Kurt paused in his work, his gaze gone positively dreamy. “She could do things with oranges.”
Since Kurt only cared about two things—cooking and killing—James fervently hoped that he was referring to recipes using citrus.
“And the little girl, do you remember her as well?”
Kurt returned to his spicing. “Fifi.”
Excellent. “Her name was Fifi?” It was always best to be specific with Kurt. “Was that a pet name, short for something else?”
Kurt shrugged. It was rather like watching the earth shift. “ ’Er mum called ’er Fifi.”
Fifi Atwater. Well, it was a place to start. “What did Fifi look like?”
Kurt sent James a contemptuous flicker of the eyes. “A girl.” Then he paused once more. “Red.”
Red? Red dress, red lips, red—
A lance of solid ice went through James’s gut. “Red hair?”
“Bright. Like a new penny.”
Red hair was unusual, memorable . . . and exceptionally difficult to hide. So, his red-haired captive had been something more than a chance encounter. His suspicions about Atwater’s disposition of his daughter had been at least partially correct. The girl was in London.
And if he was not mistaken, she’d been spying on him.
James felt the excitement of the hunt run through him. He clapped Kurt on the shoulder. “Thank you, Kurt. You’ve been an enormous help.”
Kurt turned his cold gaze down to where James’s hand rested on one massive shoulder. Then he looked at James without a word.
James jerked his hand back. “Ah. Sorry. Er, good then. Thank you.” He backed away slowly, as if from an uncaged beast “Right. Looks like a lovely meal!”
He made his escape even as a bestial growl rose to echo through the steamy kitchen. Oh, yes. Definitely home for supper tonight.
• • •
The valet that Mr. Cunnington had sent for to fit Phillipa’s new dinner suit greeted Phillipa warmly, then smilingly ushered Denny from the room.
Then the small immaculately attired Mr. Button turned on her fiercely. “Who are you, young woman, and what do you mean by this charade?”
Phillipa blinked, too shocked to feel fear yet. “Goodness, that didn’t take you long.”
Mr. Button rolled his eyes. “Please. I’ve dressed more lads as women and more women as lads in the theatre than a cat has whiskers.”
He walked around her. “Your chest is full, but your waist is narrow. Your hips aren’t terribly wide, but there is no hiding the set of your legs.” He came round before her again and chucked her under the chin to raise her face to his gaze. “Eyes large, lips full, nose ridiculously tiny—dear me, is Mr. Cunnington blind?”
He stood back, shaking his head. “You’ll be very pretty once you’ve had a few weeks of this fine living. I can tell you’ve been close to starvation. Pale . . . shadows under the eyes, the cheekbones . . .”
Abruptly his anger seemed gone. He stepped back to seat himself on the sofa. “You’re no spy, are you, child? Just a hungry girl, looking for a safe home.”
Phillipa was too taken aback to speak. She had expected Mr. Button to alert the house to her identity, not to pat the cushion beside him on the sofa and bend a sympathetic ear.
Much bemused, she sat carefully next to him. “How can you know so much about me? Who are you?”
“I am personal valet to Sir Simon Raines, if you must know. And I have extensive experience in spotting liars.” He chuckled to himself. “Sorry, my little joke. So, tel
l me everything.”
There didn’t seem to be much point in hiding her history any longer, so Phillipa obliged his curiosity—withholding her true surname, of course, and the fact that Napoleon’s men were involved. In all honesty, she didn’t know if there was any point to keeping her story quiet . . . except for a niggling instinct that there was indeed something suspicious about James Cunmngton.
So she told Mr. Button that her father was dead. Her very real grief at saying those words out loud resulting in making her quite convincing, despite the fact that she deeply hoped it was a lie. She told him that she’d come to London hoping for the protection of her father’s old friend, but that the friend was dead. She told him about Mrs. Farquart, and Bessie’s trunk, and Robbie’s reaction to her at the interview.
“Ah, yes, our Rob’s a quick one,” chuckled Button, as he insisted she call him. “He’ll be quite the man someday, if he manages to live long enough.”
He then proceeded to tell her a number of tales of Robbie’s escapades. Phillipa didn’t stop him, for she learned more about her charge in five minutes than she had in the past three days.
Finally something he told her made her laugh, and he stopped, his eyes twinkling merrily.
“You and I shall be fast friends, I can tell. Now convince me why I shouldn’t go to Mr. Cunnington at once with your story. He would help you, you know.”
“No. Please . . . I haven’t told you quite everything. There are some things I need to find out first. I think someone wants to hurt me . . . and James is so secretive sometimes . . . and then he can be so very kind . . .”
“Aha.” Button, who had seemed frankly puzzled, now nodded wisely. “You’ve taken a fancy to our James, then.”
“N—no!” Phillipa stood quickly. “I mean, I’m sure he’s a wonderful fellow but—I mean, I can’t—” She hadn’t done any such thing! Absolutely not
“Phillipa dear, you aren’t making sense.”
“I know—only please, Button, please don’t say anything!”
He regarded her steadily for a moment, this small prim man who quite possibly held her very life in his hands.