“Catharine, may I ask you a question while we wait?”
“Of course,” Catharine said, straining to see over the crowd.
Emily spoke quickly, so as not to lose her nerve. “I was wondering about the, ah, arrangements ladies and gentlemen sometimes make. Outside of marriage, I mean.”
“Excuse me?” Catharine whirled and gave Emily her full attention. “Has Lord Blackstone asked you to be his mistress?”
“No! I was just wondering about…” Sarah had told Emily that before she met Mr. Burnham, Catharine had been infamous for bestowing her affections on younger men. “I just wanted to know, if a lady decides she doesn’t want to marry…” My heavens, this was mortifying.
“It was different for me because I was a widow,” said Catharine, as if she had heard Emily’s thoughts. “If a maiden—a girl like you, say, though I’m sure we’re speaking hypothetically—doesn’t want to marry, she has few options. She can become a man’s mistress.”
Emily felt the intensity of her friend’s gaze. Rather irrationally, she worried that the transgressions of two nights ago might be written all over her face.
“But make no mistake,” Catharine continued decisively, “she’s not mistress of the arrangement. She’s subject to his every whim. He’s the master, and she’s a gussied-up servant.”
Emily suppressed a shudder. That sounded worse than marriage.
“Or she can become a spinster.”
Yes. That had been the plan. “It just doesn’t seem…”
“Fair? It’s not. It’s grievously unjust.” Catharine sighed, and Emily felt the relief of the older woman’s relaxed scrutiny. “But if a woman does not find a man she would like to marry, and is lucky enough not to be forced into an unwanted alliance because of financial or familial circumstances, there may be arrangements that can be made.”
“Arrangements?” Emily prompted.
“A footman, perhaps, if one can be counted on to be discreet.”
“Oh my heavens!”
“But an arrangement like this should never be made prematurely.” Catharine crooked a smile. “Twenty-three—hypothetically speaking—is too young to give up on marriage.”
Emily was saved from having to continue the discomfiting conversation by an outbreak of lukewarm applause. The speaker was done. Her skin grew tight, and her heart lodged in her neck as it beat a staccato rhythm.
Mr. Todmorden, her editor, who was also acting as master of ceremonies, made his way to the podium. “Ladies and gentleman!” he called, amplifying his voice to make it heard over the shuffling and chatting that broke out between speakers. “I know many of you have come to hear the mysterious veiled lady speak.” The crowd threw up a cheer that made Emily laugh with delight. “In fact, there has been a slight change of plan. Our veiled lady has written the speech you’ll hear today, but she won’t be delivering it.” The jeers that followed were quickly silenced by Mr. Todmorden shouting, “I think you’ll be thrilled when you learn the identity of our orator. I myself don’t know who he is, but have been told he’s a high-ranking peer.” The audience went wild. “I’ve been told merely to introduce him as”—Mr. Todmorden spread his arms wide, drawing out the anticipation—“the champion of the mysterious veiled lady!”
“Blackstone certainly has a flair for the dramatic,” Catharine shouted into Emily’s ear as both women clapped enthusiastically. It was impossible not to catch the excitement racing through the throng. Emily wasn’t a swooner, but this was as close as she’d ever come. The heady onslaught of pride and excitement was enough to make her feel dizzy.
The fervor grew to an almost deafening pitch. “May I call the lady’s champion to the stage?” Mr. Todmorden shouted, barely making himself heard over the din. Some men near the back started chanting, “Bring him out! Bring him out!” Emily felt the beginnings of panic as Catharine dropped her arm and took her hand instead. The pitch of the assembly was changing, excitement giving way to anger as Mr. Todmorden continued to call Blackstone to the stage. The throng surged back toward them as some of the audience began to leave.
“I wonder if we ought to retreat,” Catharine said. “Just a bit, just to be safe.” She pointed to the street that edged the park. “I’m sure we’ll still be able to hear from the other side of that street. And we can duck inside a shop if we need to.”
“He’s not coming.” The words came of their own volition, for she hadn’t consciously summoned them. But she knew they were the truth as soon as she’d uttered them. She recognized the hollow, icy cave opening up inside her chest. This feeling was familiar. She’d felt it once before as the single lash of a whip cracked against her skin.
Betrayal.
Except this time it was worse, even though it wasn’t accompanied by physical pain. This time, it was accompanied by heartbreak.
Catharine, still holding her hand, led her out of the park.
“He’s not coming,” she said again, louder this time, as if to say it over and over would cauterize the wound.
…
It wasn’t that Blackstone hadn’t expected consequences. You couldn’t betray someone and not pay the piper.
It’s just that he hadn’t expected the consequences to take the form of Catharine Burnham, who didn’t even wait for Stanway to finish announcing her before she strode across the drawing room and slapped him soundly across the face.
He’d been in the midst of rising to greet her, setting aside the brandy he’d been holding. Reeling from the force of the unexpected assault, he dropped the glass and fell back on his chair with an indecorous thud. Bailey, standing by the fire, let loose a low whistle.
“I’ll send a maid right away, your lordship,” said Stanway.
Blackstone made a vague gesture of dismissal as he stood. “That won’t be necessary. Leave us.”
Catharine clenched her fists by her sides and pressed her lips together so hard they disappeared. He stood again, hoping to summon smooth words to calm her.
She slapped him again—the other cheek this time.
“Are you quite finished?” he asked, managing to remain on his feet this time.
“You should have seen her face.”
“Whose face?” said Bailey, coming to take Catharine’s arm and lead her to a settee.
“Miss Mirren’s face,” Catharine hissed, answering Bailey’s question, but still looking daggers at Blackstone. “You broke her heart. She was excited, proud, positively bubbling over with joy, and you betrayed her. You took it all away in an instant.”
“Will someone please tell me what is going on?” said Bailey.
“You were there?” asked Blackstone. “She was there?” She’d promised she wouldn’t attend. But, touché. He’d promised he would deliver her speech. It might have been stupid, but he’d thought he would have until tomorrow at least before he had to deal with Miss Mirren’s disappointment.
Or heartbreak. Disappointment he’d anticipated, but Catharine had called it heartbreak. Betrayal. His throat tightened, but he forced himself to be ruthless. This was no different than any of the dozens of times he’d promised one thing and done another in service of the cause.
“Of course we were there,” Catharine spat. “Did you really expect her to stay away? It was to be the culmination of all her work. You promised her a voice that she alone could never hope for—you offered to use your status to boost her message. And instead you silenced it, trampled it. I thought you were better than this.”
“You know what I am. Who I am.”
“Yes,” she said, undisguised disappointment in her eyes, “I do now.”
Bailey interjected. “You two are speaking in code. We’re in the middle of a mission, and I’d appreciate knowing what’s going on.”
“This has nothing to do with the mission,” Blackstone said, still unable to tear his eyes from Catharine’s accusing ones.
“I beg to differ,” said Bailey. “Whatever it is, it has you tied up in knots. And if it involves Miss Mirren, it has ever
ything to do with the mission. It has everything to do with everything.”
“I don’t care what sort of mission he’s running,” Catharine said to Bailey before turning her damning stare back to Blackstone. “I don’t care what’s on the line. You leave her out of it.”
Blackstone wanted to howl. He settled for closing his eyes and running his hands through his hair. “I can’t. That’s the problem—it’s all mixed up together.” He always operated by the maxim that those who didn’t need to know didn’t need to know. Catharine knew about the Miss Mirren mission—mostly. Bailey knew about the Le Cafard mission. Neither needed to know about the other.
But he did trust each of them with his life. They’d both proven themselves loyal. The logical thing to do was to tell them both about everything, to make them see that it was all very simple, even though perhaps it didn’t seem so right now—that there were sound reasons for his behavior.
“I made a promise to Miss Mirren’s father, you see.” That drew their attention. He sighed. “I promised him I’d see the war end if I had to do it myself.” He looked at Catharine. “There’s this French spy. He’s the linchpin. We’re this close to taking him out. But Miss Mirren is a…complication.” He sighed and recounted the whole bloody mess. Well, not the whole mess—he left out the kissing. And the swimming. And the cascade of curls. And the perfect, pink rosebud of a mouth. But he did tell them that Miss Mirren was on her way to publicly accusing Manning of illegal slaving. “And she can’t do that before we get Le Cafard.”
“I thought you said your intentions were honorable?” Catharine practically shouted.
“They are. I’ve offered her marriage. Twice. She has declined.”
“Miss Mirren has a great intellect, Blackstone. She’s smart enough to know when an offer is genuinely meant.” Catharine turned to Bailey suddenly, as if she were dismissing Blackstone entirely. “He thinks he can single-handedly end the war, doesn’t he?”
“Yes,” Bailey answered. “I’ve told him a hundred times, men die in wars. It doesn’t make it his fault. There’s nothing to atone for.”
“Ahem,” Blackstone interjected. “I am in the room.”
Ignoring him, Catharine continued to speak to Bailey. “Clearly what should happen is we should all decamp to the estate to wait for the boat. The two of them need to be made to see that their aims are allied. It’s merely the timing that’s off, but surely a compromise can be stuck.”
“Yes,” said Bailey. “We wait for Le Cafard, and then Miss Mirren can do her worst with respect to Mr. Manning. We’ll help her.” He shot a look at Blackstone. “For real this time.”
“I will attend as chaperone,” said Catharine, “so it will all be very respectable.”
“Because you are so respectable, Catharine,” Bailey teased.
Astonishment took hold as Blackstone listened to them plan. Could it really be that simple? If they all took up residence at Clareford, Miss Mirren could be made to feel like she was helping—like she was furthering her own cause—but she’d be right there for him to keep an eye on. Any harebrained schemes she might entertain could be immediately squelched.
And, even better, it would also be laughably easy bring Plan B to its culmination at the estate. He was still committed to forcing a marriage. Recent events had shown him that even if they apprehended Le Cafard, Miss Mirren needed someone to…not stifle her, exactly, but to help channel her enthusiasm. They could bring down Manning, but there would always be another cause for her. Whether she liked it or not, he did feel responsible for her.
Blackstone felt lighter than he had in days. It was good to have friends. Strange, but good. “All right. We depart for Clareford tomorrow—all of us.”
…
And so Blackstone found himself perched in a tree for the third time in as many days outside a house that contained Miss Mirren. He regretted that his mode of entry had to involve the local flora once again, but she’d sent the maid to the door to deny him entry.
So he’d waited and watched. When hers was the last light in the house, he shed his coat, hoisted himself onto the lowest-hanging branch, and began his ascent. Unfortunately, just as he heaved himself up onto the ledge outside her room and put his full weight against the window, she opened it, the result being that he fell onto her floor with a most humiliating thud.
He looked up at her. A branch of candles she held illuminated her face. Her very angry face. Perhaps he would just lie here a moment more and try to think how to introduce the topic that brought him here.
The truth. That was all—it shouldn’t be this complicated. He’d promised Bailey and Catharine he’d tell her the truth. They were right. It was the simplest way to prevent her from taking down Manning before they could complete their mission.
“Lord Blackstone, are you a spy?”
He blinked rapidly, still prostrate. Of course he’d been going to tell her, but it was disconcerting to have her figure it out on her own. “Yes.”
An extraordinary succession of emotions passed over her features. Anger replaced by astonishment, then bewilderment. “Then you’re not a very good one, are you?” she finally said.
Well, that stung. She frowned, but offered him a hand. Though he was perfectly capable of getting up by himself, he took it and allowed her to help hoist him to his feet, shaking off the frisson of energy that shot up his arm when her skin touched his. Before he could formulate a rebuttal, she continued. “I heard you coming. Aren’t spies supposed to be stealthy? A good one, I imagine, wouldn’t be lying on the floor of my bedchamber flat on his back.”
“I am a good spy,” he shot back, before his rational brain interceded, noting that it was pointless to argue. “Infamously good,” he added petulantly. She looked unconvinced, so he sighed and moved to stand by her fire. “How did you guess?”
“I didn’t.” She followed him. “It was merely a wild thought that popped into my head just now. I was thinking that you always seem to be showing up when I’m not expecting you. And that maybe you’re not collaborating with Mr. Manning—it had seemed hard to countenance—maybe you’re entrapping him. I would so like to believe that. It would mean I don’t have to be upset with you.” She leveled a stare at him, and he winced to see the pain in her eyes. “It would mean there was a reason you didn’t deliver my speech.”
It was a more of a relief than it should have been to know that Miss Mirren wouldn’t have to continue thinking ill of him. “We’d better sit down, and I’ll tell you the whole story.”
And so he told her everything—or almost everything. He neglected to mention that he still planned to marry her. And of course he omitted the part where he left her father to die alone on a battlefield.
“How do you know this spy you’re after is going to cross the Channel now?” she asked, seeming to have shed all her ill will.
“We don’t, of course, not with certainty. But we have a network of informants and the intelligence hints that he’ll make a crossing.”
“And you think he’ll come on one of Mr. Manning’s boats?”
“It’s very likely. We have systematically eliminated much of Manning’s competition along the coast. There are plenty of small-time smugglers, of course, but Le Cafard isn’t going to trust an amateur.”
“The cockroach,” she mused. “An odd name.”
“He named himself, if you can believe it. He takes enormous pride in continuing to elude us. You stomp on him, and he just keeps coming back.”
“What will you do if he’s on the boat?” she asked. “Will you have him arrested?”
No, I’ll kill him. But he didn’t voice this renegade thought. Miss Mirren had taken his dramatic news with surprising equanimity, and too much truth might upset their truce. “I won’t recognize him, necessarily. Anyone who comes off the boat who’s not obviously a sailor in Manning’s employ will be followed—I have men lined up for this task. They’re all Le Cafard until proven otherwise.”
“It all sounds very painstaking.”
“It is. Spying is tedious, dirty work.”
“That’s not how they make it sound in novels.”
He rolled his eyes.
“I should have thought it would be exciting. Glamorous.” She quirked a small smile. “But then, I also thought a spy would be sly and stealthy, so what do I know?”
“Ah!” He made a show of clutching his heart. “You wound me, Miss Mirren.”
Her expression turned thoughtful. “I think what you’re doing is good. Brave. Regardless of what society says.”
That was unexpected. It never mattered to Blackstone that society saw spying as a shameful, dishonorable profession. He wasn’t in it for the glory. And yet a few words of praise from her warmed him from the inside. She was determined to see the best in him—even after he’d hurt her so badly. He made a dismissive gesture.
“No,” she persisted. “I imagine your brother would be proud if he could see you.” She moved from her armchair to sit beside him on the sofa. “And as much as I hate to admit it, your plan is perfect. I agree to postpone my campaign against Mr. Manning in favor of yours—for now. But in return, you help me find something to incriminate him on the slaving front. It’s important to me that he be charged not just as it relates to the smuggling.”
“Agreed,” he said, sticking out his hand.
“And I want to come to the estate with you.”
“Yes. We’re in this together now.” He thrust his hand a little closer to her.
“Do I have your word that this time your handshake means something?”
A hit directly to the heart. “Allow me to apologize once again. I was consumed with making sure you didn’t give that speech.”
“Because you wanted to protect Manning, or because you wanted to protect me?”
A good question—and not one he knew how to answer. He also knew that he would do it again if he had to. “Does it matter?” He still held out his hand, but she hadn’t moved to shake it.
“The thing is, you’re not my father.”
The Miss Mirren Mission Page 18