Game of Secrets

by Kim Foster

  Under the night sky and the smog of the city, we make our tripping escape across the rooftops. Tianjin House will have to wait. My stomach tightens. We’ll have to answer to Hawksmoor about our botched operation first.

  All five of us stand before Hawksmoor. We are in the war room—charts and maps line the walls behind the spymaster and his enormous desk.

  “Miss Pritchard, you failed to be covert,” he says to Rose. “You failed to consider the rules of the location you were infiltrating. Perhaps worse, you considered yourself above others. Superior.” He fixes her with a piercing look. “As Morgana, we have certain abilities. But we are not better than others. We are not above others. Never forget that. Miss Pritchard, you are out.”

  She is stone for a moment. Silent. Then her face grows eggplant purple. “That’s ridiculous!” she blusters. “I’m the most qualified.” She glares at me. “You’re going to get rid of her, too, right? She doesn’t deserve a place here.”

  Hawksmoor ignores Rose’s sputtering. With difficulty, she’s escorted from the room by an agent. Once her protests have faded, Hawksmoor turns back to us. Specifically, to Charlie. “Mr. Spooner, you fell to pieces at the most inopportune time. The bricked-up exit? That was a test.”

  Julian utters a strangled sound. “You—planned that? You did that to us on purpose?”

  A man walks into the room. It’s the agent from last night—the one who had a knife sticking out of his back. The one I saw dead with my own eyes. He’s certainly not dead now.

  “This is Agent Nelson. You’ll see he is just fine.”

  Charlie gapes. Julian’s mouth is a hard line.

  “Mr. Spooner,” Hawksmoor continues, “an agent needs to be quick on his feet, ready to formulate a new plan at a moment’s notice. Out in the field, things will rarely work out the way you’ve planned, and you need to be able to adapt. I’m sorry to say, you’re out.”

  I bite my lip and glance at Charlie. Unlike Rose, he maintains a dignified demeanor. Lifting his chin, he utters a simple, “Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Hawksmoor. It’s been an honor,” before leaving, but he flicks a glance at Julian and then at me before he passes through the doorway. “Good luck, you two.” I can’t be sure that there’s not something more in his words.

  Hawksmoor leans back in his chair. “Mr. Blake, Miss Cole, and Mr. Torrington … it’s just the three of you remaining.”

  I look, bewildered, at Julian and Hugh. How is it possible that I’m still a competitor? But now that I am so close, I can practically taste victory.

  “Your next test begins tomorrow,” says Hawskmoor. “I suggest you prepare. And that you wear your finest.”

  Tomorrow? Our finest? He dismisses us without another word.

  But just before I pass through the door, Hawksmoor clears his throat. “Oh, and Felicity? You will require a proper hat.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  “We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”

  —Oscar Wilde, Lady Windermere’s Fan

  As I make my way back to my rooms, questions tumble in my mind.

  Of all the matters churning through my head, one eclipses the rest: I need to get to Tianjin House. But the prospect of sneaking out into the night, back to the East End, fills me with dread. If only I didn’t have to go alone.

  I am lost in reflections, working out my plan, as I round the corner and smash into someone coming from the other direction. A tall, very solid someone. I bounce back, and would surely fall, if not for a strong set of arms that grabs me firmly. I find myself looking up into Julian’s face.

  His scent envelops me: soap and pine needles. The warmth of his hands penetrates the fabric of my dress.

  “Those are some rather deep thoughts, Felicity. I suspect a penny would be poor payment for them,” he says, flashing me a charming grin that makes my knees feel loose.

  “My apologies, Mr. Blake …” I begin. But then an idea occurs to me. I hesitate. “Actually, may I speak with you about a difficult matter?”

  “Certainly,” he says casually. “How can I be of assistance?”

  There’s a sudden unpleasant flutter in my stomach—like leathery wings flapping in a deep cavern—and I feel a familiar stab of guilt. It’s not that I want to forget about Kit, but … I wonder if I will ever be free of my past. I do my best to ignore the sensation; I’m simply asking Julian for help. Besides, we’re friends. And Julian has always been quick to help me.

  I glance down the length of the corridor. It’s deserted for now, but that could change in an instant. “It’s a rather sensitive matter. Is there a chance we could go somewhere more private?”

  Julian begins to smile. And then he straightens, as though he’s just remembered something, his easy manner replaced by one that’s much more formal.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Cole, I have an appointment that has entirely slipped my mind.”

  “An appointment? At this hour?”

  He nods. “Perhaps another time.”

  He walks away and turns the corner, and I’m left alone in the empty hallway, blinking. What on earth was that? He was clearly lying.

  My cheeks flush. I think back to all the times Julian has been kind. Attentive, even. Was he just playing a role?

  Of course that’s all he was doing. He’s a spy. He’s Hawksmoor’s protégé. It’s part of the job.

  Everyone was right about Julian after all. It was ridiculous for me to think we were friends. Or … even, perhaps, something more.

  It’s better this way. I don’t need the distraction.

  I stride off, determined, toward my rooms.

  The next morning, less than two weeks before the Golden Jubilee, I step into the foyer of the underground headquarters where everyone is already gathered. The satin gloves I wear, my shoes, the elaborate hat atop my head, it’s all the very finest—the most exquisite clothing I have ever worn. The idea of attending an event where everyone will be dressed this way—well, that terrifies me more than anything else.

  Today, our field test is taking place at the Royal Ascot, the premier horse racing event that is, arguably, the highlight of the social season. I place a hand on my stomach to quell the butterflies.

  As I stand waiting for the carriage, I try to recall everything I’ve learned in Isherwood’s deportment lessons, but my mind is strangely blank. I am a fraud.

  I flick a glance at the other Candidates waiting beside me, Hugh and Julian, and try to read the thoughts beneath their neutral expressions. Am I the only one feeling apprehensive about our mission? Surely not. Today’s operation is an assassination.

  Beneath our finery we are all dressed in gear—underclothes designed by Sig to protect against stab wounds, yet provide enough flexibility for movement, and custom-made harnesses for our weapons and tools. I have lined my gown with the instruments I may need: a poison vial in my bodice, knives at my hip and within the folds of my skirts, and a garrote within my hair ornaments.

  “The most difficult part of an agent’s job is to kill someone in cold blood,” Hawksmoor said as he briefed us over breakfast. “Today’s test will determine whether you are able.”

  Kill. My stomach had curdled at the idea and I’d pushed my breakfast plate away. Still, Rose had been able to do it on the train. She assassinated someone and barely batted an eyelash. Would I ever be capable of such a thing?

  Hawksmoor had sipped his tea and showed us a photograph. “This is your target; he will be at the Ascot. He is a criminal of the nastiest sort—the kind that hides behind his privileged life and believes himself above the law. We have intelligence that indicates he is deeply involved in a plot to kidnap the Queen’s youngest child. Among the three of you, you’ll need to come up with a plan to find him and assassinate him—all covert, of course.”

  “And the person who does the killing will be the victor?” Hugh had asked.

  Hawksmoor lifted a small silver spoon and cracked the top of his soft-boiled egg in a perfect circle. “There’s
more to becoming a successful agent than simply being a knife. Life as a Morgana is about loyalty, resourcefulness, and cleverness. The agent who makes the poorest showing will be eliminated.” Hawksmoor removed the top of his egg and replaced the spoon on a saucer. “It’s also important to know your team. Know everyone’s strengths, and use them to best advantage.”

  When we arrive at the Ascot, I try to still my nerves as I exit the carriage. I place a gloved hand on Julian’s offered arm, just as we’ve practiced so many times before. All around me are the sounds of the crowds and the ceremonial parade band, the smells of freshly cut grass and horse manure. Ladies and gentlemen in the most elaborate, brightly colored fashions promenade upon lush lawns, carrying parasols and tiny cups of champagne or Pimm’s.

  I expect to see much raising of eyebrows from the footmen standing outside the carriages, but their faces don’t so much as flicker. I glance at Julian, wondering if we are succeeding in our deception, and his face is as serene and handsome as ever. He shows not an iota of concern. The fluttering in my stomach eases, just a little.

  I’m happy Julian isn’t looking directly at me; I’m not quite sure what to say to him. After his abrupt coldness last night, it’s clear to me this will be a business relationship, nothing more. And that’s exactly how I’m going to treat it.

  We take our position near the track, and the races begin.

  The earth rumbles as the horses fly around the track. A thrill goes down my spine; the exhilaration is contagious. There’s riotous color everywhere I look: the banners, the gorgeous dresses and suits, the parasols, the hats.

  Hugh is elsewhere, locating our target in the man’s private viewing box. I’m fiddling with my parasol beside Julian when a young man walks by us, very finely dressed in a gray morning suit. He has stylishly coiffed hair and an aristocratic cut to his jaw. A very handsome young man indeed.

  Julian stiffens. He attempts to turn away, but he is a moment too late.

  “Good God, Blake—is that you?” says the man, stopping abruptly. Two friends, other young men equally finely dressed, also pause.

  “Hello, Cavendish,” says Julian. There’s a distinct tension in his voice. Barely restrained contempt.

  “What the devil are you doing here?” inquires Cavendish. There’s an amused, condescending curl to his lip. “I haven’t seen you since you were kicked out of Eton.”

  There’s a brief snort from the man standing off Cavendish’s left shoulder.

  Julian bristles. “I wasn’t kicked out, as you well know. I … withdrew.”

  He withdrew from Eton to attend Greybourne? But of course that had to have been kept a secret. Julian would essentially have dropped out of Society, which would have meant a great fall, no doubt, in the eyes of his circle.

  The young man waves a hand dismissively. “Yes, yes. That’s right. But seriously, old boy, what have you been doing with yourself?” His accent is excessively plummy and posh, like it was specifically designed to be irritating. “It can’t have been anything of significance or I would have heard about it.” He chortles, like he’s made a great joke. I give Julian a gentle tug. We should move away.

  “Actually, I—”

  “Well, now just wait a moment,” Cavendish says, now fixing his gaze upon me. “And who is this?” He lifts my hand to kiss it. “Miss, may I introduce myself, since Blake here is clearly too classless to do so?”

  Julian’s nostrils flare slightly. Haltingly, he makes the introductions. And then quickly adds that we are expected elsewhere.

  Cavendish laughs. “Oh, I’m sure you are, Blake. It must be a great opportunity for you to be here, after dropping off into oblivion.” He winks. “Hoping to find a seat at the big table again, eh?”

  Julian is dangerously silent.

  “Don’t blame you a bit,” Cavendish continues, “though I’m not sure what scraps you’re going to find at this stage. Not many positions for a washed-up dropout—”

  Julian moves quickly. Like a viper. “Listen, you little prig,” he says in a low voice an inch from Cavendish’s aristocratic nose. “I am involved in affairs you could never even fathom.”

  Cavendish looks confused for a moment, then scoffs. “Oh please, Blake.”

  Julian attempts to gather himself and I try desperately to catch his eye. Not worth it, Julian.

  “Is that all you’ve got to say?” Cavendish says, his pompous face a mixture of pity and disdain. “Affairs you could never even fathom?” he mocks, laughing outright.

  Julian’s nostrils flare. “I’m a spy, you maggot,” he hisses. “And an assassin.”

  Cavendish’s laughter abruptly cuts off. Julian wraps my hand around his arm and we stalk away.

  Halfway across the lawn, I spot Hugh, hovering near the entrance to the private boxes. He has removed his top hat and holds it in his left hand—his signal to us. He’s located our target. He intercepts a plump middle-aged woman and draws her away. This is the target’s wife. Hugh will be keeping her out of the way while Julian goes inside the private viewing box to do the job. She and Hugh disappear out of sight.

  Julian releases my arm and begins to stroll toward the private boxes; I backtrack and go around the other way, on alert for any sign that he is being watched or followed. My job is to be a lookout. I fiddle with my parasol. It is how I am meant to signal the others when the time comes.

  But as Julian approaches the box, he is suddenly surrounded by Peelers, uniformed policemen. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but in a moment it becomes clear they are detaining him. A few feet away, Cavendish stands speaking earnestly with one of the policemen and nodding with great satisfaction.

  The bloody bastard ratted us out.

  A black police coach pulls up and Julian has no choice but to let the Peelers load him in and take him away. I stare helplessly, twisting my parasol. Hugh is nowhere in sight. We’ll have to abort the mission. We’ve failed. Not only Hawksmoor’s test, but we’ve enabled our target to go free and continue his terrible plans.

  Unless … there’s still one possibility.

  A true spy will always find a way.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  “What we think, or what we know; or what we believe, is in the end, of little consequence.

  The only thing of consequence is what we do.”

  —John Ruskin, The Crown of Wild Olive

  I stand on the lawn of the Ascot, clenching my hands and trying to decide my next move. Hugh is nowhere in sight, distracting the target’s wife. Time is running out. The target won’t stay in the private box forever. A small voice says to me: you could do it.

  And more than that. You have to do it.

  What were those words of Christopher Marlowe’s? You must be proud, bold, pleasant, resolute … and now and then stab, as occasion serves. I tighten my fists and cling to the words like a raft.

  I watch and wait, praying for Hugh to return. I could signal him, and he could do the kill. But why wait for him? I’m just as capable; I know I am. But if I’m going to finish the mission, it has to be now. The window of opportunity is closing and the team is depending on me.

  A great cheer rises up from the track. The horses are coming down the home stretch. A footman strolls by carrying a tray of drinks, and I casually take a cup of Pimm’s. Checking to make sure I’m not being observed, I slip to the rear of the building where the private boxes are housed, preparing myself for my task.

  I am Tainted. I am an assassin. I have been living and training with the Morgana for months now. It’s time.

  I slide the vial of poison from the bodice of my dress, uncap it, and pour the powder carefully into the Pimm’s. When it’s dissolved, I open the door to the private box. Catfooted, I slip inside. The door snicks shut as I surreptitiously lock it behind me.

  A man dressed in a fine gray suit and top hat idly stands watching the races below through a pair of field glasses. He turns his head and sees me standing there. “And who might you be?”

  “Oh, I must ha
ve taken a wrong turn. I was meant to be meeting someone else, except … he doesn’t appear to be here.” I pout. “Would you like this? It’s quite refreshing but … I’ve already had two.” I hold out the cup. He gives it a glance and then waves it away.

  I swallow. I’ll need a new strategy … I run through my options—gun, garrote, knife, poison, snap his neck—I’ve practiced them all. The knife, yes. I begin to slide the blade out of my sleeve, and then hesitate, and it slides back again.

  I could have killed him seven times by now, seven different ways. But I simply don’t have it in me.

  At the sound of footfalls, my attention is pulled back to the target. He’s moved closer and his eyes have gone black.

  “Imagine my surprise when you just walked right in here, Miss Cole.” His voice is even, quiet. Dangerous.

  I go stiff. How does he know my name?

  “What’s wrong? You look suddenly concerned.” He smiles wolfishly.

  I take a step backward. This is a trap.

  “I must tell you, you’re prettier than they described. Not that it matters. You’ll earn me a tidy sum either way. Warwick will be most pleased.”

  His cold gaze bores into me. The rasp of his hands as he rubs them together sends a chill down my spine.

  Behind my back, the blade slips again into my hand. I take another step back, keeping my gaze tethered to the mark, and curse silently. Why didn’t I kill him when I had the chance? Has my hesitation cost me my life?

  Breathing out, I let go and feel the pulse of my power, letting Aristos burn bright all around me.

  The man comes at me, then. Fast. Tainted fast.

  Huntsman, then.

  I know what I must do. As he lunges at me, I drop down, sweeping low into a perfect, courtly curtsy (thank you, Agatha Isherwood), and immediately propel myself forward, sliding straight underneath his legs and out the other side. Before he can turn, I’m on my feet, my arms around his neck before I drag the knife across his throat.

  Blood is everywhere.

  He doesn’t make a sound as he goes limp.