“Of course, of course!” Mr. Browning gestured to the cliffside as though they might wish to take turns at them all. “We’ll just continue our daily walk, and you scribble away with all your fine accomplishment. Good day, Miss Moore. Good day, Your Grace.” He tipped his hat and walked past them with his wife on his arm, the whispering beginning before they had gone more than a handful of paces.
Clara looked at Hawk, then the two of them burst into snickers, resuming their own walk with far more entertainment than before. The coiled plait of Clara’s hair finally gave way, the plait now hanging loosely down her back in the same carefree manner Clara presently illustrated.
And it was utterly charming.
Hawk felt himself breathing easier, despite walking beside the captivating woman whose hand he still held, and whose child-like enthusiasm for walking in the sea somehow made him feel lighter.
“We need to go up,” he told her, gesturing to the path. “Do you want your shoes?”
Clara shook her head and headed that way. “Not yet. I want to walk in the water on the way back to Aunt Fern and Nat. Do you mind?”
Hawk smiled at her, content now to let her lead them. “Not in the slightest.”
Her smile back at him made him wish he’d offered something far more noble.
It was a steep walk up to the ledge, but not difficult, and Clara showed no trouble with it, nor hesitation. She released Hawk’s hand when they reached their destination, leaving him feeling more chilled than the breeze off the water could have done, but her satisfied sigh and brilliant smile soothed him creditably.
“Do you see it?” she asked with an eagerness he loved. “Look!”
He came to stand beside her and found himself actually rather impressed.
The water was deceptively deep, for the most part, just a scant few yards from the shore itself. Not in a way that spanned the entire beach, but a good portion of it contained a sharp drop-off that would have been difficult to see from the surface.
“Remarkable,” Hawk murmured, though he doubted he would have cared about any such thing before today.
Only with Clara’s eyes could he have seen this.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” Clara told him, her smile turning soft and almost shy. “The view is perfect.”
Hawk looked at her for a long moment, the sight of her something wondrous and stirring, and heat began filling his chest, singeing a few of his ribs in the process. “Yes, it is.”
Her eyes searched his, the meaning of his words unmistakable, and the slight quirk of her lips to one side nearly sent him striding to her and kissing her for all he was worth.
But something held him back.
Something he didn’t understand.
And didn’t particularly care for.
Clara reached for her diary and pencils, and he offered them up, their fingers brushing again as she took them.
The brief connection colored Clara’s cheeks, and Hawk, for one, felt his throat tightening.
She turned back to the view to add the dimension of the depth of the water to her already perfect picture.
Hawk stared at her as she did so, admittedly with blatant interest, and also with some budding pain.
How could he bear having her leave tomorrow? How could she have come to mean so much in so short a time?
What was he going to do when she was gone?
He would have to find his reserve and restraint again by the time he bid her farewell. He needed to remind himself who he had been before, to some degree, if he wished to go on without feeling too much of a loss.
But he did not need to do any such thing right now.
For now, he would breathe in the sea air with her, and enjoy the stunning scene of this woman, fair hair dancing in the breeze, as she captured the beauties of nature with the skill of the heavens and the effortlessness of gods.
And he would smile at it.
Chapter Eleven
“Miss Harlow, Miss Bradford wants to know if you would be so good as to join her for luncheon today.”
Clara blinked as she looked up from her blank canvas at the stout, pleasant-faced housekeeper of the school currently standing in the doorway of her unoccupied classroom. “Luncheon? Is it nearing that time?”
Mrs. Allendale gave her a pitying look, smiling a little. “Aye, Miss Harlow. Your last class has been done for over an hour now. Have you lost track of the time?”
Nodding, Clara reached behind her to tug at the strings of her heavy canvas apron, which she only donned for painting, and found herself amused by the slight emphasis Mrs. Allendale placed on the letter H in her speech. She’d never noticed it before, but now that she knew the little detail of Mrs. Allendale’s connection to the covert world, it added to the colorful personality of the woman, and gave Clara additional questions to dwell on.
“I’m afraid so,” Clara answered finally, setting her apron aside and coming over to her. “Thoughts elsewhere.”
“Thoughts tend to go awanderin’, I find,” Mrs. Allendale told her, bobbing her head in agreement and gesturing almost abruptly to the corridor. “I’ll take you to Miss Bradford.”
Clara glanced at her curiously. “I do know the way to her office.”
“I believe you would,” Mrs. Allendale replied, completely unruffled and blunt in her tone, “but Miss Bradford is not eating in her office, so I’m to take you to her.”
“Of course,” Clara murmured, wiping her too-clean hands on her simple skirts. “I apologize.”
Mrs. Allendale gave her a bewildered look. “What for, Miss Harlow? You didn’t know that, and I didn’t say so.”
With a light laugh, Clara shrugged a shoulder. “I suppose you’re right, Mrs. Allendale.”
“I usually am.” She winked cheekily and strolled on, the cap on her head sitting askew, her arms swinging too determinedly.
What in the world had this woman done before coming to be housekeeper at the school, and how in the world had she convinced anyone that she could do it?
Just one of the many questions on Clara’s ever-growing list, and those questions seemed to be multiplying by the hour now that she was back at the school.
It had only been three days, but to her, it might as well have been a month.
Leaving Kirkleigh had been even more difficult than she had imagined it would be, bringing her to the point of tears, though those had waited to fall until they were safely ensconced in the coach and driving away. Hiding those tears from Phoebe had proven a challenge, and if she had caught sight of them, she made no comment on it. Their entire journey back to the school had been one of silence, for which Clara had been eminently grateful.
Hawk had barely looked at her as they had departed. After a beautiful, breathless afternoon and a supper of almost unbearable attention at his hand, his silence was deafening. Blatant. Confusing.
Heartbreaking.
She’d never met a single person who had affected her so immediately and so profoundly, especially over so short a period. She couldn’t claim any feelings easily defined, certainly wouldn’t have called it love, though there was attraction, affection, fascination…
It could have become love.
So easily, it could have become love.
He had been so very stoic as the carriage had been packed, ordering about the necessary tasks and seeing to details, but there had been no conversation with Clara. Plenty with Nat, with his servants, and even a few words with Phoebe.
He’d only spoken with Clara when the time had finally come to leave.
“Goodbye, Miss Moore,” he’d said, his hands carefully at his sides as he bowed. “Remember, Kirkleigh is at your disposal.”
The words were simple enough, but the tone…
It was exactly what an elderly duke would have said to a visiting extended family member. Or a one-time ward of a past duke. It was as though Hawk’s father had inherited rather than Hawk himself.
It was as though the romantic and thrilling day before had neve
r happened.
Her palm had burned with the memory of his hand in hers, which seemed almost imagined considering the man before her.
She’d thanked him with all politeness, ignoring how painful the tightness in her chest was growing, cinching against her ribs until she was growing almost breathless with it. Then she’d entered the carriage and looked away, not even bothering to watch the fading sight of Kirkleigh itself as they departed.
She could not bear to leave everything she had found there.
Returning to the school had been comforting, yet she still struggled to find the happiness she had once known there. Her students had been delighted to see her, and the rhythm of her teaching and routine fell back into place easily. The story had gone around of her visiting a cousin who had been in Sussex for a short period, and she went along with whatever questions she was asked, giving bland answers that ought to have satisfied without being pressed for more details.
She’d turned in her sketches the moment she had arrived, and Phoebe had done the same with notes she had been taking, though none of those notes had been shared with Clara. It seemed they had both had their particular assignments for their time at Kirkleigh.
Now, perhaps, she would understand why. And what. And who.
And then, if she was fortunate, she would learn how they were to proceed from here.
If she were to proceed from here.
To her surprise, Mrs. Allendale led her to the library of the school, a massive room that any lover of books would have adored. It was a room with a great deal of seating, walls of books on never-ending shelves, and very little space where a private conversation could take place. All the more curious, then, that it should be the setting Pippa would choose for a luncheon.
And a particularly sensitive conversation.
But perhaps the discussion of covert things was not taking place yet. It was entirely possible that this conversation would be related to the school itself rather than the world Clara had been so briefly introduced to.
She doubted she would be so fortunate, but it was possible.
Pippa sat at a small table near the one large window in the library, silently engaged in a book, giving no hint to anyone that she was waiting for Clara or anticipating a meeting. She might have only been in this library for her own amusement rather than a luncheon with one of her teachers.
There were no students to be seen.
Clara looked around the vast room to be sure of her suspicion, and it was quickly confirmed. They would be entirely alone in this room, and Clara could count on one hand the number of times she had entered the library of this school and found it devoid of students.
Very strange indeed.
Their approaching footsteps brought Pippa up from the pages of her book, and she smiled warmly. “Thank you, Mrs. Allendale. Clara, thank you for joining me.”
Clara clasped her hands before her, dipping her chin in a nod, feeling a stiff formality seeping into her now that she stood here. “Of course, Pippa.”
As though she knew what Clara was feeling, Pippa smiled more softly and gestured to the seat across from her. “Please, sit.”
Moving to the chair, Clara sat and adjusted her skirts, her pulse beginning to speed up with nerves she did not quite understand. She felt as though she was going to be scolded in some way or some flaws were shortly to be identified. Perhaps she had not done the task the way Pippa and Lord Rothchild would have liked and had wasted time and a connection. Perhaps they felt they had been mistaken in asking her to do any of this and now needed her assurance of secrecy.
There were too many questions, too many unknowns. Did all covert operatives and assets feel this way?
“Mrs. Allendale,” Pippa said, lowering her voice. “Would you kindly ensure that the room is secured? And then we may take luncheon here.”
Mrs. Allendale nodded very firmly. “Right you are, Miss Bradford. I’ll see to it.” She left without another word, closing the great library doors behind her with a firm click of the latch.
Clara stared at the doors for a moment, then looked back at Pippa, her heart racing now. “I take it this is an official meeting, then.”
“You would be correct,” Pippa replied, somehow still smiling with a calm demeanor that Clara did not understand. She folded her hands together atop the table and gave Clara a very direct look. “I will be frank with you, Clara, because I feel that is the best way to proceed under the circumstances.”
Clara found herself nodding at that. “I don’t mind frankness,” she replied.
Pippa’s smile curved briefly, then returned to a stable easiness. “I have gone over your drawings and Phoebe’s notes from your preliminary investigation of Kirkleigh and the surrounding areas. You more than proved yourself to be a worthy operative, in that regard. Your drawings were more accurate than several maps I have been looking at, and I cannot tell you what a help that is to us.”
Relief began to seep into Clara’s limbs, and she found herself relaxing into her seat, though she still did not loosen her posture in any way. Being in the presence of the headmistress had that effect on her, regardless of the topic of conversation.
“After consulting with Lord Rothchild,” Pippa went on, taking a weighted breath that Clara wondered about, “we have decided that we would like to have you become an official operative for us and return to Kirkleigh to further investigate what we consider to be a great risk to the nation at this time.”
The disconcerting sensation of her heart hopping over expected beats made Clara blink unsteadily, faintly wondering if she might swoon to the side shortly. Yet she remained fully upright, no indication of any faintness presenting itself.
“Investigate… Kirkleigh?” she managed, her voice squeaking. “Do you… do we… suspect the duke of…?”
“No, no,” Pippa assured her hastily, “no, we never have. Your initial investigation was merely to see the coastline in the vicinity, as we had it notated on information gathered recently.”
Clara frowned at the choice of words. “Notated on information?” she repeated. “From whom?”
Pippa slowly sat back, her hands dropping to her lap. “Earlier this autumn, an assignment took place in Paris. It was not designated as from my office, or from any other in an official capacity. We could not afford to have it owned in such a way. During that assignment, a map was found that had several points along the British eastern coast marked, the meaning behind each mark unclear. When this information reached us, we moved quickly to identify likely areas in more specific detail, and Kirkleigh was a conveniently located estate for our ends. We knew we could gain access without much difficulty, so we did so.”
“Who was investigated in Paris?” Clara pressed, leaning forward and gaining confidence as her curiosity rose like a tide within her. “What are we facing?”
The weighty sigh that Pippa released told Clara a great deal without giving her any of the details she’d asked for. “It would take hours we do not have to get particularly specific, but there is a faction of secret rebellion in France who have been working since Napoleon was in power. They were not actively working against him, but his methods were not something they supported. The goals are the same, the means very different. They follow the likes of Sieyès, if you know the name, as well as Rousseau.”
The names did not seem familiar to Clara, but she made a note to do some research in this library when Pippa was done with her.
“They have been working for years on undermining their own government,” Pippa went on, “and governments all across Europe. There are sympathizers in England, supporters in the ranks of government, and a band of their number who are continually working towards their goals of building an empire.”
Clara stared at this small yet powerful woman, so unassuming in appearance but with so much influence at her fingertips. She had just given her the sort of plot one might find in a novel, the quality of which would be questionable, and there was no sign of amusement in her features. Everything she ha
d said was filled with the utmost gravity, and there was so much she was not saying between the lines.
The room was suddenly colder as Clara considered the implications.
“So they would overthrow the government, if they could,” Clara murmured.
Pippa nodded firmly. “They absolutely would. We’ve lost a number of good operatives across the departments and contingents in our ranks due to their actions. They have used words of Sieyès to unite themselves. If you ever hear the phrase ‘j’ai vécu’ spoken in your company, you will know they are aligned with this faction.”
Swallowing, Clara returned the nod. “Does this group have a name?”
“Not that we’re aware of,” Pippa admitted with a disgruntled sigh. “For now, we simply refer to them as the Faction. It might aid us in our efforts if they did have a name. The Shopkeepers have been using every tool available to try and discover it, but we’ve found nothing.”
“Shopkeepers?” Clara’s head spun with the revelations, but that term was perhaps the most bewildering of all.
Pippa uttered a small laugh. “I apologize, I got ahead of myself. The leaders of the covert operations are collectively known as the Shopkeepers. Napoleon once said that England was a country run by shopkeepers, so those in power at the time decided to make it so. Our code names reflect such things.” She smiled a bit more widely at Clara, her eyes crinkling a touch with real amusement. “Now that you will be joining us officially, you may refer to me as Milliner. Lord Rothchild, who is the second in command over all covert operatives in all departments, is Weaver. Anyone else you will learn as you need to, if you need to.”
Clara nodded, the irony in the names not lost on her, but her own amusement difficult to find at the moment. “And what will my name be?”
“Sparrow,” Pippa—Milliner now, she supposed—told her simply. “I think it suits.”
She could have suggested Clara go by the name of Butter and Clara would have nodded numbly. Did it really matter what her official name was in this venture? She’d already pretended to be one other person, why not adopt the identity of another?
Fortune Favors the Sparrow Page 13