by Lisa Kleypas
To add insult to injury, Jenkyn’s position at the Home Office wasn’t even legal: he and the secret service force had never been approved by Parliament. One could hardly blame Scotland Yard and Fred Felbrigg for being livid.
However, Jenkyn acquired power as easily as breathing. His influence extended everywhere, even to distant foreign ports and consulates. He had created an international web of spies, agents, and informers, all answerable to no one but him.
“Felbrigg complains that he hasn’t seen any embassy intelligence in a year,” Ethan said. “He says the information goes directly from the consulates to you, and you haven’t shared a word of it.”
Jenkyn looked smug. “When the national security is at stake, I have the authority to do as I see fit.”
“Felbrigg is going to meet with the commissioner and the Home Secretary, to take up the matter with them.”
“The idiot. Does he think it will do any good to whine in front of them like a schoolboy?”
“He’ll do more than whine,” Ethan said. “He says he has intelligence that proves you’re endangering British citizens by withholding crucial information.”
Jenkyn gave him a look that could have peeled a turnip. “What intelligence?”
“A report that a schooner bound from Le Havre to London sailed two days ago, carrying eight tons of dynamite and twenty cases of fuse. Felbrigg is going to tell the commissioner and the Home Secretary that you were aware of it but kept it to yourself.” Ethan paused, taking a gentle pull on the cigar and exhaling a stream of smoke before continuing tonelessly. “The London Port Police weren’t even warned. And now the cargo has mysteriously disappeared.”
“My own men are handling it. The Port Police don’t need to know, they would bungle what’s been set in motion.” A short pause. “Who sent the information to Felbrigg?”
“A port official from Le Havre.”
“I want his name.”
“Yes, sir.”
In the silence that followed, Ethan was grateful for the cigar, a prop that gave him something to do, something to look at and fiddle with. Jenkyn had always been able to read him so accurately that it was well-nigh impossible to hide anything from him. It was all Ethan could do to keep from confronting him about the missing dynamite. The bastard was planning to do something evil with it, and the knowledge sickened and enraged him.
But there was another part of Ethan’s heart that grieved. He and Jenkyn had formed a bond over the past six years. A young man who’d needed a mentor, and an older one who’d wanted someone to mold in his image.
Deliberately Ethan focused his thoughts on the early years when he’d worshipped Jenkyn, who had seemed to be the fount of all knowledge and wisdom. There had been endless training from various instructors . . . intelligence gathering, combat and firearms, burglary, sabotage, survival skills, wireless telegraphy, codes and ciphers. But there had also been days Jenkyn had spent with him personally, instructing him about things like wine tasting, etiquette, how to play cards, how to mingle with upper-class toffs. He had been . . . fatherly.
Ethan remembered the day Jenkyn had taken him to a Savile Row tailor, where a referral from a well-established client was required before one could become a customer.
“Always have your waistcoats made with four pockets,” Jenkyn had told him, seeming amused by Ethan’s wonder and excitement at putting on tailored clothes for the first time. “This upper side pocket is for railway tickets and a latch key. The other side is for loose sovereigns. The lower pockets are for a timepiece, a handkerchief, and banknotes. Remember, a gentleman never keeps paper money in the same pocket as coins.”
That memory, and countless others, kindled a sense of gratitude that even eight tons of missing dynamite couldn’t entirely destroy. Ethan held on to the feeling deliberately, letting it soften him.
He heard Jenkyn’s dry voice. “Aren’t you going to ask what I’ve done with the explosives?”
Ethan lifted his head and gazed at him steadily, smiling slightly. “No, sir.”
Seeming reassured, Jenkyn settled more deeply in his chair. “Good lad,” he murmured. Ethan hated the momentary glow the words gave him. “We see the world the same way, you and I,” the older man continued. “Most people can’t bring themselves to face the ugly reality that some lives must be sacrificed for the greater good.”
That sounded like the explosives would be used for another terrorism plot, something similar to what had been planned for the Guildhall. “What if some of the victims turn out to be Englishmen?” Ethan asked.
“Don’t be obtuse, my boy. Our own people have to be targeted—the more prominent, the better. If the Guildhall plot had succeeded, it would have shocked and angered the entire nation. Public opinion would have turned against the Irish radicals who dared to attack innocent British citizens, and it would have ended any question of Ireland’s independence.”
“But Irish radicals weren’t responsible,” Ethan said slowly. “We were.”
“I would call it a joint enterprise.” Jenkyn tapped the ash from his cigar into a crystal tray. “I assure you, there’s no shortage of Irish political insurgents who are more than willing to resort to violence. And if we don’t continue to assist their efforts, some lunatic bill on Home Rule may eventually become law.” As he drew in another mouthful of smoke, the end of the cigar glowed like a malevolent red eye. “Anyone who thinks the Irish are capable of governing themselves is as mad as a bedbug. They’re a brutish race that respects no law.”
“They would respect the law more if it didn’t fall so hard on them,” Ethan couldn’t resist saying. “The Irish are taxed higher than the English, in return for only half the justice. Duty is hard when there’s no back of fairness to it.”
Jenkyn blew out a stream of smoke. “You’re right, of course,” he said after a moment. “Even the strongest opponents of Home Rule can’t claim that Ireland has been ruled justly. However, Irish independence isn’t the answer. The damage it would do to the Empire is incalculable. Our only concern is what’s best for England’s interests.”
“You know I live for queen and country,” Ethan said flippantly.
Undeceived, Jenkyn studied him closely. “Does it weigh on your conscience that innocent lives will be lost as a result of our efforts?”
Ethan gave him a sardonic glance. “I have no more use for a conscience than I do for neckties. I may have to wear one in public, but I don’t bother with one in private.”
Jenkyn chuckled. “This week I want you to help Gamble with some security arrangements. It’s for a charity event at the Home Secretary’s private residence. A number of MPs and cabinet ministers will attend. With all the recent political unrest, one can’t be too careful.”
Ethan’s pulse quickened. More than anywhere else in the world, the London house occupied by Lord Tatham, the Home Secretary, was the place he most wanted access. But he frowned at the mention of William Gamble, a fellow secret-service agent who would have been perfectly willing to shoot him on command. Jenkyn often liked to play them against each other, like a pair of bull terriers bred for the pit.
“Security isn’t Gamble’s strong suit,” Ethan said. “I’d rather make the arrangements by myself.”
“I’ve already put him in charge. Follow the procedures he lays out, to the letter. I want you to focus on the exterior of the house, and provide Gamble with an analysis of any landscape features or structures that might pose a risk.”
Ethan sent him a mutinous glance but didn’t argue.
“You will both attend the event,” Jenkyn continued, “and of course, you’ll keep your eyes and ears open. Gamble will pose as an under-butler.”
“And me?” Ethan asked warily.
“You’ll be a speculative builder from Durham.”
That placated Ethan slightly. He might enjoy lording it over Gamble a bit at the event. However, Jenkyn’s next remarks extinguished the flicker of satisfaction. “As an enterprising young man about town, you would likely
be escorting an eligible lady to the soirée. It would make your guise more believable. Perhaps we should find someone to accompany you. An attractive and accomplished woman, but not one so highborn as to be beyond your reach.”
There was no specific threat in the words, but they caused a swooping plummet of his stomach. Without even thinking, he began to regulate his breathing in the way the guru in India had taught him. Let each breath flow smoothly . . . four counts in, four counts out.
“I don’t know any ladies,” he said calmly.
“Is that so?” he heard Jenkyn ask, affecting mild surprise. “I was under the impression that lately you’ve been keeping company with quite an interesting lady. Dr. Garrett Gibson.”
Now Ethan’s stomach no longer felt like it was swooping. It felt like it had crashed through a window and was plummeting in a shower of broken glass. Any time Jenkyn was sufficiently aware of a fellow human being to mention his or her name, their life span became statistically shorter.
Somewhere within the iced-over machinery of his brain, he registered that Jenkyn was speaking again. “Never stub the end of a good cigar, Ransom, it doesn’t deserve a violent death. Let it burn out with dignity. You haven’t answered my question.”
Ethan looking down at the collapsed foot of his cigar, which he hadn’t even been aware of crushing into the ashtray. As the flood of ruined smoke bit inside his nostrils, he asked tonelessly, “What question?”
“Obviously I would like you to tell me about your relationship with Dr. Gibson.”
Ethan’s face felt stiff, as if it had been covered in plaster and left to dry. He needed to produce a smile, something that looked genuine, and he searched frantically through the chaos of his thoughts until the phrase “scrotal chafing” came to mind. That was enough to help him crack a grin. Relaxing back in his chair, he lifted his gaze to Jenkyn’s, and saw a hint of surprise at his self-possession. Good.
“There’s no relationship,” Ethan said easily. “Who told you there was?”
The older man ignored the question. “You’ve been following Dr. Gibson to the Clerkenwell area. You accompanied her to a special evening market and visited her home afterward. What would you call that?”
“I was trifling with her.” It required the full force of Ethan’s will to remain calm as he realized he’d been shadowed, almost certainly by another agent. Probably Gamble, the disloyal prick.
“Dr. Gibson is not the kind of woman one trifles with,” Jenkyn said. “She’s unique. The only female in the entire British medical profession—what does it take to achieve that? Superior powers of mind, a cool disposition, and courage equal to any man’s. If that weren’t enough, she’s reportedly quite pleasing to the eye. A beauty, even. Regarded as a saint in some circles, a she-demon in others. You must be fascinated by her.”
“She’s a curiosity, is all.”
“Oh come,” Jenkyn said with amused chiding, “she’s a good deal more than that. Even Dr. Gibson’s sharpest detractors won’t deny that she’s extraordinary.”
Ethan shook his head. “She has a high way with her. Hard as flint.”
“I’m not displeased by your interest in her, my boy. Quite the opposite.”
“You’ve always said women are a distraction.”
“So they are. However, I’ve never asked you to live like a monk. A man’s natural passions are meant to be exercised in moderation. Prolonged celibacy makes the constitution irritable.”
“I’m not irritable,” Ethan snapped. “And I’m no more interested in Dr. Gibson than I am in staring at a bucket of dirt.”
Jenkyn appeared to suppress a smile. “Thou doth protest too much.” Seeing Ethan’s lack of comprehension, he asked, “Haven’t you read the copy of Hamlet I gave to you?”
“I didn’t finish it,” Ethan muttered.
The older man was obviously displeased. “Why not?”
“Hamlet spends all his time talking. He never does anything. It’s a revenge play with no revenge.”
“How do you know, if you haven’t finished it?”
Ethan shrugged. “I don’t care how it ends.”
“The play is about a man who’s forced to face the reality of human depravity. He lives in a fallen world, in which ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ is whatever he decides. ‘There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.’ I assumed you would have had enough imagination to put yourself in Hamlet’s place.”
“If I were in his place,” Ethan said sullenly, “I’d do more than stand around making speeches.”
Jenkyn regarded him with a touch of fond paternal exasperation. Something in that interested, caring look pierced down to the place in Ethan’s heart that had always yearned for a father. And it hurt.
“The play is a mirror held up to a man’s soul,” Jenkyn said. “Read the rest of it, and tell me about the reflection you see.”
The last thing Ethan wanted to see was the reflection of his own soul. God help him, it might look far too similar to the man sitting across from him.
But there was his mother’s influence. More and more often of late, Ethan had found himself thinking about her shame at the sins her circumstances had obliged her to commit, and her hopes that he would grow up to be a good man. She’d turned to religion near the end of her life, and had worried constantly about salvation, not only her own, but also her son’s. She had died of cholera not long after Ethan had joined K division.
One of Ethan’s last memories of his mother was how she’d wept with pride upon first seeing him in the blue uniform. She’d thought it would be the saving of him.
Oh, how she would have hated Sir Jasper Jenkyn.
“As for Dr. Gibson,” Jenkyn continued, “my compliments on your taste. A woman with a brain will keep you interested out of bed as well as in it.”
If Jenkyn thought Ethan cared for Garrett, he would use her as a pawn to manipulate him. She might be threatened or harmed. She might simply disappear one day, as if into thin air, never to be seen again unless Ethan did whatever unspeakable thing Jenkyn wanted of him.
“I prefer a woman who’s easy for the taking, and easy to discard,” Ethan said curtly. “Unlike Dr. Gibson.”
“Not at all,” came Jenkyn’s softly chilling reply. “As you and I are both aware, Ransom . . . anyone can be discarded.”
Leaving Whitehall on foot, Ethan headed north and cut across to the Victoria Embankment, a road and river walk along the Thames. The new roadway along the granite-faced embankment had been expected to ease the crush of daytime traffic along Charing Cross, Fleet Street, and the Strand, but it seemed to have made no appreciable difference. At night, however, the embankment was comparatively quiet. Occasional puffs of smoke or steam rising through the iron ventilation grids reminded pedestrians of the subterranean world beneath their feet: tunnels, telegraph wires, underground railways, and pipes for gas and water.
Wandering near a coal and forage wharf, Ethan reached a maze of alleys crowded with excavating equipment and temporary contractors’ workshops. He slipped behind a massive stone-channeling machine and waited.
In less than two minutes, a dark figure entered the alley.
As Ethan had expected, it was Gamble. The lean, wolfish face and sharp brow were distinctive even in the shadows. Like Ethan, he was tall but not so towering that he would stand out in a crowd. With his big arms and bulldog chest, he carried most of his power in his upper torso.
There were many things to admire about William Gamble, but very little to like. He was physically adept and aggressive, able to tolerate brutal punishment and keep coming back for more. His tenacity had driven him to train harder than any of Jenkyn’s men. He never complained or made excuses, never exaggerated or boasted. Those were all qualities Ethan respected.
But Gamble had been born into a coal-mining family in Newcastle, and the desperate poverty of his childhood had engendered a ferocity that had burned out any softer qualities. He had come to revere Jenkyn with an intensity that verged on zealotry
. There was no sentiment in him, no trace of empathy, which Ethan had once judged as a strength but had turned out to be a weakness. Gamble tended to miss the fiddly little clues and signals that people unconsciously gave away in conversation. As a result, he didn’t always ask the right questions, and often misinterpreted the answers.
Keeping still, Ethan watched Gamble come farther into the space between the sheds. He waited until Gamble’s back was turned, and sprang from behind, fast as a striking cobra. Hooking the bend of his arm around the thick neck, Ethan jerked the man back against his chest. Ignoring Gamble’s violent writhing, he gripped his own left bicep and fitted his hand against the back of the man’s head to increase the pressure of the choke. The combination of pain and oxygen deprivation worked in a matter of seconds.
Gamble submitted, going still.
In a quietly vicious tone, Ethan asked near his ear, “How long have you been reporting on me to Jenkyn?”
“Weeks,” Gamble gasped, clutching at the arm around his throat. “You made it easy . . . sodding idiot . . .”
“An idiot who’s about to crush your larynx.” Ethan slowly tightened his arm against the trachea. “You’ve put an innocent woman at risk. If anything happens to her, I’ll beat the marrow out of you and hang you up like salted pork.”
Straining to breathe, Gamble didn’t reply.
For a moment, the urge to finish him off was nearly overpowering. It would be so easy to constrict his grip a few degrees more, and prolong the hold until the bastard was properly throttled.
Uttering a low curse, Ethan released him with an abrupt shove.
Wheezing, Gamble pivoted to face him. “If anything happens to her,” he retorted hoarsely, “it will be your fault. Did you think Jenkyn wouldn’t find out? Someone else would have told him if I hadn’t.”