A Spy's Guide to Seduction

by Kate Moore

  She was conscious of her dependence on the two men with her, silent and yet censorious. They believed her to be the wife of a dangerous felon. In them there was no pity for the man she hoped to see, and none for his wife, or pretended wife. At the end of several turnings, one more heavy iron grate opened on an obscure curving staircase. Here the pestilential smell made her gag briefly and hold her bit of linen to her mouth and nose.

  “Mind yer step, ma’am,” the turnkey said.

  Emily lifted her skirts and put a gloved hand to the rough wall to steady herself as they descended. At the bottom of a flight of steps a charcoal stove cast a lurid light along a passage with three cells, each with a massive door. The turnkey directed her the other way, to a narrow cell like a dog’s kennel.

  “Wait here, ma’am,” he said.

  Emily stepped inside. At shoulder height in one of the sides of the cell was a grate onto a space a little more than a yard wide. Emily looked across the gap that was to separate her from the man she came to see. Her clerical-looking chaperone stayed in the passage, blocking her exit. There was nowhere to look but straight ahead at a grate opposite.

  When they brought Malikov from his cell, he would be no more than a shadowy figure opposite. The guard would stand in the space between them.

  Emily took a steadying breath. She and Lynley had rehearsed this part. She knew what she was to say, how she was to tell the Russian that it was still possible that he could be released from this place, that he had only to tell the truth about his confederates in crime for the government to arrange for him to be removed from these dreadful circumstances. A name frees you, she would say.

  It was what a wife might say in such circumstances, but it was also, at the same time, a message to a spy about how he might bargain for his freedom with the British government.

  She clasped her gloved hands together, reminding herself that Malikov was no Arthur Broome, no kind man in jail for his principles, but rather a ruthless spy, willing to endanger and betray anyone for his country’s advantage. The risk was that he could unmask her. He could deny her as his wife. She would be at the mercy of the turnkey and her chaperone, with more than a dozen locked gates between her and Lynley.

  Running steps and jangling keys interrupted her thoughts. Metal clanged. Hurried steps went up the staircase. Her chaperone called out “What’s happened, man?” and ran down the passage. She stepped out of the little cell, looking toward the great oaken door that hung open. Her chaperone waved her back.

  Emily stopped. From above more footsteps pounded down the stairs. Two armed guards rushed to the open cell door.

  The turnkey reappeared, his arms outstretched to contain her. “You. Stay where you are,” he hissed at her.

  He looked over his shoulder at one of the guards, who nodded to him from the cell door, and Emily darted forward under his outstretched arm. “What’s happened? Something’s wrong with my husband. I must see him.”

  “Never ye mind, ma’am,” said the chaperone, reaching for her arm.

  Emily shook him off. “Let me see him. Oh, I must see him.” She halted, catching hold of the cell doorjamb.

  Malikov lay on the stones in the dark, narrow cell reeking of its chamber pot. He had apparently dropped to his knees and pitched forward, his face turned to the side, one arm outstretched across the floor, the wrist enclosed in iron.

  Emily knelt at his side. His teeth had fixed in a rigid grin. His unseeing eyes stared. She closed them and huddled over the body, her mind working furiously. He was dead because the government had failed to protect him. Someone beside themselves had gained the secret of his identity. There must be some clue she could give to Lynley.

  “Now see here, ma’am. It’s not permitted.” The turnkey held a lantern up over the scene. In its light a thin rivulet of sparkling liquid ran from Malikov’s outstretched fingers to pool under a narrow iron bench attached to the wall. Emily’s gaze followed the faint glitter to a fallen metal cup. She sniffed as if in grief and inhaled a familiar sour smell. Perhaps the last thing Malikov had done in life was to drink his beer allowance.

  “Guards!” the turnkey shouted.

  Rough hands pulled at her shoulders. She went limp, clinging to Malikov’s hand. His fingers were wet. The turnkey swore. The lantern swung above her head, and under the dead man’s hand, Emily read his last word written on the stones in spilled beer.

  “Unhand Mrs. Culley.” The snapped command came from Lynley. The rough hands immediately released her.

  Emily raised herself up from the corpse. “Brother,” she cried.

  He pulled her to her feet and held her close to his side, leaning down to whisper in her ear. “If you never fainted in your life, now would be good time to start.”

  “Oh my poor husband,” she wailed. “Oh, I feel—” She broke off and let herself slump in Lynley’s arms.

  “Let me remove my sister from this noxious cell,” Lynley said. “And you can get on with your business.”

  * * * *

  In the carriage outside the prison Lynley felt he could breathe again. He had a strong desire to shake his companion, and an equally strong desire to crush her to him and not let go. She had done what a man would have done. She had rushed to the dead man and examined the scene, apparently indifferent to the danger of being unmasked as an imposter.

  Every gate that had to be opened for them to pass had been a trial. Every place where he’d had to stoop and squeeze in the narrow passage had tested him. He had been mistaken in thinking that his aunt made Lyndale Abbey a prison. Confinement to the abbey, with its gloomy rooms full of painted saints frowning down from the walls, was freedom compared with a genuine English prison. He had to report to Goldsworthy as quickly as he could, but first he needed to get Emily Radstock away from danger.

  She knew something. Excitement still coursed through her at the adventure she’d had. Her body shook with it.

  “Lynley, he was murdered,” she said.

  “I gathered. Did you see a wound?”

  She shook her head. “When he fell, he must have had a cup of beer in his hand. I could smell it on the stones. The cup rolled under the bench.”

  “Poisoned then?”

  “How could it be done unless someone on the inside was in on it?”

  Lynley considered the likely candidates. “Malikov had a visitor earlier today. Easy enough to bribe a guard to offer the prisoner a ration of beer with an extra something in it.”

  “Who? Who wanted him dead?” She lifted the veil on her hat, her eyes large and bright with adventure and indignation.

  “The name in the book is Mr. Isaiah Peach.” Lynley had recognized the message in the name at once.

  “The visitor, whoever he was, must have known Malikov’s true identity. Even so, the turnkey and chaperone were there, and no visitor would be admitted to the cell, nor could he offer anything to Malikov through the grates with a guard standing between them.”

  Lynley understood how the thing could be done. Peach’s role, whoever he was, had been to distract the prisoner. “Malikov would have been removed from his cell long enough for another guard to put something in his beer.”

  “Lynley, there’s something else,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Malikov tried to write something in the spilled beer. A name, I imagine. There were only three letters—Z-O-V. Do you think Zov was Mr. Peach’s real name?”

  “No.” Lynley doubted the visitor had been Russian. More likely Isaiah Peach was a local hired to do the job.

  Lynley didn’t like it. Malikov had been murdered for knowing things. Even his refusal to betray his fellow spies to the English had not saved him. Now Lynley had involved Emily in the case. Now Emily knew things she ought not to know.

  “You’re frowning. What?” she asked.

  He reached for her and pulled her onto his lap. He simpl
y had to hold her for a few minutes. “I want you out of these clothes,” he said.

  “Lynley!” She twisted to look at him, her elbow catching him in his bruised ribs. “I appreciate that we’ve had a trying afternoon, but there’s no reason to lose your head. We’re on Fleet Street in a moving carriage with a good part of the population of London passing by.”

  He took hold of her dangerous elbows. As soon as he’d said it, he realized that he’d meant just what she thought, but it would not do to admit it.

  “I meant,” he said, “that your skirts have been in contact with who knows what offensive, possibly poisonous substances. I think you should burn this dress.”

  “Oh, of course. Good thought.” She softened and leaned against him. “I must thank you for coming into the cell at just that moment. I feared the guards would detain me. We make a good team.”

  He said nothing. He tucked her head under his chin and closed his arms around her. A glaring flaw in agreeing to their partnership now became apparent. As his partner, she, too, would encounter danger. He could lose her, not in the way he expected, at the end of their partnership, but in a way he didn’t care to think of at all. He resolved to keep their partnership to ballrooms and drawing rooms. He would see to it that from now on he faced villains alone.

  Chapter Thirteen

  With very little effort the husband hunter can, in fact, acquire a husband in her first Season, as long as she is not too nice in her requirements. The world will be quite satisfied to see her matched with a respectable gentleman of means and unexceptional appearance. A few smiles, a little gratitude for his notice, and a willing acceptance of his addresses will do the trick. The banns may be called, the bride cake ordered, and the guests notified.

  The husband hunter who refuses to accept such fleeting success, the triumph of which is over on the wedding day itself, must be patient indeed. In the midst of the Season’s gaiety, surrounded by gentlemen with all the charm of looks and manners to recommend them, she must wait for that rare gentleman who awakens her deepest instincts, the very instincts which guide the way she lives her life. With him she will risk the unthinkable. To him only may she give an unequivocal yes! that makes both tremble with joy.

  —The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London

  Goldsworthy met Lynley’s announcement of Malikov’s death with a shake of his great mangy russet locks, like a lion disturbed over a fresh kill. He pushed up from the huge desk faster than Lynley imagined a man of his size could move, and strode to pull the bell.

  “He had a visitor, you say?”

  “One Isaiah Peach. This morning. Hardly a subtle message.”

  “And you arrived when?”

  “This afternoon around one.”

  “Did you see the body? What happened?”

  “I suspect poison. My guess is that Peach distracted Malikov, while one of the guards brought him doctored beer.”

  There was a knock on the door, and at Goldsworthy’s answer, Nate Wilde entered.

  “Wilde, lad. Need you to go at once to find your old Bow Street friend Will Jones. A suspicious death at the prison needs to be investigated. Get Jones on the scene quick as you can, before the governor tries to cover everything up.”

  “Yes, sir,” Wilde answered. He took off at a run.

  Goldsworthy frowned down at his enormous desk. “They’ll say it’s jail fever.”

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, sir, the Foreign Office appears to leak like a sieve.”

  “I do mind your saying so, lad, damn ye, but you’re right. That’s why we need you to find out who’s taking papers.”

  Goldsworthy had revealed Malikov’s false name and his location only because the Foreign Office had so far failed to find the remaining members of the Russian spy ring.

  “Malikov managed to write a message in the spilled beer. The word Zov. Mean anything, sir?”

  “Zovsky, another suspected Russian agent. He generally operates out of Paris.”

  “You don’t think Zovsky was Peach?”

  “I doubt it. Zovsky’s too cagey. They all are, blast them. He’d hire someone. This fellow Peach would not know the plan or the target. He’d just play his part and collect some coin.” Goldsworthy crossed from his desk to study one of the maps of London on the office wall.

  Lynley stood beside the big man. “If Peach is from London, he’ll have a corner or a public house where he can be found.”

  Goldsworthy tapped the map with a thick finger in three spots around the prison. “Exactly so, lad. And Wilde will likely find him soon enough with a little help from our friend Jones, unless Peach has taken himself out of London, which he might do when he hears what happened.”

  He turned to Lynley. “I don’t want you to tip your hand, now, lad. It’s best that the other side thinks of you only as a young fool in love. Back to the ballrooms and drawing rooms you go.”

  Lynley nodded. He had no problem with that. A ballroom or a park in full view of the fashionable half of London was exactly where he wanted Emily Radstock to be. Well, almost where he wanted her to be.

  * * * *

  The morning after their prison adventure Emily received two messages, one from Lynley, and one from her mother.

  My dear Emily, her mother wrote.

  Nurse and I do our best to keep your grandmother comfortable. She sits in the sun most mornings, takes some nourishment, and derives great comfort from the signs of spring outside her window, the first bluebells and the blackthorn in blossom. I’m sorry, my dear girl, that I must be away from you at this time. I realize that you must be longing for a mother’s advice and counsel as you face the many decisions on which your happy day depends. I am glad to hear that Roz will host a party in your honor. Very proper. Is it true that your ring is the size of an acorn?

  Your affectionate mother.

  Lynley’s note said he would see her after she made the morning calls they’d planned. Emily did not know which note bothered her more. She wrote to her mother immediately, and contemplated sending Lynley a message directed to Roz’s sofa, the only place she knew to look for him.

  Clearly, Lynley had taken the information they’d gained together back to his spy colleagues, and just as clearly, he did not want her to have a direct encounter with England’s enemies. He saw their roles as separate and not at all equal. Nevertheless, in the end she set out to pay the morning calls as they’d agreed.

  She stood in Lady Ravenhurst’s entry hall, studying two dozen cards on the silver salver. Earlier callers had filled her ladyship’s drawing room, and the lady herself had circulated gaily among them. Still, as Emily drew on her gloves, she kept thinking that Lady Ravenhurst had been keenly disappointed in her company. Though she had turned eagerly to the door as each new guest was announced, at each arrival her face had betrayed a fleeting disappointment. She had plainly anticipated a visitor who never came. Emily gave the cards one more quick look, and turned to the footman at the door. Her carriage would be waiting.

  Outside, it was not her father’s coachman, but Lynley waiting for her, next to Phil’s curricle.

  Emily glanced down at the steps to cover her surprise. She had been thinking him elsewhere this morning, reporting to his mysterious employer or sleeping in his secret quarters, wherever they were. Even Phil claimed not to know.

  “Hello,” Lynley said and offered his hand to help her up into the vehicle. The day was fine, with the plane trees in flower and leaf in the square, and just the hint of a breeze. “Learn anything?”

  “In a way, yes,” she said. It was hard to put it into words, but she suspected that Lady Ravenhurst had a lover. Emily had heard no gossip linking the lady to another, but then Emily had been ignoring the fashionable world, absorbed in Chunee’s death and Arthur Broome’s arrest.

  Returning to the more conventional activities of the Season made sense after their failed attempt
to talk to Malikov. Her mother’s letter, too, had been a reminder that Emily and Lynley needed to keep up the appearance of a courting couple. Only he and she knew that their courtship had stopped its forward progress. No barristers met to arrange settlements. Neither caterers nor clergymen had been notified. No guest lists had been drawn up or bride clothes ordered.

  And yet Lynley had said, I want you out of these clothes. The idea haunted her. His words came to mind at the most awkward times, like now as he settled beside her in the curricle. Recalling his words made her clothes feel tight against her skin.

  He gave his horses the order to walk on.

  She stared ahead while he navigated the traffic around the square. She had understood that with those words he meant to express his concern for some contamination to her garments from the floor of Malikov’s cell, but she had also understood, instantly, in that moment, with a clarity that had flooded her body in heat, that he meant it in a different, more direct way as well.

  Her heart had been pounding with the thrill of their escape from the prison. It had been an escape. Someone in that small party of prison officials had permitted murder, and that someone would not want his actions examined. An entry in the register in the governor’s office had tipped Lynley off before Emily, in the deepest recesses of the prison, had realized the danger. He had come for her, and she could only guess at how he had felt in the confined spaces of those passages and cells, where his head and shoulders could barely squeeze through. And so in the carriage, when they were free of the place, he had let a thought escape. He was a most provoking man. She certainly wasn’t taking off her clothes while he wore all of his.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Lady Ravenhurst was expecting someone who did not make an appearance. She had dozens of visitors, but no one gave her joy. I think we’re looking for someone who wasn’t there.”

  “Like Archer?” he asked.

  “Possibly. It’s not too late. I will call on his sister, if you’ll take me there.”