“Yes. But we will speak to Blackstone in my apartment first.” He pressed his lips together in a harsh line and said nothing more as he turned, leaving her to follow in his wake, the long silent climb to the fifth floor punctuated by nothing but their footsteps.
“How did you ascertain that Mr. Jespersen left?” she asked when he ushered her into his library and closed the door behind them. Had he been spying on room 203 continuously? But she stopped herself from articulating this second question, realizing that to ask a spy if he’d been spying would make her appear rather dimwitted.
There was also the fact that he hadn’t answered her question, just handed her an apron and cap in silence, his face unreadable.
She pulled on the apron and smoothed it over her dress. It tied in the back and she reached behind herself, trying to fashion a neat bow at the back of her waist by feel.
When his hands closed around her wrists, she startled a little. He pulled her arms down, so, she assumed, he could tie her apron for her. But then he didn’t let go of her, even once her hands were resting by her sides. His warm hands squeezed her wrists with an urgency that confused her. She craned her neck to get a look at him, and she almost gasped at what she saw. He was anguished. There was no other way to say it. He looked almost as he had that week he’d hidden her under the bridge. “We’ve done this a hundred times, Trevor.”
He dropped her wrists then, and, without a word, tied her apron. It was true. This spying mission wasn’t actually that different than the schemes they used to run as children. She could think of one or two occasions when they’d disguised themselves in order to advance their own causes. She almost laughed aloud remembering the time he’d managed to steal an altar boy’s cassock. She’d given him a haircut and cleaned him up, and he’d walked right into a church and stolen all the unconsecrated communion wafers and a bottle of wine.
Who knew you could make dinner out of communion wafers? And afterward they’d shared an apple she’d pilfered from Covent Garden Market. It might have been the best meal she ever had. She wanted to ask him if he remembered that night.
But before she could get it out, he turned and, without a word, strode out of the room.
He returned a moment later with a small, round shaving mirror and a handful of hairpins. Where had he managed to get hairpins, for heaven’s sake? Another question, but even as it formed in her head, so did the answer. He was a spy, a man who knew how to make things happen.
She propped the mirror up on the desk and sat, positioning the cap over her hair as she mulled over the thought. Trevor knew how to make things happen. He always had, even as a child. He’d managed to get that apprenticeship, which should have been impossible for a boy with his background. Even back then, when he’d had virtually no power, he’d bent the world to his will and gotten them both out of Seven Dials. No wonder he had found such success in his business ventures. And she wondered how he’d managed to procure a few hairpins?
She sneaked a glance at him as she pinned the cap into place. He stood at the window, mouth still compressed into that angry line. Yes, Trevor was a man who made things happen. That’s why this was so hard for him. Through some inconceivably strong force of will—and of course a great deal of hard work—he manifested his desires. What he wanted, he got.
And he did not want her going into room 203.
He turned, caught her watching, and her heart thumped guiltily, making her feel like a child with her hand in a forbidden sweets jar.
But instead of censuring her, he merely said, “Blackstone will be here momentarily.”
They were the first words he’d spoken since he’d interrupted her visit with Mr. Lloyd, which, for some reason felt like it had happened ages ago. Tea, Rousseau, Wollstonecraft: these things had receded because Trevor just…took up so much room.
“Where is your last tattoo?”
She clapped a hand over her mouth. Oh, dear God. Where had that thought come from? And, regardless, why had she verbalized it?
A rap on the door then—thank God—and a footman announced Lord Blackstone.
“Good morning. I came as soon as I—” The earl stopped then, looking between Trevor and her. Again the guilty feeling settled in her chest, making her heart flutter—which was ridiculous because there was nothing to feel guilty about.
She cleared her throat. “Hadn’t I better get started? Who knows how long he’ll be gone?”
The earl nodded. Trevor sank into a chair and picked up a newspaper. But Lucy didn’t mistake the gesture for disinterest because his face did not change. The same intensity he’d leveled at her earlier still sparked in his eyes. He looked like he was holding back some great and terrible power and that to do so, to keep it coiled and contained inside him, required all his willpower.
“Miss Greenleaf?” The earl stood holding the door open, and since Trevor had effectively dismissed her, what could she do but follow? The earl walked her down the stairs, quietly reviewing her instructions along the way, and then bade her good luck at Mr. Jespersen’s door.
She shut it behind her gratefully. Trevor’s unease had been contagious, and she was relieved to be away from his watchful eyes. Honestly, this was hardly a risky operation. Mr. Jespersen was not here, and even if he returned, he would not find it suspicious to discover a maid in his room—the very same maid he’d interacted with yesterday, at that.
Room 203 was unremarkable, just as she’d left it yesterday, except the bed had been slept in and breakfast had been ordered up on a tray and the used dishes stacked neatly on a table by the door. If their guest was a murderer, he was a tidy and conscientious one.
She began in the obvious spot—the small desk on which sat a stack of papers. A name and address in Manchester Square was scrawled on a piece of foolscap on the top of the pile. She took her own bit of paper out of her pocket and, as Blackstone had instructed, copied the information. She was looking for anything that might give a hint about Jespersen’s business in town.
The rest of the papers seemed to be diagrams of clocks, intricate enough that she certainly wouldn’t be able to copy them.
She moved to the bedside table, finding yesterday’s newspapers and a bible. He must have brought the bible with him because it was in Danish. She flipped it open. Inside the front cover was a list of names and dates. At first glance, it looked like any family bible would, inscribed with birth and death dates. But each entry was written by the same hand, and the ink had not faded, even on the oldest entries. Then she noticed that the death dates of everyone listed were the same: September 3, 1807.
Ina Jespersen
Agnarr Jespersen
Helmut Jespersen
Nils Jespersen
Margit Jespersen
She clasped her hand to her mouth. His entire family, lost on the same day? Oh, how she hoped she’d misunderstood when she’d heard Mr. Jespersen talking to his guest. But the last name on the list wasn’t lost on her. “We do this for Margit,” he’d said. “The last one.” Margit, who, judging by her entry, had died when she was nine, apparently the youngest of four siblings. Ina, who would have been forty-five had she been alive today, must have been the wife.
Lucy’s hands shook as she copied down the names and dates, which was ridiculous because she was perfectly safe. She reminded herself again that this was nowhere near as dangerous as some of the stunts she and Trevor had pulled in their youth. It was just that she was out of practice.
Sliding the paper into her pocket, she willed herself to breathe slowly and evenly as she set about putting the room to rights. Having told the staff she would look after room 203, she mustn’t forget she actually had to make good on the promise. Heart pounding, she made quick work of the bed, dusted the table and desk, and laid wood for tonight’s fire. Stacking the breakfast dishes on a tray, she used her foot to push open the door and backed out—directly into the room’s returning occupant.
“I beg your pardon, sir!” she cried, even as he began making his apologies to her
. The paper in her pocket might as well have been on fire, and she was seized with the irrational sense that he knew what she’d done. Kneeling to pick up the fallen dishes—the carpet was so plush none had broken—she prayed her shaking hands would not to give her away. “Please, don’t trouble yourself,” she said as he knelt down to help her.
Had she put the bible back exactly where she’d found it? She couldn’t remember. Had it been facing up or down when she picked it up? And his papers were so neat. Would he be able to tell someone had moved them?
“I’ve forgotten my hat,” he said. “If you’re not done in the room, don’t mind me. I’ll just get it and be on my way.”
Before she could formulate a reply, he’d gone in and come back out wearing a top hat. He smiled at her. “Can’t very well visit a cemetery hatless, can I?”
She thought about the list of names in the bible. “My condolences, sir,” she said, hoisting the tray as she stood but still not meeting his eyes. “I hope it was no one close to you.”
She was met with silence. A pit opened in her stomach as she realized she’d overstepped. A parlor maid wouldn’t speak to a guest like this.
“No,” he finally said.
Relieved that he wasn’t going to rebuke her, she curtsied. “I’m done with your room, sir, so unless there is anything else…”
“Thank you, no.”
She curtsied once more and turned, forcing herself to walk at a normal pace, when all she wanted to do was run. To Trevor. She wanted to run to Trevor.
…
She hadn’t seen him. And there he was standing in plain sight. Lucy had lost her edge—which was exactly why Trevor had been opposed to this scheme to begin with. She’d shucked off enough of their hardscrabble childhood that she had no talent for deceiving people anymore—which was exactly how it should be. He had become a spy, and she had become a proper governess. It was good to remind himself of the gulf between them, of the life he lived and the life that was her destiny.
He had backed up just enough when Jespersen came back that the man wouldn’t notice him but stayed close enough that he could see the interaction between the guest and the “maid.” Or the murderer and Lucy. He didn’t see much distinction, despite the assurances of the woman herself, and of Blackstone, that the operation was without risk. No, to his mind, what he’d just witnessed was a cold-blooded killer having a conversation with Lucy, just after she had done something that would make the cold-blooded killer in question extremely angry.
He pushed off the wall he’d been leaning on and stepped into the center of the corridor, putting himself directly in her path. The clattering of the dishes on the tray she held signaled her surprise.
“I thought you were upstairs,” she whispered.
It was important to remember that the hot anger coursing through him wasn’t directed at her. He was upset about the whole situation. That he couldn’t seem to keep the Jade apart from his identity as a spy. That he couldn’t manage to keep Lucy apart from his identity as a spy. And of course that he couldn’t manage to keep Lucy out of his head altogether. But none of that was her fault. “Did you really think I would just let you go in there without keeping watch?”
When she shrugged noncommittally, he amended his earlier thought. Apparently he did have some anger to spare for her if she could so glibly underestimate the depths of his concern for her.
He took the tray from her, ignoring the indignant protest that resulted. “Come with me.” He strode to the stairway, and, encountering a maid there—a real one—he handed her the tray without a word. When they were alone again, he pointed to the stairs. “Up.” Lucy looked for a moment like she was going to protest so he added, “Your spymaster awaits, madame,” with a sneering tone he hadn’t quite been able to extinguish.
He also ignored the flash of hurt in her eyes before she gained control, shot him a haughty look, and turned to begin the long march up to the fifth floor. It was just as well. After this bloody mission was over, they would have to go back to normal life—to running the hotel together until it was time for Lucy to move on. Done hiding, he was committed to doing his part now. Until he could trundle her along to her next position as a housekeeper, they needed to find a way to go on together. And even if he didn’t know quite what that way was, it certainly wasn’t going to involve him mauling her every time they were alone. So, if he was going to keep her at arm’s length, it couldn’t hurt to be a little off-putting. Lucy was the last person in the world he’d ever want to see hurt, but sometimes a little pain was a small price to pay to prevent a larger one.
Suddenly weary, he let her get ahead of him as they ascended the stairs. He didn’t want to watch her hips sway. Even under her drab uniform, they were hypnotizing. He wanted to avoid looking at her hair. He knew its true glory, and as usual, the juxtaposition of seeing it all prim and proper, stuffed under her cap, made him want to tear off said cap. He sighed in relief as she rounded a landing ahead of him and passed out of sight. Yes, a little pain, a little cruelty, might be the only thing that would ultimately get her back on the correct path.
One side effect of his laggardness was that Blackstone had already engaged Lucy in conversation when Trevor stepped into the library to join them. The earl silently handed him a piece of foolscap that contained a list of names and dates, written in a hand he recognized as Lucy’s.
“I thought they must be his wife and children,” Lucy was saying.
“Agreed,” Blackstone said. “Add to that his apparent vow to avenge Margit, and one wonders if whatever plot is unfolding in room 203 is indeed related to the other murders.”
He had to agree, as much as he hated the prospect. He sighed. “And didn’t he say something like, ‘this is the last one?’ If he is avenging a list of dead family members, might that imply that there have been more murders than the two we know about and the one you just heard being planned?”
“I’ll try to find out,” said Lucy. “I can listen in again when they’re back.”
Trevor could not contain a sigh, which drew the attention of both Blackstone and Lucy.
After regarding him silently for a moment, Blackstone turned to Lucy. “As you probably gathered when we all spoke last night, Trevor wanted the Jade kept out of this…business.”
“It would have made a prime tool,” Trevor explained. “We could have lured targets here, easily spied on them—as you’ve seen, it’s simple enough to conceal oneself in a hotel. It would have been overrun with espionage in a matter of months. Infested.” He turned to Blackstone. “I appreciate that you intended to respect that wish. I can’t pretend to like this, but it’s not your fault our Danish friend happened to bring his murderous plot to the Jade.”
When Blackstone didn’t acknowledge Trevor’s unspoken apology, Lucy held out a piece of foolscap. “Hadn’t you better find out who this is?” She turned to Trevor. “I was just showing the earl. I found this name and address among Mr. Jespersen’s things.”
Trevor took the paper from her, taking care to make sure their fingers didn’t touch. “John Hammond. Manchester Square. A respectable enough address.” He handed the paper to Blackstone, resigned. “Will you go, or shall I?”
“You,” said Blackstone. “I’ll find out if Hammond was an officer. He wasn’t on the list we invited to the Jade, but perhaps we missed him.”
As unamusing as he found the whole situation, Trevor had to stifle a laugh when Lucy’s head whipped around, eyes wide like saucers. “You were investigating people at the party?”
“Not really,” Blackstone said. “We just invited some officers who had served with the first two murder victims and made a point to converse with them as much as possible. We were trying to discover any connection between the two victims.”
“Of course,” she said, her voice hardening. “They referenced a party that first time I heard them talking. The younger man said he wished Jespersen had just allowed him to kill someone at the party. They must have known there would be officers
here. How did they know that?”
“They’re good at what they do, Miss Greenleaf,” Blackstone said. “They would have to be, to have carried on this long undetected.”
Trevor eyed Lucy. She was most likely thinking back to that horrible night, when Galsmith had grabbed her. Knowing that there were murderers in the crowd, too…well, it was a lot to take in. Still, the only way out of this mess was to muddle through to the end. And Lucy was strong. He turned to Blackstone. “Shall we meet back here this evening and compare notes?”
“Why don’t you come to my house?” Blackstone countered. “We’ll keep out of the hotel as much as possible.”
“Thank you,” said Trevor to the earl’s retreating back. It was all he could say. There was a mission underway now, whether he liked it or not.
Chapter Eighteen
Trevor paused for a moment while unbuttoning his shirt, keenly aware of Lucy as she swung her attention from the door Blackstone had just departed through and settled it on him. He had been wearing a coarse, old shirt. More than suitable for rattling around his apartment, but nothing he cared to be seen in out in the world.
He’d forgotten her. Well, that wasn’t true—one didn’t just forget Lucy. But he’d shifted into battle mode, his mind automatically making his body go through the motions necessary to carry out his mission. And the first step was “dress to leave.”
He stopped. He should probably duck into his dressing room.
“Don’t bother,” she said. “I’m not going to swoon.” He didn’t know whether to laugh or be offended. “Honestly,” she went on, taking a step closer. “I’d like to see that Seven Dials tattoo by the light of day. I haven’t been able to sleep for thinking about it.”
The idea of Lucy spending her nights thinking about his chest made him shift uncomfortably. Not his chest, though, he reminded himself, just the tattoo itself. She’d probably never seen a tattoo in the flesh before, and it was rather extreme to have marked their past into his skin in such a fashion.
The Likelihood of Lucy Page 20
