by Y. S. Lee
“Of course.” Her voice was glacial.
He coughed awkwardly. “Er — I don’t suppose you remember whether any of the documents you saw related to —”
“Your interests? There was nothing to do with opium, in any case. Everything I found was legal. Most frequently, Thorold’s ships carry manufactured goods, like textiles and stainless steel, to India and transport back things like tea and rice. Occasionally the ships make a third stop in America or the West Indies but much less so these days.”
“I see.”
“Do you?”
It was impossible to read her expression. Her eyes — nut brown in some lights, greenish in others, he now knew — were steady, defiant. He didn’t know how to reply. She had a dark smudge — coal? dirt? — on her cheek that was, for some reason, rather charming.
“What was all that nonsense the other day about my being Thorold’s mistress?”
He hoped the dim light masked his blush. “It was merely a theory.”
“It sounded like an accusation.”
The heat under his collar intensified. “I apologize.” He uttered the words with difficulty.
Amusement flickered in her eyes. “It’s not often that you do, is it?”
He grinned despite himself. “No. You’re in select company.”
“Well, as long as we’re being civil to each other, why don’t you return me to Chelsea?”
Obediently, he thrust his head out the window and called instructions to the coachman. “It will only take a few minutes,” he said, taking out his watch. “We’re nearly at Battersea and it’s just past five o’clock.”
“Thank you.” She looked faintly self-mocking as soon as she’d said it.
“Oh, it’s been my pleasure entirely, Miss Quinn.” He grinned. “We must do this again soon.”
She couldn’t quite repress a smile. “As soon as your nose heals, perhaps.”
He ran one finger along the bridge. “It should be fine. Where on earth did you learn to fight like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like a man, I suppose. Most young ladies would have screamed and tried to claw at my face. Or perhaps simply fainted.”
“I was a tomboy.”
“A tomboy with a lot of brothers?” He could picture it: a slight, fierce girl surrounded by a pack of hulking boys.
“Something like that. And now you owe me an answer: how did you know I was at the warehouses tonight?”
He looked smug. “I saw you inspecting them earlier.”
Her eyes widened. “This morning? But how did you know I’d be there?”
“I, er, was informed of your whereabouts.”
“Who by?”
“By an employee.”
“You were having me watched?”
“I suppose it wasn’t very sporting of me. . . .”
She considered for a moment, then admitted, “I’d have done the same thing in your situation.”
From the sound of the carriage wheels, they were crossing Battersea Bridge. In a minute, they would be at Cheyne Walk itself.
“Look — I think we ought to collaborate,” he said, sitting forward.
A small frown appeared between her brows. “Why?”
“Because we can cover more ground that way,” he said impatiently. “And because we’ll run less risk of interfering with each other’s inquiries, not to mention putting Thorold on the alert.”
“But we’re looking at entirely different events and time periods.”
“But for similar types of proof . . . assuming they exist. Look, you can’t keep breaking into the warehouses to read Thorold’s files night after night. You might have one or two more opportunities at most before a watchman catches you. If you still haven’t found anything concrete at that point, what will you do?”
“Improvise, I suppose.”
“Precisely. And that’s where an associate would be useful.”
She eyed him warily. “And you, naturally, would be the perfect associate.”
“I found you tonight, didn’t I?”
The carriage came to a halt. James glanced outside. “We’re just around the corner. Lawrence Street,” he said. “This do?”
“Perfect.” She moved to get out, but his long fingers closed over hers on the door handle.
“Think about it, at least.”
She froze, her face mere inches from his. “Why are you so certain you can trust me?” she asked softly, looking straight into his eyes.
His gaze was steady. “I’m not. But I’m willing to take that risk.”
Mary entered the house the same way she had left, through a window at the back. It was half past five in the morning and the servants had just begun their day’s work. Her absence seemed to have gone unnoticed. She ought to have been able to sleep for a couple of hours, but she was too distracted. Instead, she lay in bed fretting while images of the night’s adventures swarmed her brain. The eerie fog. The cavernous warehouses with their peculiar, shifting shadows. That charming dog. And, above all, the dark gaze of James Easton.
The way he looked at her was disconcerting: carefully, lingeringly, as though she were a puzzle to be deciphered. And she wasn’t uncomfortable in his presence. That was odd. Normally, if someone — especially a man — stared at her for longer than a few seconds, she wanted to bolt. Yet with James, her desire was to stare back, to examine him as closely as he did her. It was an impulse that made her both elated and wary. She couldn’t afford to find him intriguing . . . could she?
Then there was her new cover story about Gladys. She’d been polishing it for a while, making it believable and realistic. It had been the perfect opportunity to try it out. So why was she slightly disappointed that he’d swallowed it whole?
She finally achieved a restless half sleep but was awakened the next minute by a servant bearing a cup of tea and muttering about bath water. Her sheets were tangled round her legs as though she’d spent hours in the clutches of a nightmare. Even after she had bathed and dressed, her limbs felt rubbery. Her eyes were gritty with exhaustion. At moments, she felt positively dizzy from lack of sleep.
Mornings with the ladies were leisurely to the point of boredom. Mrs. Thorold and Angelica breakfasted in their bedrooms and appeared only after the men had gone out. During these hours Angelica was mute and sluggish, yawning as she and her mother took turns dictating little notes to Mary and dozing in armchairs. With luncheon, the mood shifted. Mrs. Thorold, with the single-minded dedication of the invalid, drove out most days to see one of her array of physicians. She was much addicted to these expeditions; although the family could easily afford to pay for house calls, there was something about the outings themselves she seemed to find compelling. And really, how different was her routine from the elaborate social visits most ladies conducted instead? With use of the carriage thus monopolized by her mother, Angelica either practiced the pianoforte or had a music lesson. The girl was a talented musician and it was tempting to stay and listen, but during this time, Mary could do some sleuthing while “taking a little stroll” or “running a few errands.”
Today, however, even her bones felt hollow and she was oddly clumsy, dropping things and bumping into door frames. After luncheon, she briefly considered trying to interview the domestics about recent changes in the household routines or deliveries of items that could possibly be the looted Indian artifacts or gems. But the servants were still shy of her. Her position as lady’s companion was a strange one. She was technically a servant herself, of course. Yet she dined with the family, and her bedroom was on the same floor. She called the servants by their given names, while they addressed her as “Miss Quinn.” It would have been extremely odd for her to fraternize with them or to venture belowstairs. Even the sullen little skivvy who woke her each morning seemed wary of her.
Mary stifled another yawn. Perhaps a dull book would lull her to sleep. After a nap, she would feel more herself. The parlor connected to the drawing room was cool and dark, and she browsed
the shelves with heavy eyes. The books here belonged mainly to Angelica, and the selection was slim: Gothic novels and albums of sentimental poetry, with the odd work of “improving” literature. She chose, at random, a volume called A Garland of Poetic Posies and settled into a wing chair in the gloomiest corner of the room.
The house was quiet, apart from the emphatic chords of the pianoforte in the next room. Half an hour might have passed in drowsy stupor for Mary before the music halted abruptly, mid-phrase. This itself was not unusual, but then Angelica’s sharp whisper caught Mary’s attention. “Michael! What are you doing here?”
“Talking to you, of course.”
“Do be serious!”
“I am perfectly serious. Mrs. Thorold is resting, I assume. Where’s Miss Quinn?”
A pause. Then Angelica sneered, “Don’t you mean Mary?”
A lady would make her presence known, thought Mary. Shuffle her feet, or cough discreetly, or something. But she continued to sit very still.
Michael’s voice was tense. “Are you suggesting that I’m too friendly with Miss Quinn?”
“I don’t need to suggest anything. I saw you flirting with her at the party and rushing to her rescue. Everybody saw!”
He sighed. “That was the point. I thought we decided it would be best if I distracted her. Showing interest was the easiest way to do so.”
There it was: the unflattering truth behind Michael’s flirtatious behavior. Mary wondered if her feelings ought to be hurt. Perhaps they were a little, but her curiosity was stronger than her pride. She was more interested in learning what she was being distracted from.
“There’s ‘showing interest,’ and there’s behaving like a besotted puppy!” snapped Angelica. “What a ridiculous performance!”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.” Michael’s voice was quiet, but it vibrated with restrained emotion.
“I’m not the only one. Miss Quinn thinks you’re a fool, too, you know. She spilled that tea deliberately to attract attention. And it worked! You and James Easton came charging to her rescue, making spectacles of yourselves —”
“Enough,” he interrupted. “Someone’s going to hear you.”
But Angelica continued, her voice rising and beginning to shake. “She’s up to something, you know. She sits there looking as though butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, batting her eyelashes at you and Papa, and you fall for her act. You think I’m too stupid to see what’s right before my eyes, but it’s you who’s blind!”
“Keep your voice down.”
“Don’t touch me! It’s true, it’s true. You don’t believe me now, but you’ll see!”
There was an extended silence. Was Michael hurting Angelica? No. It was too quiet for that. Mary counted to twenty before they spoke again.
“You didn’t answer my question: where are Mrs. Thorold and Miss Quinn?”
“Why does it matter?”
“I need to speak with you. In confidence.”
Another long pause. Then came Angelica’s voice, sounding uncertain. “Mama’s in her room. Miss Quinn is . . . God knows where. She often goes for a walk after luncheon.”
“I hope ‘God knows where’ is far away.”
“You’re being very mysterious, Michael.”
He sighed. “Your father is up to something.”
Angelica tried for a careless laugh. “He’s always up to something! Honestly, if I had a penny for each time he concocted a new scheme . . .”
“You’d be an heiress. Which you are.” His voice was quite humorless. “Listen to me. Your father is planning to send you to Brighton for the summer.”
She gasped. “What?”
“He’s not going, of course. He’s talking about letting a house for you, your mother, and Miss Quinn.”
“What? He — why would he do such a thing?”
Another of those heavy silences.
When Michael spoke again, he sounded grim and tired. “He says it’s due to the unusual heat — he’s concerned about your health, and that of your mother.”
“That’s nonsense. Mama’s health has been delicate for years; there’s no reason for him to be concerned this year, above all others.”
“Actually, there is. The weather’s far too hot for the season, and the almanac calls for more of the same. Everybody knows that the ghastly odor coming from the river causes infection and disease. All the best doctors are warning about the dangers of the miasma.”
She sighed. “All the same . . . the timing is . . .”
“I know.”
“Did he tell you about this?”
“He asked me to find the Brighton house. I’m meant to be with the estate agent now.”
Another of those damnable silences. Mary dearly wished she could see their faces, their postures.
“Do you think this has anything to do with —”
“I don’t see how. Yet it’s the likeliest explanation.”
“But who would suspect —”
“Let’s not speak of it here. Can we meet privately?”
“Tomorrow. The usual . . .” The floorboards creaked. Their voices became fainter, until they were barely audible; they must have moved to the farthest end of the drawing room. For a few minutes, Mary could barely make out murmuring. Then, suddenly, there was more movement — rapid this time.
In a moment, the drawing-room door clicked open and Mary heard Mrs. Thorold’s plaintive voice. “Who was that, darling?”
“Who was what?”
“I thought I heard voices.”
“Er . . . mine, perhaps? I was humming a little.”
“No, not that sort of voice. I thought I heard a man.”
Angelica’s laugh was forced. “As you can see, Mama, I’m perfectly alone. I can’t imagine what you mean.”
Mrs. Thorold grunted softly. Mary pictured the two women, staring each other down in the soft gloom. At last, she seemed to relent. “Perhaps I was mistaken, my dear.”
“Perhaps you’re feeling unwell!”
She sighed. “Where is Miss Quinn?”
“She’s probably out walking somewhere.” Angelica paused. “Are you feeling ill, Mama? You do look a bit . . . different. In fact, you look absolutely flushed!”
“Do I?”
“Mama, have you been exerting yourself? You really ought not move quickly or do anything difficult. Your own physicians tell you so.”
“Yes, darling.”
“And why are you dressed to go out?”
“I’m fine, darling” — The assurance was unconvincing — “only I rushed down the stairs a little because of those voices.”
“Oh, poor Mama. Shall I help you back upstairs? You really ought to rest a little more.”
“No, no. I must go out.”
“So soon after luncheon?”
“My appointment is early today. Ring for the carriage, darling; I’m late as it is. And my hat . . . I must have my hat.”
Even Mary knew that Mrs. Thorold wasn’t the sort of woman who rushed for anyone.
Mother and daughter exited the drawing room with Angelica sounding kinder in that moment than Mary had ever heard her. And when, a minute later, she heard the drawing-room door click softly for a second time, she thought she knew why.
It was a little after midnight when James’s carriage drew up in a narrow alley not far from Thorold’s warehouses. He slid open a window and listened attentively. London was never quiet at night. Some areas, like the Haymarket, were only beginning their long nights of drinking and revelry, of course, and their streets would be thronged. But even industrial zones such as this one had their constant sound scape: the ring of horseshoes on cobblestones, the odd voice from a boat on the river, the lapping of the tide. An open fire burned somewhere by the Thames, its dull roar distorted by the water.
He got down from the carriage to stretch his legs. Barker, his coachman, gave him a look and tilted his hat even lower over his eyes. He found this sort of nocturnal prowling beneath his dignity but had
accompanied James on both nights with a long-suffering air.
James ignored him. Instead, his attention was attracted by the manic barking of a dog. A rather large dog, from the sound of things. It was coming from . . . within the warehouse gates? He took a few steps closer, his body tightening, ready for action. A pair of male voices joined the dog’s, their cries unintelligible, drowned out by the thumping of their boots against cobblestones.
He heard her footsteps, light and efficient, before he saw her. She was dressed in the same dark boys’ clothes, a rough cap pulled low over her ears, sprinting with admirable speed. For a moment, only her face was visible in the shadows. It wore an expression of intense worry.
“This way.” He stepped out of the alley, and she stumbled, barely regaining her balance and pulling up short. Alarm contorted her face, but the look quickly shifted to recognition, and she pelted toward him.
Ignoring his extended hand, she vaulted into the carriage unassisted. James sprang in after her. There was no need to thump the roof tonight; he was still closing the door as the carriage sprang into motion. He fell into his seat with an amused grunt. At least the girl wasn’t dull.
Still ignoring him, Mary snuffed both candles inside the carriage and pressed her face against one of the windows. The night was dark and the streets narrow and rutted, but Barker was driving as fast as possible, the carriage was light and well sprung, the horses fresh.
James glanced out of his own window. The two men were still in pursuit, with the dog nearly at the carriage wheels. As Barker gained speed, however, the human figures quickly began to recede. A shrill whistle a few moments later called off the dog. For her part, Mary remained tense at the window for a minute longer before turning round and sprawling across the seat. Her breathing was rapid and shallow and her face flushed.
James grinned. Her current posture was more suited to a sailor than a lady’s companion.
So was her speech. The first intelligible phrase he heard was “Damn the dog.”
“You must prefer lapdogs.”
“Hardly,” she snarled. “I made friends with that bloody dog last night. That’s why he came after me. He wanted to play!”
