To Sketch a Sphinx

by Rebecca Connolly

  Hal peered over the screen once more at the woman, looking impressed at the forethought.

  “I see,” Sphinx murmured, wincing as he craned his neck, no doubt against the flourishes of linen around his neck. “And then we will be the spectacle we need to be?”

  Tilda hummed a laugh to herself. “Everyone is a spectacle in Paris, love. Which means that, in effect, no one is.”

  “Why don’t I find that encouraging?” Sphinx asked aloud, looking over at Hal and meeting her eyes with longsuffering, cynicism, and, she was surprised to find, an odd light of humor.

  She could have smiled, but she matched his longsuffering with a sigh instead. “Nor do I.”

  It was destined to be a short trip across the Channel, but as there were so few people aboard, it seemed as though it was taking ages and ages. Or perhaps that was only because his wife wasn’t speaking to him.

  She wasn’t ignoring him, per se. At least, he didn’t think so.

  They hadn’t even been married for twenty-four hours, and hadn’t even managed a disagreement yet, let alone a fight. That was a minor miracle, considering their previous exchanges with each other. But then, the details of their mission had given them a lot to consider, and it was entirely possible that Hal was nervous.

  This was her first assignment in the field, as he understood things, and without the full information, there wasn’t much room for anticipation. Weaver had hosted the newlyweds the night before, after they had finished their costuming session with Tilda, and this morning he had driven them to the docks in his coach, giving them the information about where and when the next batch of information would come to them.

  It was made perfectly plain to them, however, that none of that information was to be investigated during their Channel crossing.

  Why, John hadn’t felt the need to ask, but he could only presume that Rogue, Trace, or his brother Jeremy, known as Rook, had some suspicions about the situation, if not direct information.

  It wasn’t exactly likely that the information came from Trace, as he had only been reinstated a few weeks ago, but the other two…

  Not that it mattered. Shortly before they left port, a sailor pushed past John roughly, grunting a sort of apology as he did so, leaving a parcel beneath John’s arm when he readjusted his path off the ship.

  Without a word, John had handed the parcel to Hal with a warm smile. She’d returned it with a dazzling version of her own, and wordlessly slipped the parcel into the drawing portfolio at her side.

  It sat in there now, folded between sketches and notes and what not as though it was only a parcel of extra sheets for her drawing.

  Their first action as a team, and they had succeeded without a word.

  Surely, that was significant.

  But there was no time for victory or exhilaration over it, as much as he was relieved by her immediately understanding of what he needed her to do. They were in character at all times in public, at attention whenever they could be observed, and there could be no discussion of anything in any way sensitive when they could be overheard.

  They hadn’t exactly discussed their characters, though. There hadn’t been time, and the evening before had been one of hastily delivered instruction and advice. He’d been up half of the night going over what he had been told and running through coded puzzles he used to train himself before any significant project began. His mind needed to be quick, quicker than it had ever been, and his eyes needed to see everything he could possibly see.

  His wife had been sleeping in the next bedchamber over.

  It had never once occurred to him that their wedding night ought to have been spent together. Until this moment, it hadn’t occurred to him that the night before had actually been his wedding night. The marriage was a legal arrangement, nothing more.

  And yet, all they had in this mission of theirs was each other. From all accounts, they would have little by way of allies in France, apart from what lay in the information contained in Hal’s portfolio. The only person he could be absolutely certain of in this whole affair was Hal.

  His wife.

  Surely, they could set aside old grievances, pitiful though they were.

  She was outspoken, and every professional situation they’d met in had displayed that. He’d never reacted well to that, preferring to commence with the business at hand, and they’d had a few minor spats about it. Thankfully, they rarely worked together directly, even if they were both involved in the same mission. Now, they were literally side by side, and their combating natures had to be amended.

  He, for one, would take a woman who could annoy him and grate his every nerve with exactness and put his life in her hands, and he would take her life in his own hands, though she likely thought him dull, arrogant, and proud.

  Personal opinions could no longer matter where they were concerned.

  Only the mission.

  If she would not come to him and start them off, then he would take the first step.

  Craning his neck against the impossibly tight, yet thankfully simple cravat at this throat, John moved across the deck of the ship towards Hal. She sat, strangely enough, on a large coil of rope as though it were an ottoman in any given drawing room in London. Her bonnet, once perfectly perched and tied atop her head, sat on the planks beneath her, the ribbons draped over her half-boots, her fair hair bared to the sunlight and glinting with it. A few curls danced free from the simple yet fashionable chignon she wore, and added much to the picture she presented, sprigged muslin, blue pelisse, and all.

  His fair wife.

  He wouldn’t have called her fair yesterday; there was no denying, however, that fair she was.

  She was busily, determinedly, sketching away.

  John nodded at a passing crew member, and continued in Hal’s direction, lifting his chin. “Sketching away, my dear? What, pray tell, has captivated your attention?”

  A very slight smile crossed her lips, but she did not look up. “Why, you, husband.”

  “Me?” He did his best not to rear back and came to her side instead. “Why me?”

  Hal glanced up, one brow arching. “Why not? I am fascinated by mysteries, and you are more a mystery to me than anyone.”

  “True enough, I suppose,” he murmured. “May I see your progress?”

  She shrugged and turned the paper towards him. “If you like. I’ve only made a start.”

  She had done a great deal more than that. John could not believe what he was seeing. Yes, the drawing was not complete, nor close to it, but its incompleteness only made the likeness all the more startling. She had captured his scowl, his jaw, the set of his shoulders, even the spacing of his eyes. He could have been looking at himself in the mirror, and no portrait his mother had commissioned had ever resembled him so accurately.

  And she was not finished with it.

  He’d heard rumors of the skills and abilities of Hal, but some corner of his mind had always dismissed them as elaborations.

  This was proof of his folly, and it was uncanny.

  “Good heavens, Hal.” He shook his head, eyes wide. “I had no idea… That is incredible.”

  Color raced into Hal’s cheeks, and she returned to the sketch, focusing on the hair above his left ear. “Thank you.”

  “When did you know you could draw an individual so accurately?” he asked, leaning against the railing behind him. “That is a gift.”

  Hal chuckled, the sound lower than John expected to hear. “When I was ten, the portrait I made of my father was less than flattering. He claimed I had to do it again for better practice, and I assured him that was what he looked like.” She paused in her sketch and looked up at John again. “My mother took one look at my drawing and said, ‘Oh, zat is quite right. Très bien, ma chérie.’” She quirked her brows. “The pair of them had quite a row over it. I believe he was consoled enough in the end.”

  John smirked rather wryly. “No doubt.”

  Her cheeks colored again, and John realized belatedly h
ow it could have been taken, and what it would imply about Hal’s parents.

  Hardly a promising beginning for the pair of them as a couple.

  “Say what you will about my parents,” Hal said quietly, her pencil flying across the page as she continued her sketch of him, “they were devoted to each other.”

  John frowned at hearing that. “I know nothing of your parents, Hal.”

  She continued to draw. “You never read the reports?”

  “What reports?”

  Her pencil paused, and she blinked, though she did not look up at him. “I thought everyone in the Offices knew my circumstances.”

  “Then I must not be everyone,” he quipped, surprised that he could do so with lightness. He was usually too dry for such things, too serious for joviality, and too unsociable for easy conversation.

  Yet here he was.

  “It’s not a conversation for here.” Hal shook her head and straightened, cocking her head as she examined her drawing for a moment. “When the time is more appropriate, I’ll tell you about them.”

  He nodded in full comprehension, though her words were innocent enough. He’d suspected that her family had ties to the covert operations in which they found themselves currently embroiled, and their present situation did not allow for the sort of sensitive information their story could contain.

  “If you feel I should know,” he told her with a shrug of one shoulder. “I’ll not pry.”

  “It’s not particularly personal,” she laughed. “Confidential, perhaps, but I have no qualms in sharing it. Particularly considering what we’re about to venture into, there are likely relevant details there.”

  John exhaled, looking out across the Channel. “Interesting. Speaking of relevant details, care to share any information about the relations with which we will be staying?”

  Again, Hal laughed, and this time she put aside her drawing completely to turn towards him. Clasping her hands around her knees, she settled more fully onto the rope coil. “The family name is de Rouvroy, and I’ve only just learned that he is a baron. Le baron is my mother’s first cousin. The title is not their legacy, but what was bestowed by Napoleon for services rendered. The family title was stripped in the Revolution, but they all kept their heads, so to speak.”

  “How did they manage that?” John asked, bemused by the tone of entertainment his wife had taken on.

  “Their loyalties lie with whoever is in power. You’ll find their living beyond what you would expect of a humble baron, and that is quite simply because of their convenient alliances. The house is the family estate going back hundreds of years. They move in particularly high circles, so as much as we hated it, going to Tilda was likely crucial to our success.” She made a face of disgust and shuddered.

  John found himself chuckling at that. “I shall endeavor to see it as such, though I suspect it will have a bitter taste for quite some time.”

  Hal nodded eagerly in agreement. “I fear we will be trotted out to court, and we must look like the sort of relations the baron would have.”

  “Well,” he sighed in response, “investigating high circles is likely our best starting place as it is. Your cousin will probably have excellent connections for us to explore.”

  “In all circles, I am sure,” Hal remarked dryly. She indicated several different levels with her hand, widening her eyes.

  “All the better. I think we will have a need to see to those.” He folded his arms and glanced down at her. “How should we play this, Hal? And should I call you something other than Hal? Before your family, at least.”

  Hal paused in her almost giddy attitude and position, her eyes widening, and she straightened up. “I hadn’t considered… My mother always called me Ange, given she couldn’t manage my name well. It’s not very French, after all.”

  John gave her a half-smile. “Would you like me to call you Ange? Or the English version?”

  Hal’s shy smile did something to his stomach, flipping it over in a strange way. “Ange would be fitting. If you don’t mind.”

  “Not in the least,” he managed, his stomach still feeling like a beached fish flopping awkwardly. “And you may call me John, unless you really want the formality of Pratt.”

  “You want your name out there?”

  “If yours is out there, mine might as well be, too.” His half smile spread to a full one easily. “Believe me, no one in Paris knows who I am.”

  Hal chuckled and nodded with warmth. “I can believe that. I think travelling outside of England too extensively would create a rash of some sort upon your skin.”

  John frowned playfully, though there was certainly some truth to the jest. “I will have you know that I have been to the Continent several times, and only received a slight chill coming out of Spain.”

  Hal’s jaw dropped before she erupted into peals of laughter, tossing her head back, her throat dancing with each laugh, her eyes squeezed shut.

  Beautiful.

  There was no other word for it. No separating the sight from the sound, nor either from the feeling it invoked. It was quite simply beautiful, and there was no denying it. The truth of it squeezed his chest as if in a fist with fingers digging in.

  Painful sensation, but a pleasant experience.

  Now that was a puzzle.

  “I thought your brother was the amusing one,” Hal managed as her laughter began to subside. “Who’d have thought you knew humor at all?”

  “Harsh,” he protested. “Who do you think taught my brother the humor he is known for?”

  Hal gave him a dubious look, echoes of laughter still in her features. “Not you, Pratt, and that is the truth.”

  There was no reason for her to think otherwise, and he knew it well. He smiled and waved dismissively. “You think that if you like.”

  She rolled her eyes and sighed. “As for how we play this…” She shrugged, turning somber. “Disenchanted? The nature of it can vary based on what we need, but I don’t know how else to go.”

  “I agree, actually.”

  Hal’s eyes went round. “We agree? Good heavens, what happened?”

  John met her eyes frankly, smiling slightly. “We got married.”

  She snorted once. “As if that’s the solution to any problem. Surely, it only creates more of them.”

  “As this is my first one,” he said without hesitation, “I’ll reserve judgment upon the state until I’ve experienced it a bit longer. Kindly refrain from ruining the thing for me.”

  A sharp blow struck his shins and his legs jerked back, causing him to stumble slightly, though he laughed freely. “Et tu, Ange?”

  “Don’t mix your languages,” his wife scolded as he straightened. “Now leave me be, Pratt. I’ve a drawing to finish, and I want to take in more of this glorious breeze while the other passengers take ill in their cabins.”

  John bowed politely, inclining his head. “It just so happens that I am well and whole, too, so I will stroll about the deck enjoying the quiet. Until later, wife.”

  “Until later, husband.”

  Chapter Four

  “Hal, wake up. Hal.”

  The low, gentle voice dragged her from sleep, and the boot pressing on her knee and rustling her stirred her from the position she had taken for that sleep. She pushed to an upright position from the wall of the coach and rubbed at her eyes.

  “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Since we left Cormeilles,” Pratt replied in a low grumble. “You were fortunate enough to drift off again almost immediately. I don’t know how you managed that. I feel as though my head has been trampled under our horses’ hooves from the time we left Beauvais last night.”

  Hal blinked hard, the tension in her head roaring back to life at his words. “You had to say something, didn’t you?” She pinched the bridge of her nose hard, then paused and opened her eyes again, her hand flying back to her lap. “Did you say I’ve been asleep since Cormeilles?”

  “I did,” he grunted, managing to cro
ss one leg over the other in the space of the coach without even brushing her skirts. “Why?”

  She looked out of the window, blinking again at the passing scenery, and the light cascading down upon it. Her eyes widened and flicked back to her husband. “It has to be close to midday. Cormeilles is barely ten miles outside of Paris. How in the world has it taken so long to go so short a distance?”

  Pratt gave her a very flat, very bland smile, looking as fatigued and haggard as any man alive ever had. “We have averaged roughly five miles an hour for the majority of our trip from Calais, Hal. Since Cormeilles, we have been slower than that, likely on account of the poor conditions of the road, which makes your ability to sleep during that time all the more astonishing.”

  “One of my lesser known gifts,” she murmured in shock, sitting back against the seat of the coach and staring at him in bewilderment. “Less than five miles an hour? Are you sure?”

  “Believe me, I have made a very careful study of our speed and course in the last thirty-six hours.” He cocked his head, his eyes narrowing. “How did you know that Cormeilles was ten miles outside of Paris?”

  One side of Hal’s mouth quirked. “I looked at a map before we arrived in Calais.”

  Pratt raised a brow. “And you remembered Cormeilles specifically and the distance it was from Paris? Calais was nearly two days ago.”

  “One of my better-known gifts,” Hal said simply as she allowed the rest of her mouth to complete the smile. “I have a rather exact memory. If I see something, I can remember it with a startling accuracy. If I focus on something with some effort, I’m likely to never forget it.”

  Now it was he whose eyes widened, and he seemed to still completely in the uncomfortably jolting coach. “What I wouldn’t give for that ability.”

  Hal laughed once. “It is not always agreeable, but in your case, yes, I can see how that would be useful.” She glanced out of the window again. “I take it we have entered Paris.”

  “Oui,” Pratt replied with a heavy sigh, “and I have never been so pleased to see any place in my life. I may embrace le baron simply for being at the end of the journey.”