To Sketch a Sphinx

by Rebecca Connolly

  She fixed a polite smile on her face and pushed through the ajar door to the card room.

  All conversation stopped, and all eyes fell on her.

  Perfect.

  Twelve men sat between three card tables, all grouped closely together, cards in hand, though it was not clear if anyone was actually playing. Had she not been listening a moment ago, she would never have known treason was occurring. Indeed, had she not seen Leclerc among the group, knowing the letters he carried, she might have doubted that these were the men whose conversations she’d heard.

  “Oh my,” she gasped in bright English, looking at each man in turn, though taking care not to linger long enough for concern. “I was looking for my husband. He accompanied me to the parlor when I needed to recover myself, then he abandoned me there. When he did not return, I feared he might have chosen cards over his wife.”

  Voclain rose, chuckling with what appeared to be good nature. “Alas, madame, we have not seen him, but I will be sure to scold him soundly for his neglect when he next appears.”

  Hal beamed and curtseyed. “Many thanks, monsieur. I am quite delighted, as it happens. My husband is dreadful at cards, and the lot of you would wind up pocketing his fortune.”

  A round of relatively stiff laughter sounded.

  Voclain maintained his smile, though the strain was showing now. “Jacque, if you wouldn’t mind showing Madame Pratt her way back to the ballroom? She will be missed by our guests.” He nodded at Hal in a clear sign of dismissal. “We will send your husband to you the moment we see him.”

  “I thank you.” She curtseyed again and glanced up at the very tall, very burly footman in livery that did not suit his stature.

  It would appear she was leaving now.

  “Madame,” he grunted, blocking her progression any further into the room and gesturing for the door behind them.

  Hal dipped her chin and turned, moving back into the corridor. “I am quite sure I know the way,” she assured the footman that was clearly not a footman.

  He shook his head. “I will see you back,” he replied, his accent so thick the words were barely intelligible.

  Well, there went reuniting with John, for the moment. How attentive would Jacque be with her once she was returned? What if she was not able to leave the ballroom again? How would she explain John’s absence? Would they raise any suspicions?

  All too soon, they had arrived at the ballroom, and she was very nearly shoved inside.

  “Merci,” she mumbled, though the footman had already turned away.

  Not too observant, it seems.

  But then Jacque stood against the wall nearby, and Hal rolled her eyes to herself. “Now what?”

  “Now, Madame Pratt,” a new voice uttered just beside her, “we will take you back to the parlor so you will be seen to be recovering. Move. Now.”

  Firm hands settled in polite positions on her arms, though the grip was too tight for politeness. Hal swallowed a gasp and moved with the man out of the ballroom, the scent of aged spirits and cigar wafting through her nostrils. Yet he was no slovenly drunkard; on the contrary, he was clean-shaven and crisply dressed.

  And his English was impeccable.

  “Why?” Hal asked, not bothering to pretend politeness, though she did pretend at swooning airs once more.

  “Because you were seen,” came his cutting voice. “The pair of you were seen entering the servants’ corridor. Certain attendees are now seeking those individuals, and we must establish that it was not you who was seen. Hurry. They’re coming.”

  Hal’s eyes widened, and her throat dried. She immediately strained towards the corridor, though her captor would not let her move much at all.

  “Steady,” the man soothed, surprisingly well. “He’s safe. Come with me for just a moment, and we’ll away soon.”

  Dozens of scenarios flashed through her mind, none particularly comfortable, and her parched throat ached. “What are you going to do with me?”

  He snorted softly. “No need to fear me, Sketch. I do believe you were notified I may attend?”

  Hal’s eyes widened, and she nodded once. “Yes.”

  “Excellent. Then relax, but hurry, and go along with me.”

  She did so, letting him half carry her to the parlor, ignoring his jabbered explanation to any inquiring minds about her state and barked orders to find her husband.

  The parlor was soon there, and Hal was deposited in a chair by a window. She immediately put a hand to her brow and set her fan to work, her pulse racing with the anxieties of her plight.

  Footsteps hurried along the corridor, paused, then continued on without entering.

  She exhaled roughly with overwhelming relief.

  “Don’t relax yet,” her companion hissed.

  More footsteps thundered nearby.

  “Ma chère cousine,” Jean blustered, barging into the room and falling to his knees beside her. “Are you well? What is wrong?”

  Hal bit back a curse and gave her cousin a tired smile. “Nothing, cousin. A trifle weak, a little dizzy. I became quite overcome, but I shall be well presently.”

  Jean didn’t seem convinced and looked around the room. “Where is your husband?” he demanded. “He should be here!”

  “Signore Pratt has gone to fetch the coach for the signora,” her ally informed her cousin in a pristine Italian accent. “I offered to mind her until all was in readiness.”

  Jean’s almost reverent intake of breath was comical. “Signore Romano… you have our sincere thanks. Such gracious care, monsieur.”

  “It is nothing,” Romano replied, raising a protesting hand. “Please, return to the party. She is well looked after.”

  Jean looked back at Hal with a smile, a knowing light entering his eyes. “If you are unwell from dancing, Henrietta, perhaps you may have something to announce soon…?”

  Hal blushed instantly, realizing to what he referred, and he took her blushes for another reason entirely.

  “I shall await such blessed tidings.” He leaned in to kiss her cheek and left the parlor, clasping his son on the shoulder as he lingered just outside.

  Once their steps had faded, Hal dropped her hand, shaking her head. “That was mortifying.”

  Romano laughed once. “Only because they are real relations who may actually want to hear such things. Perhaps Sphinx can be persuaded?”

  Hal glared at him despite the sudden burst of warmth hitting her stomach at the suggestion.

  Romano’s chuckles continued, and he nodded. “Fair enough. Let us away now before questions are asked.”

  She rose with a sigh and looked up at him. “Won’t more questions be asked because we are leaving?”

  “Shouldn’t be,” he grunted. “We have witnesses that you left the dance in distress, were seen recovering in the parlor, and later were seen leaving with assistance.”

  “And my husband?” Her voice hitched in distress, hating that she hadn’t seen him, didn’t know where he was, how he was, or if he knew…

  Romano sighed. “I don’t know, pet. I can only trust Ruse to make it convincing.”

  “Don’t call me pet,” Hal snarled as they neared the foyer. “It’s so patronizing.”

  Servants sprang forward once they neared the front, eager to serve.

  “Monsieur Pratt,” Romano announced her husband’s name to the nearest servant in perfect English. “I ordered my carriage readied?”

  “Oui, Monsieur Pratt,” a footman confirmed with a sharp bow and click of heels. He gestured the way while other servants grabbed their outerwear.

  “How did you…?” Hal hissed, letting the question hang.

  Romano made a show of assisting her with her cloak. “I look enough like your husband to pass for him when someone doesn’t know better.” He smiled quickly, dark eyes sparkling. “Servants relegated to the entrance at these things never know better.”

  Hal smirked at him as he offered an arm and led her out. “Taking quite a chance.”

&nbs
p; “Odds are with us.” He shrugged and loaded her into the carriage, following quickly.

  The carriage pulled away at once, and Hal breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

  “Not at all,” he replied easily. “Did you get what you needed?”

  She nodded, staring at him with some fascination. “I think so.” She shook her head. “I know you somehow. I remember your face.”

  He grinned slowly. “You should. I was at your parents’ home often enough when you were naught but a chick.”

  A hint of Irish brogue started to seep into his voice, and Hal knew at once this was his natural accent. It fit her blurry memories and felt right within them.

  “Were you?” Hal bit her lip, brow furrowing in thought. “But… my father…”

  “A good mate,” he told her, nodding. “A good operative. Most of my meetings, however, were with your mother.”

  Hal stilled, the rocking of the coach doing nothing to shift her one way or the other. “Mama?”

  Again, he nodded. “I may be the only one who can tell you this, Sketch, but she was the best damned operative I have ever known, especially considering she was never at the Convent.”

  “I knew she was skilled.” Hal swallowed with some difficulty, choosing her words with care. “But… for whom? That was never made clear, and considering the events of her death…”

  “She was for England, Sketch.” Romano reached out for her hand and squeezed gently. “She loved France, would always love France, which was why she was willing to risk so much to aid the country of her birth. But her loyalty was to us. She was the only one at the time who could successfully infiltrate both sides, and she did so flawlessly. Up until the end.”

  Hal’s eyes swam in tears. “How can you be sure?”

  She received an almost fatherly smile in return. “Because I took over for her in the aftermath. My role now is the one she created. I know everything she knew, every contact she made, every missive she wrote. England owes her a great debt, and we can never repay.”

  “I always wondered…” Hal murmured. “I hoped…”

  “You’re very much like her, you know. Coloring aside.” He tilted his head just a touch. “Her eyes were exactly the same shape. Your father used to call the pair of you the eyes of March.” He rolled his eyes at the horrible joke and shook his head in memory.

  The same shaped eyes? But dark, like her cousin had said… Hal thought back to the sketch she had started in London of her mother, the one she could never get right, and instantly she itched to look at the eyes she had drawn. Now she’d have a far better reference for them, and perhaps that would get her even closer to accuracy.

  “Your brother is your father, though,” Romano said on an exhale, folding his arms. “Maddening, really, to be so uncanny a likeness and temperament.”

  “You know Trick?” Hal asked with a small smile.

  He grunted once. “Too well, I’m afraid. I already prefer you to him.”

  “Excellent choice.” Hal looked out of the window and frowned to herself. “We should be home by now.”

  “I asked for a longer route.” Romano shrugged once. “Habit, I’m afraid. Never take the same route twice. It’s sure to throw off scant pursuers.”

  Hal eyed him again, marveling at the habitual cleverness there. “Your accent leads me to suppose that your surname isn’t actually Romano, sir, and that you are no Italian.”

  He only shrugged again. “Suppose away.” He examined their surroundings and narrowed his eyes. “I’ll take you to the door of the house, but not join you. De Rouvroy’s servants are likely more observant than the ones we left. If anyone asks, tell them your husband wished to walk a while. People do so in Paris. Hopefully, he’ll be along before too long. Ruse is good, I wouldn’t worry.”

  “And what about you?” Hal asked, more curious than ever. “What will you do?”

  “Continue on,” he said evasively. “I’m always on the move, plenty to do, plenty to see. And plenty of people who are most anxious to see me.”

  Hal could only shake her head. “Why? What do they want?” she demanded. “Who are you?”

  His smile deepened just a touch. “Only one question gets answered tonight, my dear Sketch. The name is Skean.” He inclined his head in a sort of bow. “At your service.”

  Chapter Twelve

  John slipped into the front door of the de Rouvroy home, his heart pounding, his mind swimming, his feet aching in odd places.

  Darting about the streets of Paris after an evening of dancing was not an activity he would recommend to anyone, nor one he would be taking up again any time soon.

  “Avez-vous apprécié votre promenade, Monsieur Pratt?” the butler asked as he approached, his smile more welcoming than anything John had expected after the night he’d had thus far.

  John stared as he shrugged out of the overcoat Ruse had provided him and handed it over. How in the world had the man known John had been walking about Paris?

  Our friend will have made up some story for Sketch. Whatever it is, go along.

  Ruse’s words to him only moments before echoed in John’s mind, and he nodded, praying his hesitation and delay had not been as apparent to the man as it had felt. “Yes, thank you. Not so chilly this evening as it has been.”

  The butler nodded. “It will turn soon, I zink. Winter, you know.”

  Yes, John did know.

  It rather felt like winter now, with various parts of him feeling particularly chilled, and the whole of him feeling especially exhausted.

  “I shall retire now,” John informed him, moving towards the stairs, wondering if he really was as terrible an actor as he felt.

  But the butler seemed to notice nothing and only bowed. “Oui, monsieur. Bonne nuit.”

  Good night, indeed. He wished it was a good night. He’d thought it might be a good night, and it had certainly appeared as though it might have been a good night while he was in it, but then…

  How had everything shifted sideways after Hal had entered the card room? From what he could tell, she hadn’t been forced out, and the conversation after she had left hadn’t even remotely mentioned her as suspicious.

  But then Ruse had appeared and shoved John further into the servants’ corridor, down at least three more dark and cramped ones, then out into the Paris night. He’d explained as much as he could, that John and Hal had been spotted entering the corridor itself, and that, while their identities were safe, the danger was quite real. Thundering footsteps not far behind them had emphasized that fact, and it was only due to Ruse’s keen knowledge of Paris that they had avoided being caught.

  His brother Jeremy had often spoken of the adrenaline he’d felt on missions, particularly dangerous ones, and how alive it made him feel.

  John felt vulnerable.

  Alive, yes, but vulnerable.

  It wasn’t something he looked forward to feeling again. There was a reason he was more of an asset than an operative, and he looked forward to returning to that role.

  Pushing into his bedchamber, nearly staggering with the fatigue that was catching up to him, he fumbled with the cravat around his neck, somehow still maintaining its ridiculous shape and style after all he’d been through. Yet it also came loose with remarkable ease once he removed the pin.

  A flash of memory from earlier in the evening appeared before him, seeming to be days ago rather than hours. Hal smiling at the knotted linen, her deft fingers plucking out the pin and assisting him with its adjustment so that the evening might be more comfortable for his neck. She’d placed it back, and somehow the heat of her hands had seeped through the fabric straight to John’s throat, leaving it parched and aching for relief.

  She was afraid, she had said, but she hadn’t given a reason. Hadn’t confided that far, though the admission of fear seemed monumental.

  She hadn’t seemed afraid in their dance; on the contrary, she’d been more alive than he’d ever seen or felt, more real and tangible than anything he could bear
witness to.

  She hadn’t been afraid in the darkness listening to the Faction members; she had been the one consoling him, though he had felt the slightest tremble in her frame as he’d held her close, as his lips had been at her skin.

  John shuddered now and sank onto his bed. Where was Hal? Was she safe and whole? Had she escaped without detection, as he had?

  Was she even now afraid?

  He squeezed his eyes shut, averting his gaze in shame, though there was nothing in this room to bring him pain. He should have gone back for her; he should have argued more with Ruse to bring Hal with them. He should never have left her retrieval to someone else, especially someone he did not know and therefore could not trust. She was John’s wife, for pity’s sake. He had taken an oath to honor and protect her, and how had he done that tonight?

  Had he vowed to love her as well? The memory of their unconventional wedding ceremony was hazy at best, considering its circumstances and his attitude surrounding it. He had no way to be sure if Weaver and Tailor had kept to the proper tradition of Anglican marriage ceremonies, or if they had adapted the service to be a more businesslike and legal transaction.

  He hadn’t loved her then, but he certainly loved her now, and he wouldn’t sleep until he knew she was safe.

  He pushed himself up from the bed and began to pace, agitation coursing over and through him in waves until he seemed to be drowning in it. Struggling for breath though there were no words to assign to the thoughts causing such sensations.

  Ange.

  Her name repeated over and over in his mind, a cadence to his body and mind that, for the moment, was his only anthem and prayer.

  All he could consider.

  Somehow, a sound broke through the frenzy of his thoughts, made him pause a step, his frame frozen as every hair stood on end, straining to hear it again.

  He didn’t dare breathe, didn’t dare blink.

  Then he heard it, something beyond his room, and, if possible, beyond the parlor, too.

  The unmistakable sound of a hinge squeaking.

  John moved with more speed than he would have thought possible if he’d been thinking. He wrenched open the connecting door to the parlor and stared at the closed door opposite him. He braced his arms on the doorframe, waiting, hoping…