To Sketch a Sphinx

by Rebecca Connolly

  Hal harrumphed and adjusted her head on his shoulder. “I will sleep. I don’t know what you were thinking.”

  “Of course,” he chuckled, kissing her brow once more. “Neither do I.”

  His wife hummed almost dreamily in his arms. “I didn’t think you were strong enough to carry me anywhere. No offense intended.”

  Now John hefted her more securely in his arms, just to prove his strength. “Well, remember what Ruse said? Nothing in Paris is as it appears…” He trailed off, stiffening, lost in thought.

  Nothing was as it appeared… An opera favored by Napoleon. Many members in attendance, not for enjoyment but for solidarity. Reminders. Rejuvenation. To hear the words they so valued.

  The song had the key to unlock the code. The words hadn’t been, but the song.

  Which left words.

  Words…

  Faction words.

  Words.

  J’ai vécu.

  John blinked at the realization, his breath vanishing from his lungs. That was it.

  That was it.

  Hal shifted, looking up at him. He looked back at her, beyond speaking at this moment, the significance too great. He saw understanding reflected in her eyes, though she wouldn’t have known the reason.

  She glanced down at the proximity between their position and the bed, pursing her lips. It was right there, just a half step away.

  Slowly, she looked back up at him, expression wary. “You wouldn’t dare…”

  John grinned a rather wolfish grin at his wife. “Oh no?”

  “John…”

  Without a second thought, John tossed her onto the bed, the downy depths nearly swallowing her whole, and he dashed back out of the room into the parlor, his epiphany all-consuming.

  Hal’s near-hysterical laughter echoed behind him, filling his ears with the joyous sound.

  He nearly joined in the laughter, though his would have been from sheer exhilaration.

  J’ai vécu.

  The statement of allegiance, loyalty, or sympathies used by the Faction for the past couple of years should have been the obvious choice for a cipher. Should have occurred to him long ago. He’d even tried that as a key when he’d first worked the letters, though the first layer hadn’t allowed him any revelations from it.

  It would seem that the members of the Faction were sentimental as well as idealists. Nothing was as it appeared, but everything was significant.

  He yanked all the letters to him, eyes darting over each page and every letter. It could work. It had to work.

  “Paper, paper, paper…” he muttered, tossing aside the music and pages of random scratches he had made trying to decipher things earlier.

  “Here, love.” Hal brought a stack of pages from her belongings and set them before him. She wrapped her arms about his neck and leaned in, kissing his cheek. “You’re the most brilliant mind in England and France,” she whispered against his skin, “and bloody likely everywhere else, too.”

  Heat burst into showers of sparks in his stomach, the combination of her endearment, her lips, and her claim rendering him speechless. He turned his head and kissed her hard, one of his hands reaching for the back of her head.

  It was a kiss for the ages, for centuries to come, for eons of breathless moments between them. He poured everything of himself into it, exhilaration, energy, excitement, and hope, until he was vulnerable and raw in her arms, nothing hidden from the goddess who held his heart. And she gave him everything and more, sighing into his mouth, her lips molding with his, her fingers toying with his hair.

  Was there anything God had ever made that was more perfect than this?

  Hal broke off, humming and breathless, cupping his cheek with one hand while the other stayed playfully in his hair. She smiled, keeping her brow and nose against his. “A marked improvement in those priorities of yours, Mr. Pratt.” She sighed unsteadily, which nearly undid him. “I do believe, however, there is something quite pressing to attend to.” She tilted her head playfully. “Other than your wife, I mean.”

  “More’s the pity,” he whispered, brushing his lips against hers in the barest hint of a graze that sent them both shivering. “Care to be my assistant?”

  That earned him a quick, but firm kiss. “Love to. But first, coffee.” She quirked her brows and slid her arms from him, heading for the door.

  “Make it drinking chocolate,” he called after her with a smile. “It is Paris, after all.”

  Hal gave him a jaunty salute and a wink, then wrenched open the door and hurried out.

  John shook his head, then returned his attention to the papers before him, fatigue gone and only anticipation remaining. “All right, then,” he said to the collection. “Now, let’s see what secrets you contain…”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “This is… I don’t even… Erm…”

  Hal grinned and looked up at her husband. “If I ever doubted his nationality, that alone would do it. I vow, the most British utterance known to man is ‘erm’. There is nothing like it.”

  John only chuckled, nodding as he leaned against the tree by which they stood.

  Ruse didn’t seem to hear her or note John’s reaction. He simply stared, his eyes on nothing, looking as blank as the character he was portraying. “Damn…”

  “And that would be the second most British utterance.” Hal clapped her hands in delight and returned her attention to the book she was supposed to be reading in this interview. “Marvelous, Ruse. I feel quite at home.”

  “Glad to oblige.” He looked between the two of them, eyes round. “So, it’s only the three you mentioned that you can’t name?”

  “I can’t see that we ever were introduced,” John answered with a slight tsk. “Ange?”

  The name instantly curved her lips into a smile, such sweetness being ascribed to it now. “No,” she agreed, keeping her tone mild. “No, I’ve never seen them. I’ve provided copies for you in that basket. Perhaps you can make quick work of it, I couldn’t think of a feasible way to bring them to my cousin for his help.”

  “No, no, I concur.” Ruse took a bite of the apple he’d taken from the basket, bowing himself before them in a show of gratitude, though he was already sitting on the ground near Hal. “Do you realize what this means? Any correspondence we get our hands on we can now interpret. This puts us at a great advantage compared to where we have been.”

  “That was the idea of sending us here, was it not?” Hal glanced over at their companion, unable to keep the satisfied smile from her face. “The transcript of the meeting is also there. We’ve given you a copy as well as the packet to get back to England.”

  Ruse nodded, though he didn’t seem quite as relaxed about the thing as John or Hal did. “Merci beaucoup.”

  Hal frowned at the thanks, given the flatness of the tone. She looked up at John, who was also frowning.

  “What is it?” John asked in a low tone, almost threatening in his manner.

  “Operatives,” Ruse replied at once. He shook his head slowly. “That was the word, yes?”

  John looked down at the ground, no doubt thinking back. “Agents,” he recited. “Nothing specific about them, but they were mentioned.”

  “Not espions?” Ruse prodded.

  “No,” Hal confirmed, laying down her book once more. “Why? Is there a significance between an operative, agent, and a spy?”

  Ruse met her eyes, the most serious he had ever been in her presence. “Possibly not. That’s the problem. You both were operatives before you received this assignment, in a way. We might say asset, but an operative all the same.”

  Hal nodded, seeing the logic in that, and thinking she could see where his thoughts were taking him. “Agreed.”

  “But a spy,” he went on, “would be someone more like Trace or Trick. Actively in the face of danger, transplanted from their usual life and surroundings.” He offered a humorless smile. “Rather like the two of you now, I suppose.”

  “And you,” John poin
ted out.

  Ruse shrugged. “I didn’t have much of a life in England as it was. It is all relative, in my case. Home is England, but more than that, I have no ties. Which is likely why I’ve been here as long as I have.”

  “How long is that?” Hal found herself asking. “If you don’t mind.”

  “Five years.” His smile turned a little whimsical, his eyes lowering. “I did have a cousin, though. I do have one, I suppose. She must think I abandoned her like everyone else in her life. I am sorry for that, but Weaver assures me Clara is safe.”

  Hal cocked her head, looking over Ruse’s features and calling upon a memory she’d long since tucked away. “Clara Harlow?”

  Ruse’s eyes widened, and he reared back. “How the devil…”

  “Steady,” John hissed as he shifted towards them, somehow still keeping his casual pose. “Her memory, remember?”

  “Right.” Ruse swallowed, clearly unnerved. “Sorry. But how?”

  Hal smiled with as much gentleness as she could find within her. “I can see the similarity in features. On my last visit to the Convent, I met her. She doesn’t know what it is, of course, but she is well liked by the girls. Teaches French, I believe, and perhaps dance?”

  “She would.” A quick, but genuine smile flashed across his face, making him seem years younger. “If I were to give you a note for her, would you see it reaches her when you return to England? I’d rather not use our channels for personal means.”

  “I’d be delighted.” Hal smiled in return, finding a lump in her throat difficult to remove.

  What if her brother had been sent out of England for an assignment? He would likely not be able to communicate with her as readily as he did now, and Hal would feel abandoned as well, though she had never been particularly cast out by Society. What did Miss Harlow endure in her heart if her closest relation did not maintain the connection between them, especially when she did not know the reason why?

  It was painful even to imagine.

  “Incoming,” John murmured into the silence that had stretched, his eyes on figures in the distance.

  Hal looked, nodding as she resumed reading her book once more. “So, when do you anticipate a response, Ruse?”

  “Quickly, I’d think.” He made a show of taking things from the basket and putting them in his pockets. “I can have this to Calais tonight, across the Channel and into necessary hands by luncheon tomorrow. I’d say a response should be due to you in three days, perhaps four.” He shrugged as the packet slipped into a pouch behind his back, hiding beneath the filthy tunic he wore over equally tattered additional layers. “A week at most, if they need to think on it.”

  John grunted once. “A week in Paris.”

  Something in his voice drew Hal’s attention and she looked up at him, heart skipping.

  His eyes were on her, heat and adoration and promise swirling in them, the curve of his smile practically hypnotic. “Whatever shall we do?”

  Heavens…

  Hal managed a smile in return, her stomach clenching. “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

  “Right,” Ruse said slowly, looking between the two. “I’ll leave you to whatever unspoken message is taking place there and thank you both profusely for what you’ve done.”

  John broke their heated gaze first, smiling with genuine cordiality at their contact, and in many ways, protector. “Our pleasure. Truly. And if we find any ways to help while we await further instructions, we will do so.”

  “Might I suggest you and your companions practice playing faro?” Hal offered. “There was an actual card game taking place during the meeting, so it could prove useful.”

  Ruse suddenly looked intrigued. “How did you know it was faro? By your own account, you were only in the room a minute or two.”

  Hal gave him a sardonic look. “I do know the difference between faro, commerce, and vingt-et-un, thank you, and I cheat successfully in all three.”

  Both John and Ruse chuckled at that.

  “I have no doubt, Sketch.” Ruse tapped his cap with a finger and nodded at them both. “I’ll send word when I have it.” He turned and tottered away, his shuffling gait negating anything youthful one might have seen in his face.

  Hal shook her head as she watched him go. “What a bewildering person.”

  “I do believe you’ve just described every operative known to man,” John told her, coming to her side and offering a hand. “If you’ve had enough of reading in the sun, my dear, perhaps we might stroll homeward?”

  “Oh, why not?” Hal snapped her book shut and slid it into the basket they’d brought as a show for Ruse, then placed her hand in John’s, letting him pull her up.

  John smiled at her, rubbing his hands along her arms. “Well, we’ve just handed over the culmination of several weeks’ work to be delivered to our superiors. How do you feel?”

  Hal exhaled slowly, letting the feelings of this entire venture wash over her. “Relieved. Tired. Worried.”

  “Worried?” he repeated. “About what?”

  “Nothing so serious,” she assured him, looping her hand through his arm and letting him walk them out of the park. “Little things. What if they already know of the men we identified? What if my drawings aren’t accurate enough?”

  “Ange, really…” John scoffed. “They could have stood for those portraits for hours and no one would know the difference.”

  Hal inclined her head, accepting the compliment without actually acknowledging it. “Even so, there is a chance.” She made a face, her fingers absently rubbing against his arm. “What if what we sent wasn’t enough? What if we’ve missed something? What if…?”

  “What if we’ve just delivered exactly what they were looking for?” he overrode with his unwavering calmness. “What if we’ve exceeded expectations? What if we become the new partnership to beat in the covert world?”

  A startled laugh burst from Hal’s lips, and she covered her eyes to hide her mirth. “Oh, please…”

  “I don’t see why it’s so far-fetched.” John covered her hand with his as they turned the corner. “There are a million things that could be decided now, and there is no point in overthinking it. I meant what I said back there to Ruse. We will continue to do what we can. For all we know, we could be here another four months working on the same thing, digging deeper and finding more to aid the rest.”

  That was a sobering thought. Not a dismal one, by any stretch, but sobering all the same. She’d always thought this would be a short-term assignment, but if they proved especially useful, why wouldn’t they be retained?

  “We’d have to take a house, if that was the case,” she murmured, smiling to herself. “I adore my relations, but one does wish for privacy.”

  “Hell yes,” John grunted with a squeeze of her hand that made her giggle. Then he turned serious once more. “Or they could send us back to England tomorrow. We just don’t know, and I don’t think it serves either of us to worry about that.”

  Hal made a noncommittal sound of consideration. “I suppose not.”

  Back to England.

  There wasn’t quite the same sense of relief and warmth in that statement as there might have been at the beginning of all this. Oh, she would love to return to a quieter life, to be sure, but returning meant a return to the way things had been. She and John need not be married. Would no longer be partners. Would have no reason to be.

  The plan for the annulment could commence.

  Perhaps it wouldn’t work, as had been suggested was possible. Perhaps it would not be as simple a matter as Tailor and Weaver had described. Perhaps something could go horribly wrong and the marriage license Priest had secured disappeared, thus preventing its destruction.

  Once they returned to England, it was entirely possible she would no longer be Mrs. Pratt.

  Suddenly, the mission and its fallout were not her most pressing concerns at all, had no place in her Hall of Worries, did not matter so much as a jot.

  Her marri
age to John and its longevity were now her most imperative concerns.

  But what did he want? What could he be thinking there? Did he love her with the same fervor which she did him? If his kisses were anything to go by, he was not displeased with her. If the change in his manner towards her, the sweetness of his expression, the tenderness in his touch conveyed anything of what lay beneath the surface, she might have reason to hope.

  Hope.

  Such a thing had never really been part of her nature or her life, but suddenly hope was all she knew.

  All she had.

  And hope lived in every finger that clung to John’s arm as they walked slowly home.

  Had the meeting with Ruse gone on any longer, John might have gone completely mad. There was too much at stake for him to have any interest in hypothesizing the plans of the Shopkeepers or the intentions of the Faction in their letters. All those details could be left to those who would have the authority and interest to act upon them, not to those individuals designated to bring the information to light.

  All he wanted was to return home, return to their parlor, and wait for his curious wife to stumble upon the one thing that had occupied his mind from the moment he’d finished decrypting the letters. The moment he’d realized what his success, and hers, would mean.

  The end of their mission could be at hand, and while he wouldn’t mind leaving the danger behind, there was one thing that he would absolutely refuse to abandon.

  His wife.

  His Ange.

  His chest had been seized with an almost panic when it had occurred to him that this all could come to an end rather quickly. Neither of them had wanted this marriage on the onset, only entered into it out of necessity for the mission and at the behest of their leaders.

  It was so much more than that now. So much had changed, and the idea that it could all go back to the way it was did not sit well with him. Was unimaginable.

  Was unacceptable.

  Could not be.

  Would not, if he had anything to say about it.