Queen

by Heather Gray

  The woman waved her hand in dismissal. "You may leave us, Mr. Loring. Your friend and I are going to indulge in an evening of girlish, idle chatter. I'm sure you'd faint from the boredom. A room has been prepared for you, and a bath ordered. Go relax. You'll be making an early morning of it, no doubt."

  Owen gripped Isabel's elbow and pulled her out of the room. "Are you sure you want to be alone with that woman?"

  Isabel nodded, excitement bubbling up inside of her.

  "You'll tell me what this is all about tomorrow, yes?"

  A quick step up onto her tiptoes let Isabel press a kiss against Owen's cheek. Then, without a word, she slipped back into the blue salon and closed the door in Owen's face.

  She swung back around then to find the woman smiling at her, eyes alight with laughter despite their age. "You've got to keep that one guessing. He spends too much time buried in books and filled up with knowledge. It will be good for him to have a woman he can't predict."

  Isabel took a hesitant step forward.

  "Sit, child. Eat your fill. You and I have a lot to talk about."

  Chapter Nineteen

  Isabel, plate full, nibbled at the food before her as she listened to the old woman talk.

  "You need to call me Mrs. Burnham. That's who I am these days. That's who I've been for nigh on thirty years now."

  "Why did you retire?"

  "I went to work for the War Department once I discovered my husband worked for them. What he did fascinated me, and I had a knack for it. He was delighted we could share that part of his life with no need to keep secrets from each other." Mrs. Burnham contemplated the room's reflection in the window, the soft sounds of reminiscence in her words. "He used to call me his little pigeon. That's where the name came from."

  Isabel wasn't sure she was ready for the answer, but she asked the question anyway. "What happened to your husband?"

  "Killed on assignment. I stayed with the War Department because I couldn't face life without him, and because I wanted his killers brought to justice. This is a dangerous job we do. For men, it's physically dangerous. They keep their work and personal lives separate. For women, though, everything's all wrapped up together. This job consumes us. It takes a physical toll, an emotional one, and even a spiritual one if we're not careful."

  "I'm sorry for your loss." Isabel's heart ached for the woman whose love had been taken from her.

  Mrs. Burnham offered a sad smile. "One never quite recovers from such a loss, but life does go on. My husband's best friend also worked with us. His sister was married to an agent but didn't realize it. Fitz was a good man. Had the timing in our lives been different…"

  Silence settled for a moment before Mrs. Burnham brushed it away. "When his sister found herself with child, he asked me to hire on as nursemaid to keep an eye on them and help protect the family. The day Miss Juliana Clairmont was born was also the day Mrs. Burnham came to be. I ended up falling so in love with that little girl and her family, I never once considered going back."

  "This Fitz — he meant a great deal to you?"

  "Aye, he did. He's gone now, also a victim of the job we do."

  Isabel winced. "I'm so sorry. You're right. This life we've chosen takes more from us than it should."

  "Ah, dear, but you didn't choose this life, did you?"

  Isabel gave a small shake of the head, not quite sure how to answer. True, she hadn't chosen the life, but she no longer knew any other. She enjoyed the work, too, thrived on it even.

  "I was against it from the start. Everyone was. Granted, I was no longer active, but I still attended some of the important meetings. I happened to be in London with the Clairmonts, and Tobias sent me a message demanding my presence."

  Isabel quirked a brow, and Mrs. Burnham chuckled. "He felt so strongly, you see. Tobias may not seem too commanding, but he has his ways. He wanted you kept out of service. You were too young, and Tobias didn't trust the minister. So he called a meeting and required the presence of several agents and advisors. Including the minister, ten of us were there that night."

  "But the minister got his way."

  Mrs. Burnham nodded to the food on Isabel's plate. "Eat, child. You need your strength, and I always take the long way around to telling a story."

  The moment Isabel picked up her fork and speared a strawberry, Mrs. Burnham continued.

  "The meeting got heated. Pistols were even drawn at one point. And that's after everybody supposedly gave up their weapons." Mrs. Burnham shifted in her seat and lifted her skirt ever so slightly. Isabel grinned as she caught a glimpse of the small muff pistol strapped to the woman's calf.

  "I wear shorter serviceable gowns for my current job." Isabel tapped a hand against her thigh. "I'd have to be indecent to show you mine."

  Mrs. Burnham winked at her before picking up the tale. "The vote was nine to one at that meeting, but the minister's word was law. Nobody dared cross him. That's the first time I knew he couldn't be trusted. Everyone felt it. Seeds of discontent were sewn that night, and agents soon began leaving. Tobias did everything he could, and he's done an admirable job all these years despite having to work with the minister. Doubts about the minister's integrity never entirely went away. Some things can't be undone, and sending an innocent and untrained child to do a job most seasoned agents would be wary of — it was too much for most people to stomach."

  Isabel set her fork down again. "I had no idea people had such strong feelings."

  The older woman nodded. "And rightly so. No matter what doubts one may have about a mission, it's not to be shared with the agent who's in the thick of it. You needed to believe everyone had complete confidence in you. Otherwise you never would have believed in yourself."

  "Jackal told me stories about you, about Pigeon. He said he'd never met you, but he knew the legends. I used to dream about the day I'd be as brave as you."

  Mrs. Burnham's warm laughter filled the room. "Ah, child. I was young and impudent, not brave. Then, after my husband was killed, I got angry and brash — but still not brave. People have a way of retelling history to paint heroes and villains while much of the time it's nothing more than ordinary people making foolish choices."

  Quite full, Isabel pushed her chair back and rose from the table. She moved to the blue tufted divan and sank into it. Her feet tucked beneath, she leaned forward to hear more.

  "There is much I could tell you, dear Queen, but we will meet again, and I will share more stories with you then. For now, before young Mr. Loring becomes too impatient, I must tell you a few things."

  Isabel bit back a chuckle. Young Mr. Loring, indeed!

  "Neither Jackal nor his family know who I am, and I need you to keep my secret."

  "But you were at a meeting together. About me. And your butler knows, I'm certain."

  Mrs. Burnham nodded. "This was once Fitz's home. The man you know as Jackal recently inherited it. As for the other, well, it's easy enough for a woman to change her appearance. I was in disguise and hidden by a heavy cloak. He's not recognized me yet, and I doubt he ever will. The only one you'll meet who knows my true identity is Tobias. Others might suspect, but it's easier for them to think I'm a crazy, eccentric old woman, and that suits my purpose just fine."

  "I don't know if I trust Tobias. He sent me away to America."

  Mrs. Burnham struggled out of her chair and walked over to Isabel, sitting next to her on the divan. She reached out a bony hand and rested it on Isabel's. "You can trust him. I give you my word. He's going against all of Parliament to help get to the bottom of what happened to your parents."

  The older women gave her hand a squeeze before adding, "Nobody is aware Mr. Loring is returning to London to go through the minister's papers. Tobias has kept it a secret because he doesn't know who to trust. And you need to know, Tobias saved your life by sending you to America. An execution order was about to be issued. He put his life at risk to save yours, but he'll never tell you so himself."

  Isabel's world tilted o
n its axis. "An execution order?"

  The older woman nodded. "From the minister. You need to know Tobias has been protecting you since the day you came into the agency, but if anybody ever realized, you'd have become an even bigger target. Trust Jackal, too. He's not much good in a street fight these days, but he's a solid strategist, and if my eavesdropping ears have served me well, he thinks of you as a younger sister. You may not always appreciate what these men decide, but you can trust they make their decisions with your best interests in mind."

  "And what of Owen? Can I trust him?"

  Mrs. Burnham's mouth lifted in a gentle smile. "He's keeping secrets from you, but he's doing so because he's afraid you'll hate him if you know what he thinks he knows."

  "What does he know?"

  "Very little, but he thinks he knows something. I need you to make me a promise."

  Isabel nodded.

  "If the two of you don't find the answers you seek in London, make Owen visit his father. The two of you together, go see the senior Mr. Loring. Owen won't want to, but you'll need to."

  Isabel nodded. "I'll make sure."

  Mrs. Burnham tapped her cane on the floor, causing the room to echo with the rumble of thunder. "Now we have one remaining piece of business to which we must attend." She rose slowly from the divan and started walking toward the door. "Follow me, child. We must outfit you for London."

  Chapter Twenty

  Owen's mouth dropped as Isabel walked down the stairs the next morning.

  Magnificent.

  Her blond hair — lighter than he remembered from childhood — was pulled into an elegant chignon with a smart black hat atop. She wore a riding habit the same azure shade as wild lupin, with delicate trim black as midnight. The dress made the blue in her eyes the most prominent color in the room. Owen was mesmerized before he had a chance to take a single breath.

  "Well, then, Owen, are you ready to leave?"

  Owen, having misplaced his ability to speak with any coherence, nodded.

  "Mrs. Burnham insisted I take some dresses her girls no longer wear. She also demanded — quite forcefully, might I add — I take a fine horse from the stable here at Chakal Manor so I'll need not trade off throughout the day."

  Owen snapped his mouth closed as he worked to process Isabel's words. "Of course, of course. We wouldn't want to disappoint Mrs. Burnham, would we?" He glanced around the foyer. "Speaking of, will she be seeing us off this morning?"

  Isabel shook her head. "She was quite fatigued when she retired for the night. I'm sure she'll sleep the day away."

  He lifted an eyebrow at her. "Exactly when did Mrs. Burnham find her bed?"

  Isabel offered a delicate shrug. "I'm sure I wouldn't know." Then she plucked at an imaginary piece of lint on the sleeve of her jacket. "A couple hours ago, perhaps."

  Owen, who had been so blinded by the beauty of her presence, finally took notice of the fatigue in Isabel's eyes. "The two of you were up all night?"

  She gave him a broad smile. "Not every day do I get to meet one of the few people in all of England who can make Owen Loring quake in his boots."

  Holding out his arm to her, Owen clucked his tongue. "I'm not sure quake is quite the word."

  "Oh? You've a better word to offer? Perhaps quail? Tremble? Ooh, what about quiver? That one has a nice sound to it."

  Owen shook his head, allowing Isabel to have her fun. He wasn't a fool. He'd understood Mrs. Burnham's message about the pigeon. What to do with that information — that remained a mystery to him, though. Owen had yet to figure out who he could trust. Even Isabel — as much as he wanted to, he wasn't wholly convinced yet that she didn't have her own agenda.

  They arrived at the stable to find one of the footmen waiting for them with their satchels and another traveling bag — filled with fine dresses designed to keep him distracted from his job while in London, no doubt. A stable hand led Despiadado out into the early morning light and secured two of the bags to his saddle. Another horse followed, a strong mare with a sturdy build and shining coat. Despiadado nipped at her, and the mare gave a welcoming whinny in response.

  Was the entire world conspiring against him? It would be near to impossible to keep his distance if their horses became infatuated with each other. Owen wanted to pull Isabel close and rain kisses along her collarbone and neck. He'd never met another woman like her. She was spectacular. And his father may well have been responsible for the murder — for that's what their execution amounted to — of her parents.

  Distance. Yes, he needed to keep his distance.

  Isabel hopped onto a mounting block and gained her seat without waiting for Owen. She gripped the reins in her hands and straightened her shoulders. "Her name is Buttercup. What do you think? I say the name is far too soft for such a strong creature, but we shall see."

  Owen gave her an absent nod and climbed into Despiadado's saddle. With the sinking feeling of a man who knows he's doomed himself to years of torture, he sighed. "We shall be on our way, then."

  ****

  As the sun climbed high in the sky, they stopped to let the horses rest and to enjoy a light meal. Owen grumbled his irritation as he secured the horses and pulled bread and cheese from a basket Chakal Manor's cook had sent along with them.

  "Are you all right, Owen? You seem upset about something."

  "How are we supposed to make good time to London with all this baggage slowing our horses down? It's ridiculous."

  Isabel's eyes snapped. "This basket can be left behind after we eat, and if Despiadado's not able to manage my extra bag, then give it to me. I'm sure the weight won't slow Buttercup down in the least."

  Owen glared at the grass as if it had offended him by being soft enough to sit on. "Now you're being absurd."

  "I'm being absurd? Pardon me?"

  He glanced up and saw fire in her eyes. "You seem different today." Breathtaking. Beautiful. Fiesty. Powerful. With the most perfect lips… Owen shook his head to clear the thoughts.

  Isabel frowned at him. "Sometimes I get too used to playing the part."

  "What do you mean?"

  Her brow creased. "Whenever I'm a scullery maid, I say yes'm and keep my eyes lowered. If I'm dressed as a lightskirt, I'm brazen. I flaunt myself and get closer to men than would ever be considered decent. And here I am dressed in the role of quality, and I find I am more prepared to fill the role than I'd realized."

  Owen took a bite of the bread as he studied Isabel. "So which one is the real you?"

  She lifted one shoulder in a feminine shrug. "I suppose they all are, in one way or another."

  "How so?"

  "I know you do a lot of book work for the agency, Owen, but have you never been in disguise before? Never pretended to be someone you're not?"

  He shook his head apologetically, thinking not for the first time that he didn't do enough to keep his country and the people he loved safe. "In banks, or accounting positions at businesses, I don't need to pretend in order to be those people."

  "You're going about it the correct way, then."

  Owen lifted an eyebrow in question.

  "No matter the role I am asked to play, I draw on that part of myself . As a servant, I remember all the times I've been made to feel I am less than another, not worthy to aspire to more. Or if I play a trollop — which I'm rarely ever allowed to do any more — I think about the times men have taken liberties. Then I pretend to enjoy it. If I am to be a woman of quality while we are in London, I shall remember my time in the Queen's court, or the time I infiltrated Napoleon's court, or… Well, you understand. To be a woman worthy of such fine garments, I must remember what it was like to be worthy of fine trinkets with a governess and servants to wait on me."

  "I'll kill every single one of them if you wish."

  Isabel's eyes widened, and Owen realized he'd said the words aloud.

  "Pardon?"

  He felt the heat in his chest and tried to force the blush into submission, refusing it the right to rise high en
ough on his neck to be noticed. "The men who took liberties with you. Say the word, and I shall dispatch every last one of them."

  Isabel's eyes glittered as she took a bite of cheese. "So chivalrous, offering to murder men for long-ago deeds on my behalf. I think perhaps I shall decline, though, if that's quite all right with you."

  Owen winked at her. "So be it, but if I witness any new liberties, I shan't be responsible for my actions. I am honor-bound to defend you."

  Isabel wiped her hands on the proffered napkin and stood, shaking out her skirts as she did so. "I believe I'm quite prepared to protect myself against liberty-seekers, but be assured I appreciate the sentiment."

  With the aid of a nearby log, Isabel mounted Buttercup, and Owen watched, again mesmerized. He had a feeling that of all the roles she'd played, of all the people she'd been, this one allowed her the most freedom to be herself. She'd always had a sharp tongue, but as a child she'd never used it to cut people down. Rather, she'd liked to parry words with those around her. It was what had always made her seem older than her years.

  And if my father is responsible for ripping that life away from her and forcing her into a world where she had to play the part of… a trollop… I shan't ever forgive him.

  The heavy burden of grief weighed Owen's shoulders down as they once again began on the road leading toward London. He wanted to believe his father couldn't have set up his business partner and friend to take the blame for treason, but he'd been at his job too long not to realize good men sometimes did horrible things to protect their families and their wealth.

  Wisdom, God. I could use a lot more than I have. And self-control, too. Isabel is far too tempting for her own good. Couldn't you have made her a harridan or given her big oozing warts on her face? Something to make her less of a distraction?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  They had been in London for five days, and November would soon be coming to a close. Little progress had been made in finding answers. Working in such close confines with Isabel was proving a challenge. She'd was a constant distraction to his concentration.