by Y. S. Lee
Yrs sincerely,
Mary
His response, in a note delivered early that evening by the penny post beneath Mrs. Shaw’s raised eyebrows, was almost too perfect:
11:30 by the works entrance.
J
She was now loitering in the chilly courtyard, watching for Octavius Jones. Although she knew what to expect, she still broke into a broad grin at the sight of a tall, awkward figure in a maid’s uniform, clomping through the courtyard with a furtive expression on his face.
At the sight of her, his face grew even longer. “How do you walk around all day wearing so many skirts?” he whined. “The weight is impossible!”
“Good evening, Miss Jones,” she said in her sweetest tones. “You look perfectly ridiculous.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” snapped Jones. “And don’t call me Miss Jones.”
“How about ‘Tavvy’?”
He scowled more deeply. “Just Jones will do.”
Mary was enjoying herself even more than she’d imagined. “You certainly don’t look like a gentleman about to consummate his love.”
Jones turned on her. “Keep your voice down!” He looked genuinely scandalized.
“You’re on my territory, Tavvy; you’ll do as I say, if you don’t want to be caught.”
He scowled. “This is absurd. I’m going.”
Mary allowed him three steps’ retreat before asking, “What message shall I give Amy?”
Jones froze. Waited. Turned round so slowly she could almost hear his joints crack with reluctance. The hatred and shame in his expression ought to have given her pause but instead filled her with satisfaction. “Never mind,” he said, his voice hoarse with contained fury. “Lead the way.”
Mary conducted him through the servants’ entrance, past the snoring footman and to the service stairs. She was careful not to point out potential hiding spots or teach him which steps squeaked at the center, but she knew him to be a keen observer. It had not escaped her attention that she might be leading Her Majesty’s chief burglar into the heart of the palace. And yet the thief had been careful and choosy thus far — much too discreet to be caught. Without some sort of encouragement, her assignment might end without her having uncovered a thing.
As they reached the second-floor landing, she heard a quick, mincing step on the stairs above. She touched Jones’s elbow and gestured. He moved fast — no protests here. A moment later, they were standing very close together round a corner, watching Mrs. Shaw make her dignified way down to the kitchens. They waited for a full minute after she’d passed. Then, stepping away from Jones, Mary said, “Let’s go.”
“Wait.” His hand closed round her upper arm in a hard grip, reminding her that, costume aside, there was nothing feminine about Jones. “Why are you doing this?”
“As a favor to Amy.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“That’s fine,” she said, quelling her impatience. “You needn’t.”
He stared at her for a long moment, eyes narrowed.
It was an unpleasant shock to realize that Jones was, in his own way, attractive. Neither handsome nor pleasant, but with a sort of diabolical charm that went well beyond the surface — even when that surface included a bonnet.
“I could have had you sacked just then. When the housekeeper passed by.”
So he’d not missed the enormous bunch of keys tied to Mrs. Shaw’s waist. “But you didn’t.”
“Not in your interests.”
“Nor in yours.”
“What I still can’t work out is, what is your interest here?”
She smiled and set off up the stairs again, so he was forced to follow. “I’ve already told you.”
“You don’t expect me to believe you’re still researching that book!”
She turned. “You expect me to believe you’re courting Amy Tranter.”
He couldn’t quite meet her gaze. “Yes. Well. She enjoys the attention.” They ascended another flight of stairs in silence before he said, “You’re much too clever not to understand that I could be of very material assistance to you.”
“I do understand that, Jones. You were rather helpful during that excitement at the clock tower — right up to the point when you broke your word.”
“You’re rather touchy about that little slip.”
“Because it wasn’t merely a little slip.” She was relieved when they reached the attic landing. “Here we are. Third door on your left. Amy’s expecting you.”
He made no move to continue. Instead, he touched her again, cupping his palms behind her elbows in a startlingly intimate gesture. “Mary. We could do great things together.”
She forced herself to meet his gaze. Tried not to blush. “I very much doubt our ideas of greatness would coincide.” She plucked his hands from her person and made a show of dusting off her sleeves. “And now, I believe you’ve an appointment to keep.”
What James called the “works entrance” was simply a manhole in a little-used side street a quarter mile from the palace — hardly what one would expect for a royal building project. Yet it was exactly right for a job shrouded in such secrecy. Mary would have thought herself in the wrong place but for the sight of James’s carriage, embarrassingly familiar to her from partnerships past. It stood perhaps ten yards from the manhole cover.
As Mary approached, the man hunched atop it swung his face toward her. Her cheeks flamed. The last time she’d seen James’s coachman, Barker, she’d been at a distinct disadvantage: sprawled on the belfry floor of St. Stephen’s clock tower, dressed in boys’ rags, kissing James. Not that she regretted the last. But if she had any sense remaining, it’d not happen again.
“Evening,” she said, acknowledging Barker.
He nodded very slightly. His features remained perfectly still but seemed to frost over a degree with recognition.
The carriage door swung open, and James hopped out, folding down the steps as an afterthought. He looked at her for a moment, opened his mouth, then closed it again. Finally, he said, “You’re late.”
“I can’t just come and go as I choose,” she explained with demure patience. “I have to wait until everybody else is settled for the night before I can slip out. And good evening, by the way.”
“Oh — good evening.”
She placed one hand on the carriage steps. “I don’t want to waste your time. Shall we begin?”
He blinked. “The carriage?”
“It’ll be warmer and more comfortable than talking in the drizzle,” she said, hiding a smile. “What did you think I meant?”
His blush was visible even in the foggy night. “Er — let me help you up.”
Once inside, they sat facing each other on the benches, awkward as innocents on their honeymoon night. James was, at least.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me,” said Mary. “I wasn’t sure you would read my letter, after our last meeting.”
A small frown appeared between his eyebrows. “We’ve had tiffs in the past and always managed to sort things out.”
She smiled. “True. But I don’t want to talk about us, whatever that might mean; I want to talk about sewers.”
It was clear he’d not been expecting that, even after her note. But a moment later, he raised one eyebrow. “You want information.”
“And to share it.”
“You’re assuming I want to know,” he said in a bored tone.
“True.” She paused. “I thought it a safe assumption, since somebody’s been using a tunnel beneath the palace that connects with your sewers.”
He came alive at that, all pretense at relaxation gone. “How do you even know where I’m working?”
“Last night, I was in that strange little room off the sewers and I saw your ‘keep out’ sign.”
“The sign says ‘keep out’ for a reason, you know: that entire section’s structurally unsound. What the devil were you thinking, mucking about down there?”
“I followed so
meone. And I wasn’t there long.” Mary waited for him to scold her. Snap at her carelessness. Grab her shoulders. All the things that would signal that she and James were back once more in their strange, compulsive to-and-fro.
Instead, he frowned. Leaned back. Folded his arms across his chest. “You know, Mary, I’ve been thinking about something.” He considered her through narrowed eyes, studying her features as though they were new to him. “Everywhere you go, trouble follows. That business with the Thorolds in Chelsea. Those thefts at the building site of St. Stephen’s Tower. And now this.”
Mary unclenched her fists. Tried to breathe evenly. “What are you saying?” She was a complacent fool who should have seen this coming long ago: James was too intelligent to believe her journalist ruse for long.
“Mary.” His voice was careful, neutral. “I think there’s something you need to tell me.”
She cleared her throat. Tried to speak. Found her voice on the third try. “You’re right.” She struggled for a full minute to find the words to begin. “When . . . ?”
James’s gaze was merciless in its intensity. “I completely believed you last year, when we met on the building site. I think I even believed you on Sunday, when you first told me about your new project at the palace. But this new coincidence . . .”
Mary nodded. Her stomach churned. So this was all her own stupid, arrogant fault.
Another minute, and yet another, elapsed. James tilted his head, the faintest of smiles on his lips. “Don’t look so stricken, Mary. I doubt guilty conscience is permitted in private detectives.”
She thought she’d been embarrassed before. But now a new surge of blood heated her face; she could feel even her forehead going hot. “Truly,” she said, cringing at the inadequacy of language, “I never wanted to lie to you.”
“Never?”
“Not when we met again, after you came back from India.”
“But you didn’t think you could trust me yet.” His voice was careful, probing — he might have been a physician investigating the pain in her side.
“I did,” she said desperately. “I knew I could. But it wasn’t — I had — I simply wasn’t in a position to tell you everything. And I thought it better to say nothing rather than tell you a small portion of the improbable truth.” Such limping, inadequate honesty. Yet it was the closest she could come to disclosure without openly implicating the Agency.
James’s expression did not change. “When might you have told me? The next time our paths collided?”
She tried not to squirm. “It’s preposterous, isn’t it? Three coincidental meetings — it beggars belief.”
“I’d never believe it in a novel.”
“Nor I.”
“But here we are.”
“I don’t know when I’d have told you. I’d been hoping not to run into you again.” She saw the flash of hurt in his eyes, controlled though his features were. “Not like this, I mean,” she added. But the qualification was too feeble, too late.
“Is there anything else I’m permitted to know?” he asked in a crisp tone.
She gestured uselessly. “I watch people. Ask questions. Try to learn things others would prefer to keep hidden. Yes. It’s a filthy sort of living. Entirely apt, I suppose, for a convicted thief.” James opened his mouth to reply, but she’d not give him the chance to hurt her like that again. “And now I’m here offering to exchange information. I can’t imagine you’d want to, but you may find it necessary to dirty your hands once again. You’re already implicated.”
“Then I suppose you’d better tell me what you know. And what you want.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to control the pain. This was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it? For James to know the truth about her. Then she opened her eyes, met his gaze as best she could, and told him about last night’s adventure with Honoria Dalrymple — the secret door in the herbarium and Honoria’s empty-handed trip. “She may have been acting on instructions. She certainly expected to find the door.”
“So there’s an outside mastermind plotting . . . what, though?”
Mary decided against mentioning the thefts. This was still the Agency’s assignment, and she’d no business telling James anything beyond the essential. “That’s what we need to discover.”
“‘We’?”
Her stomach churned, and she felt herself blushing yet again. “I beg your pardon — force of habit. I’ve no intention of luring you into something that doesn’t interest you.”
“Assuming I could be lured.”
“Naturally.” She tried not to sound too defensive. She was, after all, the author of this disaster.
He was silent for a long moment. Then, abruptly, he asked, “What do you want from me?”
Again, she forced herself to look him in the eyes. “A map of the sewers. I can’t reasonably anticipate Mrs. Dalrymple’s next move without knowing what the possibilities are.”
“I haven’t a map I can part with.”
She’d not be dismissed quite that easily. “Could you spare yours for half an hour? I’ll make a copy.”
“Perhaps . . .”
Oh, at times like this she hated the man. Almost. Folding her arms, she propped her feet with a thump on the facing seat. “Do let me know once you’ve given sufficient thought to such a complex question.”
James blinked at her boots, then seemed to repress a smile. “Ladies’ boots for a change.”
“I could hardly wear boys’ boots with female attire.”
“Do you miss wearing breeches?”
“Sometimes. They’re awfully convenient.”
“It’s very strange seeing you in a maid’s uniform.”
“You’re stalling.”
“It’s a big decision.”
She let out a puff of disgust. “What utter balderdash! You’re the most appallingly decisive person I know.”
He sighed dramatically. “Still rubbish at compliments. You know, Mary, the way round a man is to praise his unequalled discernment, not insult his skills.”
She blinked. He was supposed to be cold and brusque, not relaxed and teasing. But if he was coming around . . . “So if I compliment you —”
“Lavishly.”
“Right. If I flatter you to the skies, I can have a copy of the map?”
“Why don’t you try and see?”
“Now you’re just trying to irk me.” She rose and dusted off her skirts. “I hope the information I gave you is useful, James. Good night.”
She got as far as opening the carriage door before his hand closed over hers, pulling it shut again. “Wait a moment,” he said, very quietly.
She froze, that treacherous blush heating her cheeks once more. Even through her gloves, she knew what his touch would feel like, skin to skin. “I’ve been waiting,” she said. Her words were meant to sound haughty but instead came out with a tremor.
“I’m in your debt now.”
“You’re not.” She couldn’t look at him.
“You proposed an exchange, but I’ve only taken.”
“I’ll make a present of that information,” she said. Again, she sounded breathless rather than careless. “Let me go, James.”
He uncovered her hand.
She didn’t move.
“I don’t have the map with me.”
“That’s fine,” she said, rather desperate now.
“But I’ll take you on a tour of the sewers.”
She looked at him then, stunned. But there was no mockery in his dark eyes, no censure. “W-when?”
“Right now, if you can spare the time.”
She couldn’t look away. Tried for levity, but couldn’t quite manage it. “You always did know how to charm a girl. . . .”
“I even have special oilskin waders. Nobody ever says no to those.”
Her mind spun uselessly, trying to find a reason she couldn’t spend more time in his company. She wanted a map, not a personal tour with all the freight it threatened.
&
nbsp; “I thought you needed information.”
“I do. A map would suffice.”
“I’ll give you more knowledge than any map. Come, Mary — cowardice doesn’t become you.”
“It’s not cowardice; it’s good sense.”
He shrugged. “Well, that’s my final offer: a sewer tour, tonight. Take it or leave it.”
She glared at him and gripped the door handle with renewed determination. “Why are you doing this? You can’t find my presence any more pleasant than I find yours.”
His gaze locked with hers. A lazy smile curled one corner of his mouth. “I don’t think pleasant was ever the word.” He touched the back of her hand, and she trembled, despite her best efforts. His smile turned wolfish. “I’ll get the oilskins.”
“I’ll wait outside.”
“Suit yourself.”
It must have been cold outside. It was always cold outside. But for once, she couldn’t feel it. As Mary paced up and down a small patch of cobbled road, she ran through the reasons she ought to go. Flee. And never look back.
“Here. They’re a bit large.”
She stared at the vast swathes of stiff oilcloth. “A bit?”
“Did you think they came in women’s sizes?”
“What about for boys?”
He shrugged. “I did my best, at short notice. Had you given me more warning . . .”
“You expected me to need a tour of the sewers?”
“Not specifically. But when I received your note today, I did wonder.”
Perfect. She was a totally predictable secret agent. The best thing she could do now was keep her mouth shut. She took the bundle, climbed back into the carriage, and closed the door behind her. Thick canvas trousers with braces to keep them up. A coat that would fall below her knees. Tall, waterproof boots. All much too large. Nevertheless, they were her only choice. She began with the trousers, knotting the braces until they would stay up. The coat was ridiculous, but with the sleeves rolled up three times, she at least had the use of her hands. And the boots seemed impossible until she pushed her already booted feet inside and found that they would stay on that way. While they were much too tall and loose, she folded them down and cinched them tight until she had a serviceable — if cumbersome — pair of thigh-high oiled boots.
