He had friends aplenty in London, but since his return from the Peninsula, very few were men he felt at ease with anymore. Dervish and Durnham were the only two he could sit with quietly, with no need for conversation, and feel comfortable.
Neither had served in the army, but now that he was in their private circle, he realized they fought the war just as fiercely from the home front.
He set the wine on his desk and stood. He would see if Dervish was at their club.
From deep within the house he heard the faint echo of a slamming door over the sound of the rain on the window and wondered who else had decided to brave the weather.
Edgars had been distracted this evening. Even Rob and Harry had been confused by his lack of usual focus and intensity, shooting Edgars strange looks while they served dinner.
Edgars had even gone up to do his valet duties with a dazed expression, but now, as Jonathan walked into the hall to get his coat from the stand, he stepped out of Jonathan’s rooms and looked down from the top of the stairs.
“I’m going to my club for a short while, Edgars. Don’t worry about waiting up.”
Ordinarily Edgars would have run down and fussed, but this evening he simply nodded and turned back to his work.
As Jonathan fought his way into his fitted coat, he wondered what was happening to his household.
Madame Levéel had turned them all topsy-turvy.
Another battering of rain against the door made him reach for his greatcoat as well, and a hat. He stepped outside and immediately turned his collar up against the rain, catching the door just before it slammed and easing it shut.
A movement immediately ahead caught his eye, and, compelled by a sudden sense of urgency, he ran down the steps and squinted through the downpour.
A small figure, swathed in a fur-trimmed cloak, bent against the wind and rain.
He started after her, a strange tension gripping his shoulders. There was no question in his mind who it was. And he had no reason to follow her—he was her employer, not her keeper.
But he couldn’t forget her strange behavior, the risks Durnham had warned him about, and her intensity this morning with Dervish.
This was the second time she had taken a walk in the dark by herself in two days, even though she was frightened by something and, even in broad daylight, was as nervous as a mouse.
And suddenly he knew he was lying to himself.
He was not following her for any reason other than that he was far too interested in her. And something about the way she had looked at him this afternoon—with such relief—when she’d heard someone walking behind her and seen it was him, disturbed him deeply.
No woman should be that afraid.
She turned right on South Audley. His long strides had brought him close enough for her to see him if she turned around, but the wind and rain masked the sounds of his footsteps.
She kept hunched against the weather, and slowed as she turned up Farm, and then stopped at the junction with John Street.
Jonathan stepped behind a large oak growing close against the wall of a house, as deep in the shadows as he could get.
His cook peered down John Street, then back the way she’d come, her eyes passing over his tree and beyond, to where Farm met South Audley.
Hesitantly, fear in every step, she turned onto John Street. Jonathan stepped out from the tree and crossed the street, crouching behind another tree that grew on the corner.
John was narrow and short, letting out onto Audley Square at the end. And it was also, he suddenly realized with a cold, sinking dread, the street on which Dervish lived.
He’d never visited Dervish at his home, but they had exchanged notes more than once. Number eighteen John Street, if his memory served him.
From behind the tree, he watched Madame Levéel stare up at a house halfway down the street, and then dart up the stairs and fumble with something inside her cloak, slipping it under the door. She pounded once on the knocker before she ran down the stairs and back the way she’d come, toward him. Her face showed lips tight with nerves, and when she looked over her shoulder to make sure she hadn’t been seen, he saw fear in every line of her body.
He froze in astonishment.
His jealousy had come roaring back when he’d realized the address, but he had expected her to be an eager visitor, not a woman who had to work up the courage to leave a note and then run like Dervish meant her harm.
She ran past his hiding place in the shadows, and he was left with the conundrum of whether to follow her, or knock on Dervish’s door himself and see if he could work out what this was all about.
Madame Levéel was already halfway down Farm, and he had decided to visit Dervish with an innocent report on his visit to Barrington’s lawyer, and see if he could glean any information when a man walked past his hiding place and stood a moment on the corner, within touching distance, looking after Madame Levéel.
He must have come from the other side of Dervish’s house, and wouldn’t have seen Jonathan take up his position. Jonathan watched as he moved, fluid and fast, down the street after her.
He rose from his crouch and the wind took his hat, but he didn’t even look to see where it had blown. With the rain plastering his hair to his head, he moved swiftly after Madame Levéel’s follower.
It seemed his strange little cook was right to be afraid, after all.
14
She knew she was being followed. She’d seen a movement, furtive and quick, out the corner of her eye, and she didn’t try to pretend to herself that it meant nothing.
She slowed, even though her legs quivered with the need to run, trying to think as the rain blinded her and the wind pulled and twisted her cloak around her.
She should have known the shadow man would have Dervish watched, if Dervish was D. Since the time of his terrible conversation with her father at Tessin Palace, she’d understood that the shadow man was a diplomat with the Foreign Office. He would know where Dervish lived. Know his role.
She had only realized Dervish might be D. this morning, but if she’d been thinking properly she would have taken precautions, thought through the implications.
Such as the danger of approaching Dervish directly.
She forced herself to shrug off her self-recrimination and focus.
She could not lead her follower to Aldridge House. It would be unfair to everyone there, and it was her only safe haven. She had to assume her watcher had picked up her trail at Dervish’s house and didn’t know where she lived.
She slowed even more as a cab rumbled down the street, throwing up water.
Just as it passed her she ran, darting around it and across the street, diving into a narrow alley between two houses.
Her follower gave himself away with a shout, and she heard the pound of his boots on the cobbles behind her, despite the rain and the whistle of the wind.
She clutched her cloak closer about her as she put on speed, turning right to race along the back of the houses lining South Audley. She turned right again, thinking to emerge from the alley onto South Audley as close to Farm as she could. To run back to Dervish and throw herself on his mercy.
But instead of coming upon the main street, she stumbled into a small square surrounded by high walls, with two doors at the far end. The rear accesses of two large town houses on South Audley.
It was a dead end.
The warm lights shining from the top floors of the houses before her illuminated a cart parked close up against the wall between the two doors, and a stack of barrels close to her on the right.
She was trapped. Suddenly the danger she was in hit her full force, and her knees almost buckled.
The sound of pounding feet snapped her out of her panic and she ran for the barrels, crouching down and squeezing between them and the wall, her heart beating as fast as the little mouse she was.
She’d thought it unlikely the shadow man was personally watching Dervish, especially in this weather. He would have hired a
lackey, just as he had in Stockholm, to draw her father out.
And surely the lackey should just want to know where she went, where she was staying, so that the shadow man could close in for the kill himself?
He should—but if so, why was he running her down?
He burst into the little square, stumbling to a stop in surprise. He was breathing hard, his hat pulled down low over his eyes and his hands clenching and unclenching.
He did a thorough sweep of the small space, his gaze lingering first on the cart and then on her hiding place, and her heartbeat picked up even more.
She couldn’t bear to be cornered here and dragged out.
The thought of it snapped something inside her, and fear gave way to anger in the next breath.
She felt around on the ground for some protection, and her hand found a smooth rock the size of her palm. It felt good, heavy and comforting.
She rose up and took a step toward him, and he flinched.
Confrontation was the last thing he’d expected.
“Who are you?” She spoke sharply, letting all of her anger into her words, and the wind caused her cloak to flap around her like the wings of an angry bird.
He took a step back, then rocked on his feet, unsure, and Gigi decided the shadow man had employed someone not too good at thinking for himself.
Someone who would do as he was told and not question his orders too much.
Perhaps, like any predator, this man had acted on instinct when she ran, chasing her down and only now remembering his job was to follow and observe, not bring himself to her attention.
He looked torn, and the rain glinted off his cheeks as he tipped his head to the right. He wanted to grab her, to win. He looked over his shoulder, nervous and edgy, and she could almost see the wheels turning in his head as he realized this was the last thing his employer wanted.
Too late to be at all convincing, he put his hands up in front of him. “I didn’t mean you no harm, an’ all. Just thought you needed help. Can I walk you home? Make sure you’re safe, like?”
She almost laughed at the open slyness in his expression. “You may not.” She stood even taller, weighing the stone in her hand. “Please leave me alone.”
“Dark night, bad weather. You’ll be wise to let me see you safe.”
She said nothing, staring at him with open hostility, and he gave an exaggerated shrug and began backing out of the little square. She had no doubt he intended to hide somewhere close by and follow her home when she tried to leave.
It was a frustrating stalemate.
She would have to find some way to lead him away from Aldridge House and then slip home, and she didn’t know what he would do if this game ended the same way again. Even he would know he couldn’t bluff his way out of it a second time, and she had seen those clenched fists, that compulsion to best her. She doubted he’d hold back a second time.
He disappeared down the alley, and she could hear his footsteps ringing on the cobbles. There was no place for him to hide in the twisting narrow lane into this courtyard; he’d have to take up a position somewhere beyond it. Lurking like a troll beneath his bridge.
She’d assumed the doors set in the wall were locked, but she tried them anyway. Both doorknobs rattled as she pulled on them, but didn’t budge.
She looked at the cart against the wall, but even if she got into it, it wouldn’t boost her high enough to climb the wall. And this wall was new brick, not the rough-hewn stone at the back garden of Goldfern House, with its many handholds.
Then her eyes fell on the barrels.
They were empty. She had noticed that when she had hidden behind them, and shifted them a little. It was possible she could lift one.
She eased one off the pile and rolled it to the cart, heaved it inside. Then she scrambled in after it and set it against the wall.
It wobbled as she climbed onto it, the thin wooden lid giving a little beneath her weight.
But it held. And she was high enough. Thank God, she was high enough.
She heaved herself up onto the wall, kicking the barrel hard enough to tip it out of the cart so that when he returned to see what had happened to her, her follower might miss how she had escaped.
Up on the wall she was easy to see, backlit by the lights from the town houses, and her vulnerability spurred her on. The drop on the other side was long, but there was plenty of ivy. She grasped wet, slippery handfuls of the vines and swung down, her feet scrabbling for purchase.
She pulled down half the vines as she fell, slower than she would have without them, but still too fast. She was grateful there was only well-tended lawn below as she landed hard, overbalanced, and fell on her back.
At least she hadn’t screamed.
She stood slowly—tired, bruised and afraid. She had to get home before her pursuer came looking for her and realized how she had gotten away.
The thought put some speed into her steps as she limped across the fine garden and skirted the side of the house, walking with care so her boots made no sound on the paving.
She emerged onto a well-kept front lawn, with a low brick wall separating the garden from the pavement. Bent low, Gigi ran to the wall and looked up and down the street.
There was no one that she could see. The rain was still falling, although lighter now, sweeping over her in glittering waves.
She took a last, deep breath, rose up and ran the short distance to Chapel Street, turned onto it and raced to Aldridge House.
As she took the sharp turn into the alley to the kitchen door it felt like she had reached safety, trip-trapping over the bridge to the green, green hills on the other side.
No troll was getting her tonight.
15
Jonathan was edging down the alley, the knife from his boot in his hand, when he heard Madame Levéel ask her follower who he was.
He paused, interested in the answer. But the man did not answer, merely made a ridiculous offer to escort her home “safe.”
When she refused, Jonathan pushed away from the wall and was about to intervene, when the man backed away, still facing the little courtyard but moving down the alley.
Jonathan moved back as well.
There was so much going on here that he didn’t understand. And he would rather watch and observe, learn as much as possible before he waded in with demands for answers. You were lied to less if you knew almost as much as the person you were questioning.
So he slipped out into the larger alley that ran parallel to South Audley, and crouched low beneath an old door propped against the wall.
The man emerged and looked left and right. His gaze fixed on the door where Jonathan hid, but then he moved across the narrow road and hid in the dark entrance to another alley.
He was going to wait for Madame Levéel to leave, and keep following her.
Jonathan wondered how long it would take her to get up the courage to leave the tiny courtyard in which she’d trapped herself.
The rain eased off a little, less a stinging slap and more a gentle caress, but his trousers and boots were soaked, and he was starting to shiver. His legs began to cramp, and he was considering rising up and going in to get her, to hell with revealing himself to the mysterious watcher, when, with a curse, the watcher broke cover himself.
He stalked back to the alleyway and disappeared into the darkness. Jonathan crept after him, stopping just short of the light filtering down from the houses behind the wall.
The man was looking behind some barrels, kicking them aside in frustration, and then crouched down to look beneath the cart against the wall. He tried the doors, rattling the knobs in frustration.
“She’s bloody gone.” There was a vicious note to his exclamation, and when he did a slow, full turn, as if hoping to find some small hiding place he might have missed, Jonathan saw murder in his eyes.
He backed away, quiet and fast, and just made his former hiding place before the man burst out of the alley and disappeared to the right, in the directio
n of Dervish’s house.
Jonathan rose and ran left, turned into the narrow lane that led back to South Audley, then right onto Chapel and down the service lane to his kitchen door.
He stood a moment, hand on the knob, gripped with the need to know that she was safe, and then forced himself to drop it. He walked around to his front door.
He wasn’t prepared to let Madame Levéel know he had followed her, that he knew what had happened to her this evening.
For the first time, Durnham’s warnings seemed to hold some weight. And if his cook was a spy for France, he would do well not to let her know he was watching her.
But he did want to know if she was home and safe.
He took the stairs to the front door two at a time and pushed the door open, dripping onto the black-and-white tile of the entrance hall.
“My lord?” Edgars appeared from the dining room, a cloth in hand, far more like the usual Edgars than he’d been earlier. He helped Jonathan off with his greatcoat and coat.
“I got soaked by a cab, I’m afraid. Lost my hat, too. I’ll need to change before I can go on to my other appointment tonight. And could you ask Cook to make me some coffee?”
Coffee was the last thing he felt like. Brandy sounded far better, after the evening he’d had, but Edgars wouldn’t need to go speak to Madame Levéel about brandy.
The butler gave a small bow and disappeared down the service stairs, while Jonathan dawdled on his way up to his room, giving Edgars time to return before he reached the top of the stairs.
“Cook will have your coffee ready in a moment.” Edgars appeared in the hall again and looked at the water trail with a frown. “I hope you don’t catch a chill, my lord.”
“I’m sure not, Edgars.” Jonathan ran the rest of the way up the stairs on a wave of relief. The mysterious Madame Levéel had made it home, then, and was calmly going about her duties.
Knowing what she’d been through, he could scarcely believe it. And he sorely wanted to know how she’d escaped. But he’d tackle her later. Unless she had a death wish, she wouldn’t be going anywhere again tonight.
Banquet of Lies Page 9
