And he would very much like to meet up with Dervish, either at their club or at his home. He had no right to the possessiveness he felt for Madame Levéel, but he felt it nevertheless. He wanted to know what Dervish was to her.
Jonathan hoped Dervish would also be amenable to discussing any interesting letters he might recently have received. And if he wasn’t, Jonathan was prepared to be as subtle as a nine-pound cannon.
* * *
She had to go back out.
Gigi sent up Lord Aldridge’s coffee with a smile she didn’t feel, then stepped close to the fire, letting it burn away the chill in her bones.
She couldn’t risk going to Lord Dervish to warn him he was being watched. But when he came to drop off his note at Goldfern, the shadow man’s watcher would surely be following him and would either take the note Dervish left or wait to see who came to collect it.
The only solution was another note, left in the place she had told Dervish to leave his reply, warning him that he was being followed, and asking him to take both notes back home with him.
She would have liked to compare his handwriting, have definite confirmation that Dervish truly was D., but it seemed more and more likely he was. Why else would he be watched?
“You done for the night, Cook?” Edgars came to stand beside her, rubbing his hands near the fire. Something in the way he stood, hunched and stiff, spoke of anger and confusion. She wondered if it was to do with his feelings for Iris, or something she had unwittingly done.
“Yes. I’m done.” She stepped away from him, hoping her turning in would lead him to do the same, so she could slip out again without arousing even more suspicion.
“Good night.” She went to her rooms and heard Edgars turn the lock in the kitchen door and then close the door to his own rooms.
She’d need to let him settle down before she snuck out to the alley behind Goldfern, but there was a sense of urgency riding her—a fear that Dervish would respond immediately to her request, that he might already be on his way to leave the note for her.
She rubbed her arms and shivered at the thought of the man from earlier watching from a dark corner.
She would just have to go as soon as possible.
She pulled out her stationery for the second time that evening and wrote a quick, succinct note, letting Dervish know he was being followed and to take everything back with him. That she would find some other way to contact him.
It was the best she could do.
She could still hear Edgars moving about in his rooms, but she dared not wait a moment longer.
She pulled a scarf over her head, draping it across her face to keep out the cold and hide her features, and went out into the kitchen.
She’d hung her soaked cloak on a hook near the fire to dry. She pulled it on, making sure her note was safely in her inner coat pocket, and walked quietly up the stairs to the back door.
“Going out, Madame Levéel?”
She strangled a gasp and turned, pushing herself back against the door for support and pulling the scarf down so it no longer covered her face. “Just for a moment, Mr. Edgars. The rain sounds like it has stopped. I like to get some fresh air after breathing the smoke and the heat of the kitchen all day.”
It would have seemed an eminently reasonable notion, if Edgars didn’t know she’d been out once this evening already.
“Want me to escort you? After your scare last night?”
Gigi smiled, hoping it didn’t look like a death grimace. “That’s very kind of you, but merci, non. The thief from last night would hardly be back twice in a row. I am not going far, just a few steps.”
He gave a nod but kept watching her as she opened the door. She couldn’t take the key from under his very nose, so she’d have to hope he didn’t lock the door after her and make her knock to come back in.
The rain was falling so softly she could barely feel it, a fine drizzle as light as dandelion seeds.
She skirted the large puddles in the lane as she walked to the dark alley that ran behind Aldridge House. It seemed better tonight than it had yesterday. She knew where she was going, and there was more light from the houses on either side—more people were staying in tonight because of the weather.
It helped.
In some places she had to walk through puddles that stretched across the whole width of the alley, and she held her cloak close to make up for the water freezing her feet.
She saw the back door to Goldfern up ahead and slowed. There was no light from Goldfern, and the shadows were long here.
She allowed herself a few moments to listen for the sounds of someone nearby, but there was nothing.
She moved quietly and rapidly to the door, and wriggled the loose brick she’d found yesterday. There was no note tucked behind it.
She slipped her own note in.
The follower wouldn’t know where to look, or even why Dervish was coming here until it was too late. And unless he attacked Dervish and took the notes by force, he would never read them, either.
She’d have to hope this was enough.
She stood back and looked at the brick carefully. It was easy enough to spot, if you knew what to look for.
She turned and walked quickly away, ears straining for the sound of footsteps following her, for any movement at all.
She was so focused on listening to what was happening behind her, looking back every few steps to make sure she was still alone, that she didn’t pay any attention to what was in front of her.
She turned the corner back into the service alley for Aldridge House, and ran straight into Edgars.
16
“I’m afraid Lord Dervish isn’t in, my lord. He’s left the country.” Dervish’s jowled and dour butler stepped back to let Jonathan in. “However, he did leave a note for you. I was going to arrange for its delivery tomorrow, but if you’ll wait, I’ll fetch it now.”
Jonathan gaped at the man. “Left the country?”
The butler gave a nod and disappeared into a room, returning almost immediately with a note.
Jonathan took it and ripped it open, uncaring that the butler would be startled by his haste and lack of decorum.
Dervish’s scrawled hand read:
Got word earlier today from a Foreign Office colleague, Frobisher, recently returned from Stockholm, that there is evidence Giselle Barrington is in Lapland. She may have run to some of the Sami people she and her father know to hide. Thornton’s so weighed down with diplomatic issues he’s unable to leave his post, so I am traveling to investigate myself. Had to leave today to make a boat waiting at Dover, as the next boat leaves next week. Have left forwarding address at my house. Send any information you learn through there, not office. We still don’t know who’s involved in Barrington’s death. D.
Jonathan had known Dervish was cut up about Barrington’s death and worried for his daughter, but this instant response went beyond that. Dervish must have owed something to Barrington, if he felt so strongly that he needed to be responsible for his daughter’s safety.
And of course, the girl could still have the letter. The Foreign Office would be saved a great deal of embarrassment if Dervish could get it from her.
Dervish cared more about Miss Barrington than about the letter, he didn’t doubt that, but the letter might have been how Dervish justified the sudden trip to his superiors.
Jonathan raised his head and found Dervish’s butler staring at him. “When did he leave?”
“Late this afternoon, my lord.”
It was nearly ten in the evening, now. There was no way he would catch him. And the letter Madame Levéel had delivered was no doubt sitting on his desk, waiting to be forwarded.
“I came to discuss a note Lord Dervish would have received sometime this evening. Perhaps, as he’s gone, I can deal with it for him?” Jonathan folded Dervish’s note and stuffed it in his coat pocket.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible, my lord.” The butler didn’t sound apologetic at all. “
Some of Lord Dervish’s correspondence is quite sensitive, and I’m not able to hand it over to anyone.”
“It’s urgent. Damn it, if only he’d let me know sooner that he was leaving.” Jonathan looked over the butler’s shoulder to the room he’d just been in, and guessed it was Dervish’s study. He would have given a lot right then for five minutes alone in that room.
That thought must have shown on his face.
The butler shifted to block the door more fully, and for a moment Jonathan contemplated taking him on, pushing past him and getting into the room. But he didn’t know where the letters were kept, and he would ruin any chance of communication with Dervish while he was away—of that he was sure. The butler looked the kind to hold a grudge.
He sighed. “I’ll write a response and send it round tomorrow morning.” He turned for the front door, and the butler held it open and then closed it behind him with insulting alacrity.
Jonathan smiled. He couldn’t blame the fellow. He’d have wanted to boot himself out, too, in his position.
Standing on the top step, he looked out into the night and wondered if the watcher was still there. He’d come back this way after losing Madame Levéel, but had he known Dervish wasn’t here? It seemed strange to watch a house when its owner was on his way to Sweden.
Unless they were watching to see who tried to contact Dervish.
Jonathan walked slowly down the stairs and hunched against the fine mist that fell from the sky. It almost blinded him, the drops so tiny they clung to his eyelashes and blurred his vision.
He kept his ears tuned for any sound of following footsteps, and after he turned down Farm Street he hid behind the tree he’d used earlier.
The watcher had to be employed by someone who knew Dervish was important. What he’d seen and heard made him sure the watcher was merely a paid thug—so the thug’s employer was interested in . . . Dervish’s sources? His spies? His lovers?
Jonathan rolled his shoulders at the last thought. Madame Levéel wasn’t Dervish’s lover, of that he was sure. But what was she? Was she giving him information? Bribing him?
There was still no sign of the watcher, and Jonathan moved carefully out from behind the tree and continued on his way.
In the few days since his new cook had entered his household, he’d taken to skulking around his neighborhood, hiding behind trees, creeping through alleys with a knife in his hand and contemplating fisticuffs with a friend’s butler.
He could simply ask Madame Levéel what she was up to, but if she were a spy, she would run or lie, or both—and he’d rather get to the bottom of it.
He increased his pace, lengthening his stride.
He hadn’t felt this alive since he was in the army.
Taking the title after Gerald’s death had been killing him slowly with boredom, and he knew that was a large part of Madame Levéel’s charm for him. She exuded a suppressed excitement, an air of danger he simply couldn’t resist.
So he wouldn’t turn her over to Durnham, or his connections in the Alien Office. If she was guilty of some wrongdoing. . . . He didn’t want to think about where she would end up. Something in him rebelled at the idea of her being locked away, spy or not.
Which was precisely why he should take this to Durnham. He was so far from objective, he was the wolf guarding the sheep.
And he didn’t care.
As he swung back onto Chapel Street, he saw Goldfern down the road and hoped that at least Giselle Barrington was safe in Lapland.
* * *
The sound of the front door opening forced Edgars to rise from the kitchen table. Lord Aldridge was home.
“Good night, Monsieur Edgars.” Gigi’s accent had become slightly more French since they’d literally slammed into each other in the alleyway. Easier to pass off bizarre behavior if you were foreign.
“Good night, Madame Levéel.” He went reluctantly, as if taking his eyes off her for even one moment would result in some catastrophe.
Gigi waited for him to disappear up the stairs to the hall, grinding her back teeth together. Then she stood and poured her tea down the sink. She hadn’t wanted it, but making it had given her something to do while Edgars tried to question her. She rinsed her teacup and slammed it down a little too hard on the drainingboard. She was certain he thought he was being subtle. The man was as subtle as chillies in a soufflé.
He was probably trying to get her dismissed right now.
And she needed to stay here. It was her one safe place.
Well, she couldn’t stop Edgars talking, but she could at least find out what he was accusing her of.
She walked to her door, opened it, and took her shoes off, leaving them within her little sitting room. Then, still standing in the kitchen, she closed the door loudly.
She tiptoed up the stairs in her stockings, the stone floor icy.
“No need to stay up, Edgars. I’m going to write a note to Lord Dervish and leave it in the hall. If you could see it’s sent round first thing tomorrow?”
Gigi reached the top of the stairs and saw Lord Aldridge walking to his library. Edgars was hanging a dripping coat on the coatrack. He followed Aldridge, leaving the hallway empty, and she ran across, skirting the little pools of water on the floor, and slipped under the semicircular table pressed up against the wall near the library door.
A perfectly starched white linen tablecloth covered it to the floor, and she was just small enough to fit under it, her legs tucked up under her chin.
“I’m sorry, my lord, I need to speak . . .”
She heard Edgars trail off, almost miserably. She had put him in quite the spot. And she could hardly bear a grudge about it; she was behaving strangely.
She closed her eyes and laid a cheek on her knees, suddenly exhausted.
“What is it, Edgars?”
“It’s . . . well, it’s the new cook, my lord.” Edgars was quiet for a moment, and she wondered what he was doing. Fiddling with his waistcoat probably, or tugging at his hair. “I know I hired her on, and she had such excellent references, but I’ve found her doing strange things—”
“What things?”
Did she imagine it, or was Lord Aldridge’s voice a trifle too sharp? A trifle too interested?
The now-familiar beat of fear and panic surged through her, forcing her to lift her head and pay more attention.
Edgars was silent a little longer. “If there is something . . .” His pause this time was actually painful. “If there is an . . . understanding between you and Madame Levéel . . .”
Gigi frowned. What on earth was he talking about?
“What do you mean by that, Edgars?”
Gigi didn’t need to see Aldridge’s face to know Edgars had made a grave, grave error; it was all in his lordship’s voice. She’d have felt more sorry for Edgars, except his mistake might mean she’d get out of this without having to talk herself back into a job.
“Nothing, my lord.” Edgars swallowed audibly. “You were both out at the same time tonight, both came in so wet, it crossed my mind that you may have met up . . .” He coughed, so terribly embarrassed now, Gigi was glad she couldn’t see either of their faces. It was never pretty to see a grown man cringe.
“It was raining. If we were both out, it only follows we both got drenched.” Aldridge’s words were soft. “Now, what strange things, Edgars?”
“This . . . this morning, my lord. She left straight after Lord Dervish. Iris said she didn’t even stop to explain properly what she was off to get. She grabbed her coat and ran out.” He cleared his throat. “And then, this evening, she went out again”—he sounded truly aggrieved at her frequent trips—“and came back in wet as a drowned rat, and with grass stains all over her coat. Like she’d been rolling round on a lawn somewhere. . . .” His voice trailed off, and Gigi wondered why.
And then it came to her, in a sudden flash of understanding.
She bit her lip and her cheeks burned, hot and fierce, like she’d leaned straight into the oven.
Edgars thought she and Lord Aldridge had . . . that Lord Aldridge had taken her . . . in a garden?
She buried her face in her hands and shuddered.
She knew the ways of the world, from the glittering ballrooms of Europe to the small villages where she and her father were the only strangers the villagers had ever met.
But she had never been compromised, had never even been tempted to risk it.
Her father had kept her close, partly because of the double life he led, and her interests in her studies had given her a channel for her energies. She had been busy with her recipes, her book, her cooking and her adventures. She led a far more exciting life than most young women of her class and age.
It must be from the shock of the accusation that she now felt something tighten inside. Her heart was beating fast, and the burn of her cheeks wouldn’t abate. She squirmed, trying to get comfortable.
She wondered what Lord Aldridge felt. His face must be quite an interesting sight, because Edgars still hadn’t spoken.
Perhaps his lordship was choking him to death.
Perhaps she should leave her hiding place and lend him a hand.
“It was suspicious.” Edgars plowed bravely on, still clearly alive, although his voice was an octave higher.
It suddenly occurred to her that Edgars had no room to point a finger, after nearly landing face-first on the kitchen floor, ogling Iris’s breasts. Although he’d thought she and Lord Aldridge had done more than simply admire each other’s . . . bits.
“Tonight, after you went out again, my lord, she went out a third time. She said it was to breathe in the night air after a day in the kitchen. Said she was just stepping a few yards from the door. But after about ten minutes, I went out to find her.” He paused again and it felt like it was for effect, not out of fear this time. “She was hurrying to the kitchen door when I stepped out, coming from the back alley. And she was looking over her shoulder, frightened, like she expected someone to be following her.”
There was another long silence.
Banquet of Lies Page 10
