by The Spy
Phillipa blinked, her smile fading slightly. “Key?”
Mr. Fisher stepped forward. “Do you have your father’s notes? Perhaps a book, filled with notations?”
A book? “The journal!” She turned to Fisher. “Before he shut me in the hiding place, he gave me his journal to carry to Mr. Upkirk!”
“Ah!” Fisher beamed. “Wonderful! If it contains the key, then there will be no doubt of your father’s loyalty! Will there, James?”
James didn’t appear any too convinced. “Perhaps. If it indeed contains the key.”
At James’s grim expression Phillipa sobered. “Will that make you believe I am innocent?” She must not forget that this man, the very man whom she loved beyond the boundaries of her soul, had every intention of having her father killed.
Eliminated.
“We shall see.” James watched the emotions flicker across that oddly unfamiliar pale face topped by untidy reddish-brown hair. His mind was quite resolved on one issue at least. She was as female as Venus, despite her garb and butchered locks. He’d felt it when he’d pulled her close earlier, and he felt it now, watching her watch him.
The flash of hot possessiveness he’d experienced when he’d seen Fisher awkwardly embracing her was not something he was going to be able to think rationally about anytime soon.
“Fisher, you’re needed. The Gentleman is waiting.” His voice was gruffer than he’d intended.
Fisher blinked and straightened his waistcoat, then gathered up the papers that had fallen to the floor. Then he smiled shyly at Phillipa and murmured words of encouragement. James flexed his jaw. The bloke was entirely besotted.
That hadn’t taken her long at all.
About as innocent as a snake charmer, she was.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Dalton was waiting in the Cryptography room for them, still eerily elegant even at this late hour. He nodded to Fisher and indicated a chair. Then he turned to James.
“I understand that Robbie has not yet awakened.”
“No,” James replied shortly. “And I should like to return to his bedside as soon as possible, so let us get on with this.”
Dalton raised a brow but offered no reproach at James’s tone, though James knew he was being rude.
“Very well.” Dalton seated himself, as did James. “We have a problem. Phillipa Atwater has broken no law, nor has she offered any harm to anyone. We don’t even have proof of her giving any information to the French. In short, we have no reason to hold this woman prisoner.”
James bolted to his feet. “Are you mad? She nearly killed Robbie!”
“James, Robbie has climbed every vertical surface in his path since the day he came to us. He was bound to fall eventually.”
“And ‘eventually’ simply happened to occur in her care. Does that not twinge your suspicions at all?”
“Stubbs said that she claims that Robbie was showing her the back door and that she tried to stop him.”
“Well, she obviously didn’t try very hard.”
Dalton shook his head. “James, you aren’t thinking clearly. If she’d wanted to kill Robbie by throwing him from the window, would she have screamed and drawn your attention? Or would she have kept silent and let Robbie lie there indefinitely?”
“She climbed it herself, you realize.” Fisher sat forward. “After Robbie fell, she had to jump over and climb down the ladder herself. With no one to show her the trick of it either.”
James looked away. He well remembered his first go at the back door. Heaps of soft rubbish had been piled at the foot of the ladder, and he’d been encouraged by the laughter and helpful shouts of the other Liars.
And he’d still missed the handholds when he’d jumped across, landing arse-first in the rubbish. Twice.
“I don’t give a damn if she bloody well flew down,” James bit out. “She spied on me, infiltrated my home, and endangered my son. She is dangerous, I tell you. Even Button is not proof against her, and Button is nigh immune to every woman on earth but Agatha.”
“I will deal with Button’s part in this, James. That is, if you are pleased to allow that I am still spymaster of this club?”
The cool tone in Dalton’s voice reminded James of why the man was known as the Gentleman. There was nothing more disquieting than Lord Etheridge at his lordliest.
“My apologies, my lord.” Civil words, even if he had not been able to force a civil tone. What was happening to him, that he was so near the edge of his self-control?
Her.
She was happening to him, confusing him. How could he let his lust control his mind again, after all that had happened with Lavinia Winchell? The very near passage of his own redemption made him long for it all the more.
James sat, tamping down his swirling emotions. If he allowed the spymaster to see how very much involved he was in this issue, he would be pulled from the case immediately.
He wanted to see this case through. Oh, yes.
James managed to meet Dalton’s gaze now with some small amount of calm. “You were saying?”
“I was saying that we have no evidence. Nor am I entirely convinced that there is any to find. With our manpower shortage, I don’t see that we have the resources to pursue a case against Miss Atwater.”
“But her father—”
Dalton held up a hand. “Her father is another story entirely. There is a great deal of evidence that Rupert Atwater is aiding Napoleon. Even Miss Atwater admits the possibility, does she not?”
James grunted. “She claims that her father is being coerced.”
“You do not accept this possibility?”
“I do not. Atwater is a traitor. End of the matter.”
Fisher made a protesting noise. Dalton silenced him with one raised digit, still regarding James very closely. James shifted, restless under the cool gaze. Dalton had learned well from Lord Liverpool. James wished he would take that most intimidating habit and use it on someone else.
Phillipa Atwater, for starts.
“So quick to judge, James? Is it possible that you are taking this matter a bit too personally?”
James hardened his jaw against a snarling retort and merely shook his head.
Fisher snorted. “Well, I for one don’t know what grudge you hold against Miss Atwater. I was very impressed with my interview—”
“I’ll wager you were,” muttered James. Hands off my suspect, you poacher.
Fisher warily slid his chair a few inches from James, but continued. “She has volunteered her father’s journal for my examination. She is quite convinced that she was sent to Upkirk expressly for the purpose of giving him the key to break her father’s codes.”
Dalton nodded. “You believe this journal to be Atwater’s key, then.”
Fisher nodded. “Indeed. And if so, then that proves her story, does it not?”
Dalton leaned back in his chair. “So it would seem. If we could then pass a coded message to Atwater of his daughter’s safety, that would no doubt cause him to cease his cooperation.”
“Exactly.”
“But that will only alert him!” James could not restrain himself any longer. “I cannot believe you are considering this! You intend to collaborate with a traitor?”
“I’m considering it part of an investigation into a possible traitor, yes.” Dalton rose. “I think you would do well to remember what it was like to be on the wrong end of that investigation, James. The practice may have an improving effect on your attitude. Now, it is past midnight and I am for home. I am releasing Miss Atwater from confinement, although I will ask her to remain as a guest of the club. We shall need her help with this, I should think. Give her something harmless to decode, see if she is accurate—test her without her knowledge.”
James only nodded stiffly, but inwardly he felt as if he had received a body blow. After all that she had done, to him and to Robbie, she was free.
He rose and left the room without a word. Etiquette be damned, he was not about to spe
nd another minute away from Robbie.
As he reentered the room where he had spent so many hours today, he wanted nothing more than to see Robbie sleeping sprawled and tangled in his bedding as of old. His heart sank as he saw that Robbie had not moved a hair while he had been meeting with Dalton and Fisher.
Sitting in the bedside chair, he brushed back a lock of heavy black hair from Robbie’s forehead and began to speak. “The trees are enormous at Appleby, Rob. You’ve never seen such climbing. Why, I broke my arm falling out of one of those very trees when I was a lad . . .”
• • •
At the sound of whispered voices in her room, Phillipa swam from the depths of sleep most unwillingly. Bloody shark-infested hell. Wasn’t it enough to be kept prisoner? Did she have to be woken so early after yet another night of little sleep?
After a moment she realized that the voices were female, and then she became aware that they were discussing her. Curious, she lay quite still and listened.
“Are they going to kill her, milady?”
Phillipa was very interested in the answer to that question herself. She forced herself to appear relaxed as she listened.
“If she is indeed working for the French, I hope so. She wormed her way into Jamie’s house. She could have killed him as he slept, and Robbie as well!”
“Oh, Agatha, I hardly think she looks capable of murder,” said a third voice. “She cannot be more than nineteen!”
“Clara, age has nothing to do with it. Why would she disguise herself if she had nothing to hide?”
“I don’t know, Agatha.” There was gentle laughter in the voice. “Why don’t you tell me?”
The first voice spoke again, the one that seemed to slip in and out of proper speech as if the speaker were not quite born to it. “But milady, Milady is quite right!”
The woman called Agatha snorted. “Rose, I’ve lost track again. I do wish you’d address us by our given names. It would make things so much easier.”
Rose drew an appalled breath. “Oh, but I couldn’t!”
“Agatha, don’t press her,” said the woman called Clara. “She’ll become more comfortable in time. Now, did you ever meet this girl when she was pretending to be Robbie’s tutor?”
Pretending, my foot! Phillipa almost jumped up in protest right then. She had spent many grueling hours teaching Robbie, something these people seemed only too eager to forget.
Robbie. Fully awake now, she felt once more a shock of deepest worry.
If Clara was Lady Etheridge, as Phillipa recalled, and Agatha was Lady Raines, then these women likely had the latest news of Robbie’s condition. Opening her eyes, she blinked at them, not needing to feign sleepiness. “Hello,” she offered, not sure of her reception after hearing Agatha’s bloodthirsty words.
Three women met her gaze. One stepped forward with a smile. She was dark-haired, slender, and very elegantly dressed. “Good morning, Miss Atwater. I am Lady Etheridge, although I prefer to be addressed as Clara. You must forgive our barging in, but if we had not brought in your breakfast, I’m afraid it would have been left to Mr. Stubbs.”
Suddenly remembering that she was nearly bare beneath her man’s shirt, Phillipa drew the covers to her chest, mightily glad she had not woken to a male intrusion. “Thank you, Lady—Clara. Can you please tell me, how is Robbie? I’ve been half-mad with worry—”
One of the other two women made a disdainful noise. “Half-mad, perhaps . . .” The buxom brunette crossed plump arms and frankly glared at Phillipa.
Agatha, James’s sister. Her opinion was likely colored by James’s own response. Phillipa tried to appear most obliging, although being undressed in bed put her at a severe disadvantage against these stylish ladies. “I know what you must think, my lady, but I beg of you—” Quite unintentionally her voice broke as she remembered Robbie so small and still on the cobbles.
Clara moved to place an arm about Phillipa, casting Lady Raines an admonishing glance. “Robbie has the best care in London, do not worry. His arm is broken, but he seems unwounded otherwise.”
“Seems?” Phillipa’s chest tightened. “Has he—has he not yet woken?” The last word was squeezed from a throat tight with dismay.
Even Agatha seemed to relent at that. She uncrossed her arms to clasp her hands protectively over her own midriff. “Children are very resilient . . . at least, that is what Dr. West-fall tells me,” she said softly. “He’ll wake soon, I know it.”
Phillipa closed her eyes. So careless. So bloody stupid. “I should have forced him to climb back in that window,” she said.
That brought a laugh from an unexpected quarter. Phillipa, Clara, and Agatha looked up to see Rose clap a hand over her mouth, her wide eyes rueful. “Sorry, miss. But forcing young Master Rob to do something ain’t—isn’t an easy thing.” The girl shrugged. Phillipa noticed that she was not dressed nearly as well as the two “miladies,” although she looked very presentable. She was not a plump beauty like Agatha, nor an elegant sylph like Clara. In fact, she was rather ordinary but for a pair of large, heavily lashed hazel eyes.
Even Agatha had to agree with Rose. “No,” she said with a sigh. “He’s fair to becoming a Cunnington in truth.”
Phillipa nodded. They were being very kind and she would not refute them.
“I’d like to see him, if it is permissible?”
“Oh, you may come and go as you please,” Clara reassured her. “You are not a prisoner.” Then she glanced up at Agatha, who shrugged.
“Jamie isn’t likely to let you in to see his son.”
Phillipa looked up at that. “Is that what James called Robbie? His son?”
Agatha blinked suspiciously. “Of course. Why wouldn’t he?”
“Well, well,” Phillipa murmured, looking down to hide a small smile. “Good on you, Mr. Cunnington.”
Gazing down at herself, she picked at her shirt with two fingers. “I don’t suppose there is any point to wearing this lot any longer.” She sighed with longing at the very thought of girl clothes. “I don’t suppose I’ve anything feminine to wear?”
Rose stepped forward, pulling a familiar rucksack from behind her back. “Mr. Fisher already took the book out. He said you wouldn’t mind.”
Phillipa gathered the grimy bag close for a moment, feeling Papa in every fold. Inside she found her one tatty dress, slightly the worse for being stuffed in a hole for more than a week. With mice, apparently. “Oh, ick.”
“That won’t do.” Clara put a finger to her lips. “Well, you cannot wear one of mine. You’re far too tall.”
Agatha shook her head. “Nor mine. You’re far too slender.”
Phillipa smiled and cast a glance at the girl Rose. “And what of you, baby bear?”
Rose grinned at that, her smile transforming her face from ordinary to striking in a single beat. Phillipa blinked. Then the smile was gone and Rose was gazing at her soberly, as unremarkable as before.
“I don’t think so, miss. You’d be too tall for anything I have, though I’d be glad to give it.”
“Thank you. I suppose I might ask Button—” Phillipa looked up in alarm. “Oh, no! Button! He hasn’t caught trouble for helping me, has he?”
Agatha raised a brow. “I’d like to see them try it. Button is in my army, not theirs. I merely allow them to borrow him on occasion.”
Clara nodded. “Don’t worry over Button, Miss Atwater. Even the Prince Regent takes a step back when Agatha puts her foot down.”
Phillipa cast a single quick glance at Agatha’s rather astounding assets, then looked away, repressing a short laugh. She wondered if Clara realized exactly how her comment had sounded. Apparently Phillipa was not the only one to have that irreverent thought, for she swore she heard a muffled giggle from the general direction of Rose.
Phillipa sent Rose a look of companionably repressed humor and was answered by another one of those smiles. Then she looked down at the sorry traveling dress in her hands and sighed. Well, she’d at least be decent
in her trousers. Not that it mattered, for James was scarcely going to care.
Agatha and Rose left, declaring they were off to check on Robbie for her. Clara left her with a pat on the shoulder. “Eat your breakfast. I’ve a feeling Kurt outdid himself this morning.”
After dressing and trying to tame her ragged hair with a damp brush, Phillipa lifted the dome that covered her meal.
Heaven. Nectar and ambrosia. On the platter lay a breakfast fit for a queen. And several of her ladies-in-waiting.
Phillipa ate heartily, for she’d not eaten at all yesterday. In addition, it seemed she’d quite lost the habit of nibbling in a ladylike manner. Looking down, she also noticed that her knees were most definitely spread. She clapped them together.
Oh, merde. She’d forgotten how to be a girl!
Chapter Thirty
All that afternoon in the code room James drove himself, Fisher, and Phillipa hard. At first, Phillipa had been given a few nonessential items to work on, until he was sure she could be trusted. Then James had insisted she begin on Lavinia’s letters.
She obviously suspected that he still did not trust her. It was a sign of his desperation that he set her to this task at all.
Phillipa rubbed at her cheeks, then pressed her palms flat over her eyes as if to relieve them. “There is nothing here.”
“There must be!”
Clearly losing patience, Phillipa drew her hands down to slap them onto the tabletop. “I may not be my father’s equal, but I know enough to spot patterns. There are certain patterns in codes, certain repetitions, certain rhythms. Even if one cannot break the code, one can spot the fact that it is indeed coded.”
She grabbed up a handful of the sheets to wave at him. “These love letters of Lady Winchell’s are just that. Love letters—maudlin, boring, frankly pornographic, and did I mention boring? There is no code.”
James ground his teeth. “There must be hidden meaning! Else why write so many, so often?”
“I don’t know, James. Did you ever think perhaps she might be in love?” Exasperation was plain in her face. “However, I didn’t say there was no hidden meaning.”
