by The Spy
Her heart ached from the loss of that short-lived fancy. She’d been a fool to think for one moment that James Cunnington could ever love her more than he hated Lavinia Winchell.
After soothing Robbie back into a healing sleep, Phillipa made her way to the kitchen, though she’d lost the will to break her fast. Agatha waited within, chatting with Kurt. Or rather, chatting at Kurt—who merely loomed and interposed the occasional grunt.
But then, Kurt was very fond of Agatha.
Upon seeing Phillipa, Agatha hopped to her feet expectantly. “Well?”
Phillipa blinked. “I don’t know what you wish me to say, Agatha. James has left with Mr. Stubbs to pursue his case against Lady Winchell.”
Agatha gaped, then narrowed her eyes. “He botched it! I knew he’d make a muck of it, I just knew it!”
Phillipa felt obliged to defend James, she knew not why. “If you’re referring to his proposal, he didn’t botch it. He was very polite.”
Agatha clapped a hand to her mouth. “Oh, no! Not polite!” Her ire crumpled into sympathy. “Phillipa, I’m so sorry.”
Stiffening, Phillipa lifted her chin. “Nonsense. I was the one to refuse him.”
“Well, of course you were! Quite rightly too. And to think he ran off to play mouse to Lavinia’s cat again.”
“Do you know that of Lady Winchell?”
“I should say so. The woman is stark staring mad, if you ask me. Especially when it comes to James. Why, she was jealous enough to want to kill me, when she thought I was his mistress, not sister.”
Agatha bustled around the table and past Phillipa. “I must talk to Clara! She’ll know what to do about that brother of mine.”
As the door swung shut on Agatha’s curvaceous figure, Phillipa distinctly heard “Polite! Oh, Jamie, you silly sod!”
But her words about Lavinia Winchell were the ones to remain in Phillipa’s mind.
Stark, staring mad . . . especially when it comes to James.
How mad was Lady Winchell? Mad enough to let something slip when faced with her worst nightmare?
James and Stubbs followed Feebles’s trail across half of London during the next few hours. When they arrived at whatever pub from which Feebles had sent his last message by street-child courier, they’d find another from him leading them the next step in the chase. This sort of urban tag had worked for them many times before, allowing close pursuit and much-needed backup of the tracker.
But then the chase fizzled when they arrived at a seedy taproom in the worst district of Cheapside to find Feebles himself there, morosely nursing his ale.
“Lost ’im.”
James lowered himself heavily to the bench beside the small ragged man. Feebles was the best, small and fast and nearly invisible. The operative who could lose Feebles was a professional indeed.
“Damn.” Cursing seemed worthless. There were no words to release the burden of rage within him. “Do you think he was actually heading into this district?”
Feebles shrugged. “Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t. Led me a merry chase, he did. Wound me up like a bloody mechanical monkey.” He peered into his ale. “Might be time for the Feebles to hang it up, James.”
“Not likely, old sod.” James roused himself enough to clap Feebles on the back, though it raised a small cloud of dust. “We’ve a confirmation of his existence, and we have a description. Get yourself down to Lady Clara and have her draw the bastard for us.”
Feebles looked as though he were about to cry. “Didn’t see his face, not a bit. His cap was pulled low and his collar was up. All I can tell you is he was a regular-sized bloke with a limp.”
James clenched his fists until he heard the wood of the table creak. “Hell.”
Pulling himself back from the brink of rage, James stood and flipped a coin to the publican for Feebles’s ale. The three men went back outside to the bright day, though their quarry was as much shadow as ever.
“There’ll come another chance, James,” Stubbs said. “Don’t despair now—”
“You!” The shout came from across the grimy street. James raised his gaze to see Mrs. Farquart—who truly did not suffer the light of day well at all—striding toward them, bony legs kicking her dark skirts high. “I thought it was you! Did you find her?”
James blinked. Now that he thought about it, he and the other two Liars were indeed standing near the woman’s boardinghouse. How curious. “Well, ah—”
Mrs. Farquart narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “You did find her, didn’t you? Where’s that money she took?”
James regarded the woman for a long moment. “Who makes this claim of theft? You or the dead woman’s family?”
“Ha! Think you can trap me, do you? That money will go to them that needs it the most, that’s a fact. Now where is she? Where’s that money?”
Though James found the woman distasteful beyond belief, he could not deny that the creature truly believed Phillipa guilty of stealing a grieving widow’s fortune.
“I’m . . . still looking into the matter. You will be notified if anything is found.” With that, he turned away from her and all the mistrust and ire that came with her.
Phillipa had his trust. He believed in her wholeheartedly. He only wished he had as much faith in his own ability to judge.
Chapter Thirty-four
According to Agatha’s description, Lady Winchell was a woman who had the lot. Beauty. Wealth. A doting husband.
There was no way for the Liars to break Lavinia’s advantage, no currency with which to negotiate with her. They had nothing she wanted.
But Phillipa did. She had the one thing in this world that Lavinia Winchell desired. The one thing that the traitorous woman couldn’t have.
Phillipa had James Cunnington, at least in body. His heart and soul were apparently up for grabs.
This time, Phillipa didn’t intend to lose.
Not too surprisingly, Phillipa found that Lord Winchell’s house was fine indeed, as evidenced by . . . well, everything. Exclusive square, fine architecture, supremely arrogant butler—
“I do not have a calling card, I fear.”
“Then Lady Winchell is Not At Home.” The exquisitely carved door began to close.
“Wait!” What would gain her entrance? “Tell Lady Winchell that—that James Cunnington’s fiancée is here to see her.”
The butler hesitated. Surely the man knew of James. From what she had heard and read herself, the scandal had been momentous indeed. He eyed the people passing on the street nervously. Did he think someone from a newssheet was lurking about?
The door opened wider. “If you’ll please come this way?”
She was settled into a lovely parlor, filled with treasures and bright with candles. Yet Philllipa was certain this was not even the finest room this house had to offer.
The door opened. Phillipa turned to face the enemy.
The woman who entered wasn’t simply beautiful—she was spellbinding. Her skin was porcelain fair and her hair was true gold—which only made her rosy lips and blue eyes more riveting. Phillipa was stunned wordless for a long moment at such perfection of face and form—until she saw the gleam of snide satisfaction in the woman’s eyes.
Sorry that she had given this creature such pleasure with her reaction, Phillipa affected a pose of polite indifference with all her will.
The smug gleam faded. Good.
Lady Winchell did not come forward, nor did she extend her hand. “Who are you and what do you want? Why did you lie to my man?”
Phillipa regarded her serenely. “Why would you assume it is a lie?”
Lavinia lowered her lids suggestively. “James Cunnington will never marry, not while I live in his dreams.”
Phillipa laughed. “Dreams? More like nightmares.”
“You know nothing of his dreams. You are a poseur, come to fish for information. Were you sent by one of those hideous news-sheets?”
“I know his dreams. I know everything about him. He is my love.�
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“He is not!”
“Do you wish proof? I could tell you any number of things. He drinks brandy. He loves to box. He is a superior dancer, an excellent athlete, and a lover of great stamina.”
“Foolish girl. Anyone could know that, or guess.”
“Well, then. Shall I mention his fancy for harem dancers?”
Lavinia jerked at that. “No such thing. I would know that.”
“One would think he would have mentioned it. Still, he never actually loved you—”
“He did—he does love me, you fool! Look at me! How could he not?”
“Perhaps he desired the surface . . . once. But surely this is not the first time someone has informed you that your heart is as black as tar? A man of James’s nature would find that most unattractive, I’m sure.”
Rage contorted Lavinia’s face. Reaching out one long elegant arm, she snatched something lovely and no doubt priceless from a side table as if preparing to fling it viciously across the room at Phillipa.
Sidestepping easily—for ducking was second nature by now—Phillipa continued to taunt Lavinia. “Pray, don’t take it so to heart. Once we’re married, we’ll be sure to call on you often.”
“You’re lying!” Lavinia’s voice was harsh and her features twisted by her rage. “There is no woman in James’s life but me! I know it!”
“Yet here I am. Already mother to his adopted son, friend and confidante of his sister—”
That reference seemed to send Lavinia’s ire to new heights. “Agatha!”
“Oh, do you know her well?” Phillipa circled, keeping out of range of projectiles. “Such a dear friend. I feel like a member of the family already. When I marry James—”
“No! You lie! The thief would have told me if James had—” Abruptly, Lavinia ceased her tirade. By the worry that flashed swiftly across her face, Phillipa surmised that the woman had just said something she shouldn’t have.
“The thief? Who is he, Lavinia? How would he know the intimate details of James’s life?”
Still heaving giant breaths, Lavinia visibly attempted to pull herself together. “I . . . do not know what you speak of.”
“Well, whoever your informant is, he has lied to you. I have known James well for quite some time . . . very well.”
Lavinia snarled, but Phillipa could see the woman was now on her guard. She would get no more from this source today. Without bothering to make a single polite noise, Phillipa turned and left.
If only she could be sure that she hadn’t just made things much worse.
Though the night had grown late, James sat reading by Robbie’s bedside. The book was one of his favorites, Robinson Crusoe. Daniel Defoe might not be everyone’s cup of tea, but nary a single Liar failed to enjoy the man’s work.
After all, the imaginative founder of the Liar’s Club understood the human need for adventure very well indeed. A Crown spy in the days of King William, he was the first to utilize the skills of street thieves and pickpockets for national security.
Yet Defoe’s words, usually so absorbing, only lay lifeless before James’s eyes tonight, dull print on paper. He felt the familiar blackness descending after the disaster of losing Lavinia’s lover today.
Spending the evening with Robbie had helped. Sapped of his usual energy by the ache in his head, the lad had been a good listener to James’s stories of his boyhood. The only uncomfortable moment was when Robbie had asked James about his own father.
“When you was sick, did your da sit with you too?”
James almost laughed. “Far from it, I’m afraid. The servants cared for me, and Aggie, when she was older.” He gazed at the candle flame, remembering. “I think my father liked me best when I was not at home. I think he was proud of me, in his way—as long as he wasn’t required to disrupt his work.”
Robbie had gazed at him for a long moment. Then he reached an unusually clean paw to pat James on the arm. “Don’t worry. I’ll sit with you when you’re sick.”
Carefully, James did not smile at Robbie’s gravity. In fact, he felt an ache deep in his throat at the words. “Thank you, son. It will be a mighty help.”
Robbie’s eyes had glowed at being addressed so. He hadn’t spoken again, but only settled down to listen as James read to him. Several pages later, James had looked up from the book to see Robbie sound asleep, small fists by his chin.
Something peeked from one of those curled hands. James pulled the small lead soldier from his son’s slackened grip. The toy was crumpled and bent as if it had been stepped on. The poor foot soldier looked as though he were crawling.
James had carefully placed it on the night table. He well remembered how a bit of rubbish could find a place among boyish treasures. This broken thing must have some significance for Robbie and James respected that.
Now, with the silence of the empty club about them and even the distant street noise abated by the lateness of the hour, James felt as though he and Robbie and the little lead soldier were quite alone in the world.
Which was nonsense of course, for Phillipa slept in the next room. She had not spoken to him again today, but quite frankly James was relieved by her distant manner. He had yet to resolve that tiny niggling voice that reminded him of his severe lack of judgment on previous occasions.
What did he know of her really? She was a consummate actress, a gifted teacher, and a skilled liar. She could take on any role, from young man to exotic seductress, and be entirely convincing.
Might it not be true, then, that she was acting even now? Could the entire club be falling under the spell of her chameleon charms? The Liars were heroes all, no matter their backgrounds. And what better way to seduce a band of heroes than to appear to require rescue?
A poor and friendless girl, who wanted only to prove her kidnapped father’s innocence and save his life. It was tempting to believe it, for it would mean that no barrier stood between them. He could have his harem dancer and his friend. He could have what every man dreamed of—a brave and lovely partner who suited him like the lost piece to his own puzzle.
It would be so easy to believe. He wanted very badly to believe.
That alone was enough to cause him doubt.
The club had gone quiet long ago. Phillipa pressed her ear to her chamber door to listen. Nothing. Earlier, she had been able to hear the faint rumble of James’s voice from the room next door, but that had long faded away.
It must be well past midnight by now. Phillipa eased her door open. The hall was dark and still. Taking her candle and the small box of wonderful new matches that Fisher had given her, she moved through her doorway, silent as a wisp of fog.
The carpeted hall made her careful steps soundless and one hand trailing on the far wall kept her oriented in the proper direction. At the end of this hall lay the secret door, although it was not nearly so well concealed from this direction.
She managed the catch after a moment of fumbling, but she had no confidence in her ability to do it from the public side. Taking a small piece of wood from her pocket, she wedged it in the frame in order to keep the door from closing completely.
Now she stood on the more luxurious carpet, in a hall that smelled of wax and lemon oil, not dust and elderly woolen runner.
To her left would be the broom closet. To the right would be her destination. Jackham’s office. Jackham, who limped. The “gimpy bugger.”
“He was a great thief once.” Robbie’s words had not come back to her until this evening and even then she’d not known if she was correct. James had known Jackham for many years. They were friends.
Would James even listen to her suspicions about Jackham? Especially when the hint came from Lavinia? And if she was wrong, would he ever forgive her for accusing his friend?
She came here tonight to search for something, anything, that might substantiate such an accusation.
Surprisingly, Jackham’s office was not locked. Startled by the ease with which she entered, Phillipa hesitated. Then she sh
ook her head at herself. She was seeing moon shadows, for there was no one about. She let herself in and lit her candle.
The office was spare and manly. A fine desk was balanced by an elderly sofa that looked uncomfortably sprung. Stacks of ledgers teased at her mind. Might she find some sort of embezzlement recorded within those pages?
Still, that would likely be a petty offense in the eyes of the Liars. The only thing this motley mix of patriots and criminals would find unforgivable would be the selling of their own to the enemy.
That act would not be recorded in a ledger book.
Yet where would such evidence be kept? A professional thief would be wary of all the usual hiding places—the safe box, the false bottom drawer, the loose floorboard. Phillipa crossed to the sofa to take a seat on the edge of the cushion. From her vantage point she could see the entire room.
What would she use to hide the truth from experienced spies? Perhaps another false panel in one of the walls? The Liars were all too familiar with that mechanism. A loose stone in the hearth? She moved to the cold grate to examine the marble closely. All was securely mortared in place.
Discouraged, she returned to her perch on the sofa. She felt a spring dig into her buttock through her trousers. Shifting position, she wondered grumpily why someone would hang on to such a disreputable piece of furniture. Surely the club could afford to replace Jackham’s ghastly old—
Sofa. Phillipa jumped to her feet to regard the piece with suspicion. Why, indeed?
She punched at the cushions with enthusiasm, yanking away those of the seat to the floor. Kneading them carefully revealed nothing to her touch. She didn’t want to risk slicing into them until she had examined other possibilities. Wrapping her hands around the arm of the sofa, she pulled it away from the wall.
The back was faded and the upholstery dusty, but the tacks looked entirely whole. Phillipa knelt behind the sofa to slide her hands across every inch, feeling for anything that might signify a secret.
As her hands neared the bottom corner of the upholstered back, she felt a crackle beneath her fingers. “Horsehair does not crackle thus, Mr. Jackham,” she muttered as she ran her hands lower. Something that had been slid beneath the fabric must have an entry point somewhere—
