by Anne Gracie
And Lady Beatrice and, quite unexpectedly, Flynn, Max and Daisy supported her, reminding Abby it was Jane’s life and her decision. Damaris didn’t argue one way or the other; she simply hugged Jane tightly and wished her happiness. Freddy congratulated her, told her Cambury was a dashed dull dog, but would probably make her a decent enough husband. And eventually, Abby decided arguing further would only alienate her sister, and gave up and embraced her and, with tears in her eyes, wished her all the happiness in the world.
That night, Jane slipped into bed, and pulled the bedclothes around her. She’d done it. She was as good as promised in marriage to a wealthy man of good character and good family.
She’d be safe now, from the risk of falling in love.
Chapter Four
May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are the result of previous study?
—JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
“Sir?” A clerk poked his head into the Honorable Gilbert Radcliffe’s discreet Whitehall office. From the outer office, Zachary Black watched, faintly amused by the clerk’s excessive caution. Surely he didn’t look that dangerous?
“Yes, Evans, what is it?” Radcliffe sounded preoccupied, busy.
“There’s a man here asking to see you.” The clerk lowered his voice. “Demanding to see you.”
“And?”
“The thing is, sir, he’s a gypsy.”
“A gypsy?”
“Yes, sir. Dirty and disreputable-looking. I would have shown him the door, only the fellow asked for you by name, sir, insisted you’d want to see him, and wouldn’t take no for an answer.” He added doubtfully, “I could try to have him removed, if you insist, sir, only he’s quite large and I fear it would be . . . difficult.”
“An ugly customer, eh? Well then, send the fellow in. I’ll deal with him.”
The clerk turned to Zach and stepped back to let him pass. “Watch yourself, gypsy. Mr. Radcliffe might be a gentleman but he won’t put up with any nonsense.”
Zach winked at him, and sauntered into the office, saying in a roughly accented voice, “Gen’leman give me a message for some toff called Mr. Gilbert Radcliffe—that you, is it? Said I was to give it only to ’im. Said Mr. Radcliffe would give me a gold guinea for it.”
The Honorable Gilbert Radcliffe leaned back in his chair, regarding his visitor through narrowed eyes. His gaze took in the darkly bristled jaw, the worn, faintly foreign clothing, the muddy boots, the shabby sheepskin coat with the faded but outlandish embroidery—and most damning of all, the small gold earring. “Gold, is it? For a scoundrel such as yourself?”
“Gold, ’e promised me.” Zach edged closer. “And gold is what I’ll ’ave.”
Gilbert Radcliffe wrinkled his nose. “Faugh, that smell . . . Have you been sleeping in a barn?”
Zach’s mouth twitched, but he whined in an aggrieved voice, “I come a long way wiv this message, I ’ave.”
“Shall I call someone and have the wretch removed, sir?” said Evans from the doorway.
“No, no.” Radcliffe waved him away. “Bring a pot of tea and two cups.”
The clerk gave him an incredulous look. “Tea, sir?”
“And some biscuits?” Zach added hopefully. “Ginger ones?”
The clerk gave him a dirty look and glanced at Radcliffe, who nodded. “Yes, and biscuits—ginger if you have them. And shut the door behind you.” When the clerk had gone, Radcliffe looked at Zach and shook his head. “He probably expects you to steal the spoons.”
Zach gave him an indignant look. “I’ll have you know, Gil, I haven’t stolen any spoons for, oh, weeks.”
Gil laughed. He rose and threw open a window. “You do realize you smell rather like a sheep.”
Zach grinned. “I know. It’s the coat.” He proudly gestured to the ragged sheepskin coat, covered in faded, once lurid embroidery, now grimy with age and hard wear. Fringed with lank curls of greasy wool, it still bore the faint odor of sheep. “Blame the rain. When it’s wet, the eau-de-sheep intensifies. The smell is practically undetectable once it dries out.”
“Right now, however, it’s appalling.”
“Appalling? How can you say such a thing? Why, this coat cost me two whole shillings, I’ll have you know. Two!”
Gil shuddered. “And the cat-skin waistcoat? There’s no possible excuse for that.”
Zach stroked it lovingly. “Dreadful, isn’t it?”
Gil shook his head. “You used to be quite an elegant fellow at school. I almost didn’t recognize you.” He held out his hand. “But it’s dammed good to see you, Ad—”
Zach cut him off. “I don’t answer to that name.” There was a short silence, then he added quietly, “I’ve been Zachary Black for the last twelve years and I see no reason to change. How are you, Gil?” The two men shook hands.
“So I’m glad you got my message, and even gladder that you came, but why a gypsy, may I ask?”
“Easiest way to cross a border I know of,” Zach told him. “Nobody notices gypsies, especially if they’re traveling in a group, which I was.” He saw Radcliffe’s expression and added, “Legacy of the many misspent hours I spent playing with the gypsies as a boy. I’m an honorary member of the tribe now. Been very useful over the years.”
“Did you manage to get the evidence?”
For answer, Zach pulled a tattered-looking oilskin packet from an inside pocket and tossed it onto Gil’s desk. The room fell silent as Gil opened the parcel and pored over the documents within.
Zach had received Gil’s note nine days before—a grimy screw of paper passed from hand to hand. In it Gil had told him to bring the evidence himself, that his presence in England was imperative. On the strength of that note, he’d left the Hungarians to their own political devices and headed straight for London, making excellent time.
Such notes—always written in Gil’s hand and in a code only Zach could read—had ruled his life for the last eight years, carrying instructions from this shabby office at the Horse Guards in Whitehall to whichever part of the Continent Zach was currently working. On behalf of king and country.
This was the first time he’d been back in twelve years. It felt rather strange.
The clerk came with the tea and biscuits, depositing the tray in silence. He glanced at Gil, and then at Zach, a little puzzled, but Gil was absorbed by the contents of the documents in front of him and said nothing. Zach just winked and reached for a biscuit, and Evans left, his curiosity rampant but unsatisfied.
Zach poured his tea, added two lumps of sugar and sipped it slowly, savoring it. English tea. How long had it been? He was on his second cup and his fourth ginger biscuit before Gil finally looked up. “Excellent. It is just as we suspected. And now we have the proof. I won’t ask you how you obtained these—”
“Good, because I won’t tell you. Now, tell me, Gil, why the devil did you insist I bring them myself? I could easily have sent those papers the usual way. My people are as reliable as ever they were. There was no need for me to return to England.”
Gil reached for the pot and poured himself a cup. “Actually, there is.”
“Because my father is dead? I knew that months ago, and it makes no diff—”
“It does, if you want to live in England ever again.”
Zach frowned. “What do you mean?” He wasn’t sure he did want to live in England.
Gil added milk and stirred sugar into his tea. “I’ve heard a whisper.”
“You always do, they’re your stock-in-trade.”
“The thing is, I don’t know the full details—and no, you know me better than to expect me to furnish you with unsubstantiated rumors—but you’d better get along to Smith, Entwhistle and Crombie—”
Zach frowned. “My family lawyers?”
Gil nodded. “I have no doubt they’ll be
able to explain. And you might need these.” He pulled a large faded envelope from a drawer and passed it to Zach. “And Ad—Zach, I wouldn’t waste any time, if I were you.”
Frowning, Zach picked up the envelope. He’d left it with Gil twelve years before, against . . . he wasn’t sure what. He turned it over. The seal was still intact. “Like that, is it?”
Gil nodded. “Do you have somewhere to stay?”
“Do you think the Pulteney will take me dressed like this?” He laughed at Gil’s expression. The Pulteney Hotel was the most fashionable hotel in London. “It’s all I have with me. I didn’t plan on staying in England longer than a day or two.”
Gil sighed. “I suppose you’d better stay with me, then. Here’s the address of my lodgings.” He scribbled something on a card and handed it to Zach. “Show this to my man. He’ll lend you my shaving gear and find you something respectable to wear.” He narrowed his eyes at his old friend. “That appalling coat and especially that”—he glanced at the cat-skin waistcoat and shuddered—“abomination are not to be seen in my vicinity, understand?”
Zach shook his head sorrowfully. “Gilbert, Gilbert, and I thought you liked cats.”
“I do. That’s the problem.”
Zach laughed.
* * *
The head clerk of Smith, Entwhistle and Crombie, attorneys-at-law, was as unimpressed with Zach’s appearance as Evans had been. A proper client would have handed the clerk a calling card, but for the last six years Zach hadn’t carried any kind of identification, let alone a gentleman’s card. Gypsies didn’t. Nor did spies. And until he knew what this was about, he had no intention of explaining and certainly not to a pompous little clerk.
“Smith is in, I presume.”
The clerk’s glance flickered briefly to one of the doors that gave off his room. “Not to the likes of you, he isn’t.”
“In there, is he? Right.” Before the clerk could react, Zach had stepped around him and entered the far right-hand office. He shut the door behind himself and snibbed it firmly.
A slender man of about thirty, with hair already going gray, rose from behind his desk, frowning. “What is the meaning of this intrusion?”
“Sorry, Mr. Smith,” the clerk called from the other side of the door. “I couldn’t stop him.”
“You’re Smith?” Zach had been expecting an older man.
“Yes, but as I said—”
“Ah, you must be the son. I was expecting your father, but I suppose he’s retired now.” Zach sat down, choosing the most comfortable-looking chair.
“Now look here—” Smith began.
The clerk rattled at the door handle, shouting, “Shall I fetch a constable, Mr. Smith?”
“I wouldn’t,” Zach told the lawyer mildly. “It would be rather embarrassing. Particularly for you.” He sat back and crossed his legs, apparently indifferent to, if not totally oblivious of, the clerk hammering on the door and shouting through the heavy oak panels.
Smith visibly hesitated.
“Mr. Smith?” the clerk shouted again. “Shall I fetch help?”
“No, it’s all right, Griggs,” Smith called.
There was a short silence from the other side of the door, then, “Are you sure, sir?”
“Quite sure.”
It was so obviously a lie, Zach couldn’t help but smile.
Smith frowned, as if he’d had a sudden thought. He leaned forward intently. “Have we met before?”
“Once, a long time ago. My name is Zachary Black.”
Smith shook his head. “I have a very good memory for names. I don’t know any Zachary Black.”
“Your hair was black when last we met.”
Smith’s hand crept briefly to his hair. He frowned.
“It was but a brief meeting. You came with your father to Wainfleet, summoned there, I assume, by my late father.”
“Wainfleet?” Smith stared at him in disbelief. “Your late—You can’t mean—good God! No, you cannot be—” He stared at Zach in shock. “But you’re dead!”
“Am I? Are you sure?” he said dryly.
“Well, of course I didn’t—I mean—good God! I should have recognized you by those eyes alone!” Smith sat in his chair with a plop. “Cutting it a bit fine, aren’t you? The hearing is in two weeks.”
“The hearing?”
“To declare you legally dead.” He frowned at Zach’s expression. “You didn’t know? Your cousin Gerald has—since your father’s death he’s—”
“Ah, Gerald. He always did want what was mine.” So that was it.
“Yes, but—oh, dear—you don’t understand. Apart from your cousin, there are other . . . complications.” Smith pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his brow, though the room was far from warm. He took a deep breath, which seemed to calm him somewhat. “I am sorry, you’ve taken me rather by surprise. Now, first things first. Can you prove this?”
“Prove what? That I’m alive?”
“That you are Adam—”
“I don’t call myself that anymore. Haven’t used the name for the last twelve years, not since I left Wainfleet. Zachary Black, that’s who I’ve been.”
Smith leaned forward over his desk. “But can you prove you are your father’s son?”
“As much as any son can prove his father.” Zach pulled out the envelope Gil had given him and tossed it onto Smith’s desk. “It’s all in there.”
Smith opened the envelope and examined the papers within. He took his time, scrutinizing each document carefully. Zach sat back. So he was to be declared dead, was he? It would almost be amusing, except that Cousin Gerald would get everything, and he didn’t like Cousin Gerald. Never had.
He watched the lawyer check and double-check the papers, searching for a flaw in the evidence. Finally he looked up. “Can anyone verify these?”
“You mean is there anyone who will vouch that I am who those documents say I am? Yes, of course.” Zach listed half a dozen names, mostly former schoolfellows, adding, “And Gil Radcliffe, at the Horse Guards, can vouch for my activities during the late war.”
Smith, busily noting down the names, brightened. “During the late war? You were a soldier, then?”
“Not quite.”
“Oh. Some kind of spy, I gather.” The disapproval in his voice told Zach a good deal. Smith belonged to the majority of Englishmen who regarded spying as an ungentlemanly occupation. Gentlemen fought in the open, man-to-man, face-to-face. Spies lurked in the dark, trading in lies and secrets.
Zach rather enjoyed the life. And ungentlemanly or not, spies risked their lives for information that saved hundreds, sometimes thousands, of others. He gave a faint smile, neither confirming nor denying the charge.
“Your father might vouch for me too, assuming his memory is still intact. I was just a lad the last time we met, and no doubt I’ve changed a good deal, but we met several times.”
Smith nodded. “I don’t doubt it; now I know who you are. You aren’t much like your father, but your resemblance to your late grandfather is unmistakable, especially around the eyes. Ill health forced Father to retire, but his brain is as sharp as ever. He’ll gladly identify you.”
Zach added with a glimmer of dark amusement, “No doubt Cousin Gerald will also identify me, though not, I fear, gladly.”
Smith pursed his lips. “I did advise him to wait until all legal ends had been tied up, but . . .” He made a faint gesture of frustration.
“Always was a greedy little tick. So is that all? Can you have the hearing stopped, or must I appear and prove my identity?”
“I will try, but I think—I am sure, in fact, that your cousin will insist on the hearing. It has been, as you know, twelve years since you’ve been seen in England, and well, he—”
“Having considered himself owner of all that is mine, he will be bound to dis
pute my claim,” Zach finished for him. “He can carry on all he likes—and knowing Gerald, he will—but there’s no denying I’m alive and well. So is that all, then? I can leave it in your hands?” He rose.
“Ah, no.” Smith looked, if possible, even more worried now than when Zach had arrived. “There is”—he swallowed—“a complication.”
Zach seated himself again. “Complication?”
“Something rather more serious.”
“Indeed?” Zach waited.
“I foresee no difficultly in establishing your identity, sir. But that in itself is the problem.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“The difficulty is—” Smith took a deep breath. “The moment you have proved your identity, you will be arrested.”
There was a short silence. “On what charge?”
“Murder.”
Chapter Five
Surprises are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable.
—JANE AUSTEN, MANSFIELD PARK
“Murder?” Zach repeated mildly. He’d personally killed five men in his life, each one an enemy of his country and killed in the line of duty. And in time of war. And though he’d been indirectly responsible for the deaths of several others—again, overseas and in the service of his country—not one of those acts could be called murder.
“Yes, murder.” Smith seemed to feel the need to stress the word, to underline the gravity of the situation.
“And who, pray tell, am I meant to have murdered?”
Smith seemed astonished that he would have to ask. “Your mother, of course.”
“My mother?” Zach eyed Smith narrowly. “This is a joke, I apprehend.”
“A joke?” Smith said, shocked. “I would never joke about murder.”
“Then to accuse me of murdering my mother is simply ridiculous.”
“You didn’t kill your mother, sir?” Smith looked relieved.
“I suppose in a manner of speaking I was responsible for her death,” Zach admitted with a careless shrug. He was hungry and wanted to get this nonsense over with.
