The Black Hawk
( Spymaster's Lady - 4 )
Joanna Bourne
Attacked on a rainy London street, veteran spy Justine DeCabrillac knows only one man can save her: Hawker, her oldest friend . . . her oldest enemy. London's crawling with hidden assassins and someone is out to frame Hawker for murder. The two spies must work together to find who's out to destroy them
The Black Hawk
(The fourth book in the Spymaster's Lady series)
A novel by Joanna Bourne
To Karen
Acknowledgments
To my wonderful editor at Berkley, Wendy McCurdy, and my agent, Pam Hopkins, of Hopkins Literary Associates. You have always believed in me. Thank you.
I am grateful to my patient beta readers: Leo Bourne, Mary Ann Clark, Laura Watkins, Madeline Iva, and Wendy Rome. I owe much to the support and friendship of the excellent folks at the Compuserve Books and Writers Community: Diana Gabaldon, Deniz Bevan, Jen Hendren, Jenny Meyers, Donna Rubino, Beth Shope, and others too numerous to mention. The Beau Monde, a special-interest chapter of RWA, has provided endless expertise on all things 1800-ish. Anything I got right is because of these wonderful people. All mistakes are my own.
One
1818
London
THE PAST CAUGHT UP TO HER IN THE RAIN, IN BRADDY Square, six hundred yards from Meeks Street.
She’d been wary as a wild bird all the way across London. No footstep echoed her own. Nobody showed a flicker of interest. But she knew someone was following. She had been a spy a long time.
Her gun was no use in this wet. She kept her knife in hand, ready, under her cloak.
In the end, it did no good. The square was a confusion of housemaids scurrying home and clerks bent under their umbrellas, resentful. They emerged out of the rain, brushed by, and disappeared into a landscape of gray. A young messenger boy ran toward her, his jacket pulled up over his head, a slouching cap hiding his face. Ordinary. He was wrapped in ordinary.
At the final instant, she sensed intention. She twisted. Slashed out with her knife. Hit him through the cover of his coat he twirled in her face. Heard him gasp. She felt the jolt and shock as his body slammed into her. She had a glimpse of his face. His knife scraped her chest, missing the blow to her heart, cutting her clothing. Cold pain speared up her arm.
He pushed her away and ran past, his boots splayed side to side, scattering gravel. It was the mark of the assassin to strike and run.
She dropped the knife and took her arm where she’d been cut. Sapriste. Her hand came away red. The blood went pale with rain and washed from her palm even as she looked at it.
I’m bleeding. She pressed her arm tight to her ribs. Her dress was cut through. The slice down her arm ended in one single, deep jab. It had hit something important and the blood spilled out.
So small a thing to let the life out of her body. It barely hurt at all. Just death. Only death.
So she hurried. She let her cloak slip off. She held her blood in, trying to buy another few minutes. But all her time was seeping away.
Meeks Street was north of the square. The Service chose a quiet street. No one entered unless he had business there. Number Seven was halfway down. She staggered onward, not trying to keep dry or be inconspicuous or watch for enemies. Trying to make the last hundred yards.
She had expected death to be more spectacular, somehow. She had thought it would come at the end of a long Game, with the last roll of the dice still spinning and everyone watching and holding their breath for her. She’d be caught and shot by one army or another. It had seemed the most fitting end.
She’d expected the simplicity of the firing squad. Its neatness and order. Its finality. Instead, she was bleeding to death on an ugly English street, and she had no idea why.
Now she’d never find out. Even the question faded as she concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.
Gray curtains of water wove in the wind. Two men barreled by, almost knocking her down. They were English gentlemen, seeing no one and nothing beyond themselves. They’d find blood on their coats when they got home and mourn their spoiled clothing and never know what had happened an inch under their noses.
She’d made them bloody aristos. Funny. It struck her as funny.
Nobody noticed her dying. Every door was closed. Every curtain drawn.
She passed low walls, punctuated by stone posts. Then she was at Number Seven. She knew the way even when she couldn’t see very well. The door was painted green. The knocker was a bronze rose. She covered it with her bloody hand and banged down hard and went back to holding her blood in.
She leaned on the door, her forehead against the green paint. It is strange that it does not hurt. I have been in pain so many times. This final time it does not hurt at all.
Really, she was not ready to die. She had a long list of things to do.
The door opened and she had nothing to lean upon. The ground crested upward to meet her. The rug was scratchy on her cheek, surprisingly hard. She felt herself rolled over. She was looking up at a woman, not much more than a girl. She didn’t know this one, did she?
Hands pushed her own hands away and came down strong around her arm, at the wound. Someone shouted. She could tell it was shouts from the urgency of it. It sounded distant in her ear.
When she opened her eyes again, he was there. Black hair and a thin face, dark as a Gypsy. Serious eyes.
She said, “Hello, ’Awker.”
“Hello, Justine,” Hawker said.
Two
SHE DID NOT DIE ON THE DOORSTEP. SHE HAD NOT died more times than she could count. Perhaps this would be another.
She opened her eyes. After a while she knew where she was. She was lying on the dining room table at Meeks Street, looking up at silver loops and flowered sconces holding half-burned candles. The ceiling was white, molded plasterwork with garlands of leaves.
She heard Hawker say, “Will she live?” and the long, rude, impatient man who was a surgeon replied, “How the hell would I know? Now get out of my light.” She could not tell if this reassured Hawker, but it gave her considerable comfort. Surgeons were honest butchers. She did not trust polite doctors with their slimy patter of Latin and their soft hands.
The table was flat and hard under her. She hadn’t noticed them cutting her clothes away, but she was naked. Several people held her down. It was Hawker who took her left shoulder and looked into her face.
Dark closed down upon her. She was in the heart of the pain. Had to get away. Had to. She fought.
The surgeon said, “Keep her still, damn it.”
Hawker said, “Chère. Ne me quitte pas. Look. Look at me. Ici.”
Light came back. He was above her, his clever, handsome face grave. Hair fell in his eyes. Hard eyes. They had been old and cynical when he was a boy. “Look at me. That’s right.” His fingers dug into her shoulder. “Be still. You’re here with me.”
“I didn’t want to come here,” she said.
“I know. Quiet, now. Chouette, look at me.”
“I don’t hate you.” Did she even say that? It was too much effort.
“She’s fainted,” someone said. “Good.”
She had not fainted. She saw shadow and darkness, heard their voices, felt—oh yes, she felt—the pain. But it was as if it happened to someone else, several feet away.
A man said something. Hawker answered, “. . . before the blood washes away. Find out where this happened. Pax, I want you to . . .”
The surgeon did not pause in hurting her. “See if there’s anybody left out in the rain who needs me. Every time you people—” and he said, “Hold that,” to someone.
She said, “I was not fast enough. I must tell
you. The papers . . .”
“Later,” Hawker said. “Talk later.”
She was not going to die, then. Not possibly. Hawker, of all people upon the earth, would awaken her and force her to speak if her life were ending and she had only minutes left. He would be brutally efficient, wringing the last morsel of words out of her, if she were dying. One could depend on him.
Another voice. “The house is secure.” A man’s face, grim and scarred, looked down at her and went away. William Doyle.
Then Hawker was telling someone to knock on the doors on Meeks Street. Did anybody see anything?
Under it all, the mutter of the surgeon. “Don’t you slip away on me, you bastard . . . And here’s the bugger causing all the problems. Little bleeder going at it like hell for no reason. I need to—Will you people hold the damn woman still!”
There was a pattern of greater pain and lesser pain. The surgeon set stitches, talking to himself as he worked on her arm. It was predictable in its dreadful bite and pull. She counted. Put a number on each second. Stepped from one second to the next. She could get through ten seconds. Start again. Ten more.
“Nice musculature. Healthy and no fat on her. I suppose she’s one of yours.” It was the surgeon’s voice.
“Yes. Keep her alive,” Hawker said.
Someone said, “Doyle is . . .” and a murmur after that. Someone said, “It’s coming down in buckets,” and then, “. . . found it under . . .”
“I’ll look at it later.” Hawker’s voice.
More voices. She did not listen. Soft darkness, most perfectly solid, crowded in from all sides like so many insistent black pillows. She had slept in a bed with black velvet pillows in Vienna.
A clangor of pain struck and she was being lifted. Corners of the room spun by, confusing and dizzying.
The surgeon said, “You know what to do. Watch her. Make sure it doesn’t start bleeding again. Put her to bed and keep her there.”
“I shall devote myself to that goal,” from Hawker.
“You are barbarians.” She did not say they were crétins and clumsy idiots because she was a marvel of tact and endurance. “I am naked. Deal with this.”
She was being carried upstairs past the large mirror in the hall. Past the line of maps in frames. After so many years, Hawker’s arms were still as comforting as bread and milk. Familiar as the rumble of thunder.
I have never forgotten.
He was not tall or massive. Not a walking mountain of threat like William Doyle. Hawker was the menace of a thin, sharp blade. He was strong in the deep fibers of his body. Tough as steel in the sinew and bone and straps of lean muscle.
Behind them, at the bottom of the stairs, she heard William Doyle say to someone, “She’s too old for you, lad. She was too old for the likes of you when she was twelve.”
One of the young men of this household had looked upon her nakedness and become interested. Her last, thin thread of consciousness found this amusing.
Three
ADRIAN HAWKHURST, KNIGHT COMPANION OF THE Order of the Bath, former thief, master pickpocket from the rookeries of St. Giles, Head of the British Intelligence Service, stood beside Justine’s bed, watching her breathe. He could trap air in a bubble. Whistle it out a wooden reed. Wave it around with a fan. He couldn’t push air in and out of her lungs. He couldn’t do a thing to keep her alive.
Doyle said, “Did you ever go into that shop of hers and talk to her?”
“No.”
“I wondered,” Doyle said.
“She wasn’t a threat with Napoleon gone. She was nobody the Service had to watch.”
“You kept an eye on her,” Doyle said. “Her and her shop.”
“Yes.”
Justine was naked under the covers, pale and vulnerable. Bricks, hot from the oven, wrapped in flannel, were tucked up and down the bed, keeping the chill out. He’d laid her down inside that barricade. When he pulled the blanket up over her, she didn’t move.
She’d have a new scar when she healed. That made five. He knew the story of every one. He’d kissed them all.
She’d always been pale as the moon. Skin you could almost see through. He used to lie beside her in the candlelight and trace the line of a vein up her arm to the pulse in her throat, then down to the mound of her breast. Or he’d follow one thin track up her leg to the silky, soft nest he never got tired of playing in. She was opaque now, as if the light in her had retreated to the core of her. It was gathered up there, keeping the chill out, keeping her life’s heat in.
Fate carries a sting in her tail. He’d wanted Justine back in his bed. Now she was. But look at the price of it.
Doyle came up beside him. “Luke says she has a good chance.”
“It’s his job to say that.”
“He’s too busy to lie.”
“Friends will always find time to lie to you. A heartwarming thought in a cynical world.” He set his knuckles against her cheek. Skin fluent as running water, sleek as air. He felt the vibration inside from her blood pulsing.
Even after all these years, he’d still wake up in the middle of the night, hard as a rock from dreaming about her. He’d never stopped being hungry for this woman. “I wanted her back, and here she is. Fate’s a perverse bitch.”
“Always.” Doyle slipped his hand inside the blanket, to Justine’s shoulder, testing the temperature. “She’ll make it. She’s hard to kill.”
“Many have tried.”
Her hair spread everywhere on the pillow. Light-brown hair, honey hair, so golden and rich it looked edible. He knew how it felt, wrapped around his fingers. Knew how her breasts fitted into his hands. He knew the weight and shape and strength of her legs when they drew him into her.
A long time ago, she’d shot him. They’d been friends, and then lovers, and then enemies. Spies, serving different sides of the war.
The war was over, this last year or two. Sometimes, he walked outside the shop she kept and looked in. Sometimes, he found a spot outside and watched for a while, just to see what she looked like these days.
The last time they’d exchanged words, she’d promised to kill him. He hadn’t expected her on his doorstep, half-dead, running from an enemy of her own.
I have the most dangerous woman in London in my bed.
Downstairs and distant, the front door to Meeks Street opened and closed again. He couldn’t hear what his men were saying in the study, just the front door and the sound of rain coming down, urgent and hectic, like it meant business.
“Pax traced the blood trail to Braddy Square. That’s where it happened.” Doyle reached inside his jacket and drew a knife from an inner pocket and passed it over. “He found this, lying in a pool of blood.”
“Justine’s.” A black knife with a flat hilt. Deep hatch marks on the grip for fighting. Balanced perfectly for throwing. “I gave her this.” Razor sharp, of course. Justine knew how to respect a blade. “It’s been a clever and useful piece of cutlery today. It’s drawn blood.” He looked past the knife, down into Justine’s face. “You cut him, Owl. Good work.”
He remembered putting this knife in her hand. Saying, “You shouldn’t walk around without one.” Gods. They’d both been kids.
“She’s carried it awhile,” Doyle said.
“A long time.” He could feel that in the steel—the years she’d kept it close to her skin. Why had she held on to it? “Now all we need to do is find a Londoner walking around with a slice cut in him.”
“Which don’t narrow the field as much as I’d like. And he might not be English. Could be the Prussians or Austrians are still irritated with her.” Doyle scratched the stubble on his cheek. “Or the French.”
“Given the length and ingenuity of her career, there are Swedes and South Sea cannibals annoyed at her.”
She’d kept his knife all these years.
He slid Justine’s blade, still with the dried blood on it, under her pillow, putting the hilt to the left. That was the way she’d kept it at night, b
ack when he knew her well. Maybe she’d thrash in her sleep and feel it under there and be reassured. Maybe she’d reach for it in her dreams and use it to hold death off.
Her breath caught in her chest with a rattle. Then silence. Cold sluiced over him. Time stopped . . . till she grabbed air again and settled to a slow in-and-out.
Not dying. She wasn’t dying. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“She hurts,” Doyle said. “They do that when they hurt. It doesn’t mean anything.”
A friend always lies to you.
She muttered something—he couldn’t make out the words—and turned her head on the pillow. She was shaking in all her muscles, as if the pain were trapped inside her body, trying to get out. He said, “This isn’t sleep.”
“No.”
“I used to watch her sleep sometimes, back when I knew her that well.” He’d get out of bed after they made love and go stoke up the fire. He used to stand in the cold, naked, looking down at her, thinking how perfect she was. Not quite believing it was real. “She falls in deep, every muscle loose. It’s the only time she’s not a little watchful. Then she wakes up all at once, all over, smooth as a cat. Probably there’s cat in her ancestry someplace. Those old noble French families . . .”
“No telling, with the French. Inventive people. And she is still strolling about armed to the teeth, even in these piping days of peace. We took a gun out of the pouch in her cloak. Loaded. Not fired recently.”
“I keep telling her—” He steadied his voice. “I used to tell her, you can always trust your powder in the rain. It’s reliably wet.”
“Might be why she had that knife in her hand instead of a gun and she ain’t dead. She was also carrying this.” Doyle took out a handkerchief and unwrapped it carefully to show a soggy, square mass, layer on layer of thin paper, pale pink with dilute blood. “Newspaper clippings. Unreadable at the moment.”
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