by Anne Perry
He looked startled, but he shouldn’t be. She had tried to approach the subject several times and he had closed it cleverly. It was not obvious, but she knew him, at least in some ways, perhaps better than he had realized.
“Very little,” he said with a brief smile. “In fact, I know nothing that isn’t general knowledge to everyone. Of course, I don’t know society nearly as well as you do.”
“None of them is my friend; they are only acquaintances, and that means little. It’s the surface, not the reality.”
“Knowing about people is often a damned good reason not to be friends,” he said dryly, walking across the floor and past her toward the wardrobe where he could hang his dinner suit when he took it off.
He did not touch her as he passed, not even the light brush of his hand on her shoulder. It made it easier, and yet it felt almost like a denial.
“You’re not friends with Amelia, yet it is plain you both know more about each other than the rest of us do.” He took off his jacket and put it on the clothes hanger.
“Superficial,” she said briefly.
He glanced at her. “The information may be superficial, but the understanding of it is profound. You dislike her as much as she dislikes you, but the reasons are different, and in your case, it is not rooted in jealousy.”
So, he’d been watching her! And Amelia. Habit? “And you think that in her it is?”
He looked up at the ceiling and then down again, a roll of the eyes. He turned away and took off his trousers to hang them up. They must be immaculate for tomorrow evening. Cavendish Hall servants would launder all shirts and personal linens.
“Not over Max, I assure you.” She forced herself to sound amused, rather than hurt, that he was giving her only half his attention. She had deliberately kept her hurt out of her voice. It was beneath their relationship to use emotional pressure.
“Of course not,” he agreed, still with his back to her as he hung up his trousers. “He is far too self-satisfied for your taste. His involvement is toward an end. I don’t think he does anything for its own sake, because it is fun or beautiful or interesting, except as it affects something further.”
For an instant she remembered standing beside Victor and watching the wheel of the stars making their slow progress across the summer sky, marveling at the endless universe. It was an activity where the sole purpose was the thrill of such awe. That was when she felt the prickle of tears, which was ridiculous. How could you feel so alone when someone you loved intensely was standing eight feet away?
“You read him very well. But he is not the only self-absorbed and empty man.” She unfastened her dress, taking it off carefully. It was one of his pleasures to help her do so, but apparently not tonight, and she certainly would not ask—not out of pride but as not to spoil the pleasure of his doing so when it happened again.
She took the pins out of her hair and let it fall around her shoulders. She brushed it without looking at her reflection, and tied it in a loose knot where it would stay untangled through sleep. He could pull the knot out easily enough, if he chose.
He did not choose. They went to bed without further meaningful conversation.
She lay on her side, facing away from him. He was not open to speech, let alone touch. It seemed like a long time before she finally fell asleep.
She woke sometime in the night and was aware of an empty bed beside her. Presumably, he had gone to the bathroom. It must have been his movement that had woken her. She would pretend to be asleep. It was not the sort of thing on which one commented.
Half an hour later he had not returned. Now she was worried. Was he ill? She turned up the gas lamp beside her bed and rose. There was no light anywhere else. The bathroom was empty. Victor was not anywhere in their rooms.
She returned to bed, turned out the light, and pulled the sheets up to her chin, but she could not go to sleep.
* * *
Narraway had not been able to sleep either, knowing he must get up again, silently, in three-quarters of an hour, dress, and find his way without turning up the gas anywhere, to get to the orangery by midnight. He must not waken Vespasia. He would tell her about this when it was over. At least, about part of it. Better to leave Normandy out of the account. All he could do was prove that his past mistake was not part of a pattern.
At a quarter to midnight he slid silently out of the bed he would so much rather have stayed in. He tiptoed over to the cupboard, collected his clothes, and went to the bathroom and dressed.
He closed the outer door softly. Vespasia was still sleeping. There were two gas brackets burning on the huge landing. He could see quite clearly to make his way down, across the hall, and along the passage that ultimately led to the conservatory and, beyond that, the orangery. He had soft rubber-soled shoes on, and he moved soundlessly.
It was farther than he had thought, and, in the dimmest of light, he moved more slowly than when he was here in the daytime. He passed the entrance to the long glass-paned conservatory, mostly for flowers. The orangery was next. It was a very large space, for a private house, at least forty feet by fifty, and the orange and lemon trees were old and reached almost to the arched glass roof. One could hide half an army here…in the dark.
He opened the door, slipped in, and closed it behind him.
The smell of damp earth and leaves was rich, but at this time of the year, even though orange trees could hold blossoms, buds, and fruit all at the same time, there was little of the last. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, complete except for the little starlight that came through the glass, he began to walk around the trees, looking for Iris.
He heard the door latch, just the faintest snick. He turned and crept back. Then he saw her, motionless, listening. Her silhouette was unmistakable. No one else had that profile or held her head in just such a way. “Iris,” he whispered.
She heard him immediately and turned. “Lord Narraway…?”
“Here. Come over here.” Better they both stand in the shadows. Habit. Who else would be up at this hour? Did you ever grow too old for assignations?
She was beside him already. He could feel a small package wrapped in oiled silk being put into his hand. It was not as large as he had expected.
“Thank you,” he said softly. “Now go back to bed and pretend nothing happened. But…be careful.”
“I will.” She reached up and touched his cheek with one finger. Then before he could add anything more, she had melted into the shadows, and all he was aware of was the faint sound of the door closing, and then the smell of the earth and the orange trees again.
He moved away from the trunk out to the side of the path, then back toward the door. He was about to open it when he felt, rather than saw, movement to his right. It was so slight, he was not certain if he had imagined it. But there was no wind in here. After a few moments, there was a feeling of stillness.
He waited. Nothing else moved, but he felt almost certain that there was someone else in this huge room with its trees. There was another door. It was to the outside, but he would go through it, along the outer walk, and return through the garden room. That lock would be easy enough to pick, if he had to.
He moved one foot, then the other. A branch slightly over his head brushed leaf on leaf. Had he done that, or someone else? What were they there for? An assignation? Two, in the orangery, in one night? There were only ten of them in this huge house. And all of the servants, of course. Would a servant use this place for meeting? Why not? He or she would hardly expect anyone else to be here!
He walked soundlessly across the path and into the deep shadow of another tree. And then another. He was yards from the outer door. He could see it. The big bolts would make a noise. Whoever it was, the other person would both hear him and see him. But it would be quick. Once outside, he could sprint to the nearest trees, about fifty feet, if he rememb
ered correctly.
Or he could simply come out into the open and go through the door directly into the house, the way he had come. But how would he explain himself? What explanation was there that would not be both ridiculous and grubby? Every man would suspect his wife, unjustly. Unless, of course, they thought it was one of the maids? And that would be even more unjust. Vespasia might believe the truth, but she could not prove it to anyone. She would be very publicly humiliated. He felt sick at the thought. There were things he could not lose: her trust, her love. No use trying to shield himself from the pain, even in the imagination. He loved her more than he knew how to deal with.
Silently, he went over to the outer door, drew the latch sharply, and went out—the same moment that the bullet slammed into the frame.
He threw himself across the pathway onto the grass and rolled over, at least out of the direct line of fire, then scrambled to his feet and ran for the nearest bushes. By now his eyes were used to the dark, so he could stake out the plants’ denser outline against the background.
Quickly he crouched behind them and then looked back toward the house. He could see the dome-shaped roof of the orangery quite clearly, the starlight gleaming on the glass roofs of the orangery and the conservatory. He searched for the door he had come out of and saw it clearly as the light caught it in movement, and then it was gone. Somebody had closed it, but from the inside or the outside? He strained his eyes but could not see any figure, or any more movement at all. Did that mean someone had shot at an intruder, and then, not seeing him when he opened the door, gone back inside and locked it?
Who? A night-prowling footman with a gun?
Hunting what? A poacher? In the orangery? That hardly made sense. Why would a footman be armed, for heaven’s sake? To shoot an indiscreet guest keeping a tryst with someone? That was absurd.
Outside, it could have been a gamekeeper, except there was nothing in the formal gardens to poach. Pheasants, rabbits, or anything else would be in the woodlands beyond, acres of them!
He could not stay here all night. Apart from anything else, it was perishing cold. After the shelter and artificial warmth of the orangery, he was even more aware of it.
He was forced to the last explanation, the one he had been avoiding. It must have to do with the package Iris had given him.
Narraway stood up very slowly, until he could see the path curving toward the garden door and realized just how far he had to go, and in which direction.
Another shot rang out, and he heard it whistle past him and tear into the branches of a low tree behind him, striking the trunk. He dropped to the ground, his breath tight in his chest. It had not come from the same direction, not quite. Whoever it was, they were outside. And coming toward him!
He ran, bent double, moving as fast as he could. With the earth as bare as it was, there was little foliage to hide behind, only stalks, mounds of roots and tubers, and bare, smooth, well-dug dark earth that clung to his feet.
Where was there a holly bush, or a laurel, things that keep their leaves year-round? He tried to peer through the darkness and remember what he had seen when he walked here this morning. That seemed an age ago now.
He should not remain here any longer. If only the other man would move again. Narraway could see nothing, no matter how he strained his eyes. He had to cross about ten yards of the lawn, whichever way he went. There was no cover at all. Run, swerve, keep going as fast as he could.
Even as he thought this another shot rang out, closer to him this time. Who the devil was it, and why? Did someone think he was a burglar? Nice thought. Far too comfortable. The first shot had come from inside the orangery. Thank God Iris had already gone. But the only answer that made complete sense was the worst one: The person firing was one of the guests in the house, or the host.
Narraway picked up a clump of earth and threw it about a dozen feet away. The answering shot was unmistakably closer.
He got to his feet and, bending low, ran toward the only holly tree whose position he could remember. He ran in a zigzag toward the tree. There was one more shot. He thought that was five or six altogether. A pistol? Probably. Not a rifle. Certainly not a shotgun.
How was he going to get back into the house if he had to pick a lock, which he could only do standing in front of it, where he would be an easy target? And no one would hesitate to blame the shooter. What the hell would he say he was doing—if he was alive to say anything?
But then what was one of the guests doing, walking around the house at night with a pistol, taking shots at an unknown figure? There was no good answer. He had a bitter enemy in Cavendish Hall who was just as prepared to take risks as he was. What excuse would they use? That they thought Narraway was a burglar breaking in?
If he could get close enough to a door to be recognizable, he might be safe.
Only ten feet to go. Several minutes since the last shot. Was the assailant still there? How long should Narraway wait, shivering more and more with the cold now that he was not moving?
He decided to go a little farther round, so he could say he had come out through another door and accidentally locked himself out.
He went twenty yards, around an angle and then along the main façade of the back of the house. Then he straightened up, muscles clenched tight with fear and cold, and walked across the open gravel toward the garden room door. He put his hand out, wondering second by second when he would hear the shot a half instant before he felt the impact of it tearing through his flesh.
The handle moved. Round…all the way round. The latch clicked and the door swung open. He pulled it wide and stepped in. His hands were shaking as he closed it behind him and felt his way through the room carefully and on into the corridor beyond. Here it was lit by gas lamps flickering on the walls, spreading only a few yards of glimmering light.
He walked quickly across the expanse of the hall, glancing behind him more than once, to the bottom of the stairs. He saw no one. At the top, he turned toward his own bedroom…his and Vespasia’s. If she was awake and had heard the shots, or his movement woke her, what was he going to say? Maybe nothing, but not a lie. Definitely not a lie.
He turned the handle and pushed, then let out his breath. The room was in darkness. Thank God! He went in and closed the door behind him. He was soaked in sweat. His clothes stuck to his body. He should take a bath, to get clean and warm. But that would waken Vespasia and he would have to explain, or try to.
Instead, he undressed, leaving the package in his jacket when he hung it up in the wardrobe, donned his pajamas again, and very carefully got back into bed. He could feel the warmth of Vespasia’s body. He ached to be able to hold her, let the ease soften the pain inside him. But that would be selfish. He might have disregarded that, but he would also have to explain why he was freezing cold, still shivering not from the wind in the night, but from the fear of being shot at, and knowing that the life that had become so precious to him could be snatched away in an instant.
It was a long time before he finally fell asleep.
* * *
He woke heavy-headed and still aching from the chill of the night and the tension his body would not let go of. But he worked through it, dressing quickly, shaving, and trying to make himself look a little less as if he were coming down with a chill. He was not yet prepared to explain anything to Vespasia.
He asked her to go down and begin breakfast, and he would follow her in a few minutes. As soon as she was gone, he went to the jacket he had worn last night and from the inside pocket took the package out. It was three or four inches long, eight inches across, and half an inch thick. The altered submarine blueprints.
Competition to develop subaquatic machines was razor-sharp, progressing week by week. The Swedes were brilliant; the Americans had been among the earliest. And apparently Peru excelled, too. Britain was a little late on the scene but had now made up for i
t with a recent spurt of development…so one believed. Hoped! This package, destined for Germany, represented only minor new details, but critical. They were very slightly falsified: just a figure changed, a proportion. But it would be sufficient to make the whole thing useless, and would perhaps take months, even years to find and correct. But even more important, it would enable British Intelligence to catch the traitor in their midst.
Where should he put the package? Hide it where it was invisible to the casual eye, even to the informed search, or leave it where it was, in the open, but appearing to be something else? He favored the latter because it had a far better chance of success. Any competent person could pick the lock of a case or cupboard and the bedroom door would not even be locked—who locks a door from the outside in a private house?
How to disguise it? Anyone searching for it would look through all his possessions and the room itself. There were very few hiding places. The answer was obvious: He must hide it among Vespasia’s personal belongings. She had not much jewelry with her, but small things to do with her toiletry, underwear, and so on.
He opened the drawer of her handkerchiefs, long white gloves for evening wear, silk or lace scarves or fichus, and below them, other silks. He picked out a place and slipped the package in. He would have to tell her, of course, but later. Now he must go down to breakfast, before she came up to see if he was all right.
He joined the company at table and noticed immediately that he was not the only one to be late. Neither Iris nor James Watson-Watt was there. Had they slept in? It would be clumsy to ask, and possibly tactless.
He wished everyone good morning, then helped himself from the sideboard and sat down. A chair had been left vacant for him beside Vespasia.
