Maggie MacKeever (17 page)

The Cap’n strolled toward him. “And?” he said.

“The woman is upstairs, as you ordered. As of a half hour ago.”

She would be growing more desperate by the moment, which served the Cap’n’s purpose. “You disapprove?”

Pritchett eyed the Cap’n’s walking stick.
“
’Tis not my place.”

“See that you remember it. Have you discovered why it took so long for me to receive the glove?”

“Jules said she couldn’t get away sooner.”

“Jules gets away as often as she pleases.” The Cap’n gazed at the naked posture woman, who now lay flat on her back, knees drawn up under her chin, hands clasped under her thighs, much like a trussed chicken save for the lighted candle inserted in a place not intended by nature for such. “She might prove more biddable after passing some time here.”

The Runner looked at the posture woman, and quickly away. Satisfied that he’d made his point, the Cap’n added: “I assume you are unaware that she went to Wakely Court tonight.”

Pritchett’s startlement was plain to read. The Cap’n raised his
walking stick and tapped the Runner’s shoulder with its ornate silver head. “Never think you are my sole source of information.
Or that you cannot be replaced. Since Jules is so fond of Wakely Court, she may fetch me a small notebook containing a handwritten copy of a most unusual text:
Cryptographia, or the Art of Decyphering
by David Arnold Conradus.”

Jules had gone again to Wakely Court? Rose suspected that she fancied the earl. Deeper and deeper into the quagmire they sank, and if there was to be a rescue, Pritchett didn’t know by whom. He applied his handkerchief to his spectacles, and hoped his thoughts didn’t show on his face. “Do we have any notion where the notebook might be?”

“No, but ‘we’ will find it, or I will know why not.” Cap’n Jack went on in considerable detail about what would happen if ‘we’ failed. Parliamentary Select Committees were mentioned, as well as the tendency of police officers to be influenced by monetary considerations, for example allowing certain criminals to get away with minor crimes for which the rewards were slight until they went on to commit major crimes for which considerable blood money would be paid. Pritchett intensely disliked the conversation, for he
was guilty of all this and more, and not solely on Captain Jack’s behalf.

After scolding Pritchett as if he were an unsatisfactory servant on the verge of being turned off without a reference, the Cap’n offered him the freedom of the house. The Runner refused.

Ciphers, mused Cap’n Jack, as he left the room, for he had made inquiries and thereby discovered that the current Lord Dorset had survived considerable time spying behind enemy lines during his service in the Peninsula. In addition to possessing the devil’s own luck, Ned Fairchild
had a talent for investments. He’d no need of the Dorset properties, or his prize money, or the occasional bank draft from the War Office. Thanks to their grandmother, his sister was wealthy in her own right.

A plump whore hovered at the top of the stairway. On sight of Cap’n Jack, or Cap’n Jack in his current incarnation, because the face he presented here was not the face he showed the greater world, she stared at the carpet. “I’ve been keeping an eye out, like you said.”      

The wench was terrified, and trying not to show it. Cap’n Jack had bought her from her brother, who ran a low tavern; had taken her maidenhead himself. She’d not forgot it yet.

He caught her by the throat and squeezed; admired how the red prints of his fingers stood out against her fair skin like bright paint on a canvas. “The woman is in your room?”

“Just like you said.”

“No one has seen or spoken to her?”

She tried to shake her head. “There’s not been so much as a peep out of her. I think she’s afraid.”

Only a fool would not be frightened. Cap’n Jack released the whore’s throat and caught her arm instead. “You weren’t to talk to her.”

“I didn’t!  I swear I didn’t!” she wailed.

Cap’n Jack twisted her arm behind her back. “Talk to anyone about her and you won’t talk to anyone again. Do you understand?”

The girl nodded, mutely. Cap’n Jack let her go. She scurried
down the hall. He unlocked the door and entered her room; locked the door again behind him and pocketed the key.

The walls were thick, as was the carpet that muffled the floor. The window was doubly secured, first with shutters and then with heavy drapes. A looking glass was positioned so that those who were so inclined could observe what they did.

At the window waited a cloaked woman. “Greetings, Madame Morel. Ah, but under the circumstances we need not be so formal. I shall call you Amélie.”

She parted her lips, but said nothing, as if finding herself in such surroundings had temporarily deprived her of speech. Cap’n Jack didn’t know the woman personally, but he knew her kind.

He moved closer. She shrank back. In her mid-twenties, he estimated; black hair and dark eyes, very
ravissante
, very French.

From his coat pocket, he drew out the stained glove. “You’ve nothing
to say? Then I shall continue. You’re misplaced something, I believe.”

Her eyes fixed on it.
“Nom de Dieu,”
she breathed.

“
Le bon Dieu
will not assist you.” The Cap’n stopped in front of her, so close she could have reached out and caressed him had she wished to, which she clearly did not. “You were foolish to retain such a memento,
n’est çe pas?
Because now it has come into my possession, and I may decide whether the world finds out that you have been indiscreet. Do you understand? You are in my power,
mignonne.
I may do with you as I will.”

He spoke no more than the truth. He could keep her locked up in this place indefinitely. Could make her into the centerpiece of a tableau like the one downstairs. Would do so in an instant, if she did not obey.

She would obey. This one had no spirit. She was quivering like a frightened rabbit, and he hadn’t touched her yet.

Her terrified eyes fixed on his face, as if seeking to find some shred of humanity there. “Who are you?” she whispered.

Unfortunately for Mme Morel, he had no humanity left in him. “You may call me
Mon Capitaine.”

Chapter Eighteen

Woman is always a slippery, changeable thing.
— Virgil

Ned sprawled on the sofa in the library, a cool cloth laid upon his brow. The sofa was uncomfortable, but it was unlikely he
would
be comfortable anywhere, having sought solace for the debacle of the previous evening in his brandy decanter, and as a result suffering an extremely sore head.

He was additionally suffering the company of his closest friend. “She returned the statue?” Kane inquired.

“She did.”

“I hesitate to ask, but in that case why don’t I see it now?”

“Because she stole it back again.” Ned wadded up the cloth and tossed it on the floor.

“And why did she do that?”

“I insulted her.”

“Ah.”

Ned gazed at the old ceiling, with its massive beams and plastered lath, and debated which among the things Julie had told him that he cared to share. “At which point she snatched the statue and went out through the window. She has an aversion to doors.”

“You are leaving out a great deal, I think.”

So Ned was, such as the sickness he’d felt in his belly when he thought Julie had meant to be done with him. And then she’d sat down on the floor in front of him, and looked at him with those amazing blue eyes, and he would have given her the statue and everything else in the house if only she would stay.

She
had
stayed. Ned could have had her in this very library if only he hadn’t opened his stupid mouth. Instead, he’d driven her away. He might have shot himself if it didn’t involve the effort of getting up off the couch.

He’d been the first to kiss her, to caress her as he had. He meant to be the first to do far more. Providing she stopped abusing his person long enough to permit matters to proceed.

Not that he could blame her. She offered him her virtue and he insulted her. Ned wondered when he’d become such a clod.

“I dislike pointing out the obvious,” said Kane, when the silence had stretched out so long it became clear Ned wasn’t going to tender further confidences, “but she is a thief.”

Ned wished Kane would stop dwelling on that detail. “So am I,” he said. “For that matter, so are you. We’re forgiven because our crimes benefit our country. Hers are committed in order to survive.”

Kane inspected the astrolabe that Clea had recently retrieved from the attic, an elaborate instrument bearing a star map, and a zodiacal circle, and other devices useful in measuring the positions and movements of heavenly bodies. “I see.”

Ned doubted that Kane did. When Julie climbed out the window Ned had wanted nothing more than to go after her. To storm into Ashcroft House and demand the return of what was rightfully his. He would have done exactly that, if other matters hadn’t been at stake.

No female before had affected him like this, not even Bianca,
whose face he could scarce recall. Ned wouldn’t forget Julie’s face,
even if he never saw it again. He’d never forget the feel of her
beneath his hands, the taste of her mouth.

Bates was watching Ashcroft House. Should Julie flee, Ned would follow and fetch her back. “She knows she can’t pawn the statue. When she’s done being angry, she’ll return the blasted thing.”

Maybe she would, but for what purpose? Kane touched a finger to the movable pointer in the middle of the astrolabe. “Alexander is fascinated with Sabine.”

“Most men are.”

Kane shot the earl a glance. Ned’s features revealed nothing, and his eyes were closed. “Do you trust her?”

Ned half-opened one eyelid. “Sabine? Of course. You sound like you do not.”

“I’m suspicious of her timing. Why return now, after so many years away?”

“Perhaps she has an interest in seeing the peace negotiations play out.”

“If they ever do,” Kane muttered. The Czar was less interested in redrawing the map of Europe than in annoying the Regent, whom he dismissed as ‘a poor sort of prince’, and impressing the ladies with his mastery of the waltz. “She’s keeping secrets, all the same.”

“Of course she’s keeping secrets,” Ned retorted. “So are you. Must I point it out again?”

“That’s a different matter.” Kane began to pace. “I dislike this resemblance between Sabine’s miniature and your Miss Wynne. As well as the similarity of names. One might inquire of Carlyle, I suppose, but the old man seldom comes to town. He has been ill for years.”

‘His’ Miss Wynne? Julie didn’t belong to Ned. Although she surely would have if not for the interruption provided by Bates. Had Ned not been drinking, would matters have gone so far? He liked to think he might have had more sense.

Julie hadn’t a shy bone in her body. If he didn’t stop thinking of her, he’d not have a soft bone in his. Ned wondered how long it would take Julie to forgive him this time. How absurdly tempting she had been in her cap and breeches. He wanted to dress her in fabrics and colors that suited her vivid personality. After which he wanted to undress her again.

What had they been talking about? Ah, Sabine’s miniature. “The resemblance may be a coincidence. Hardly an unusual combination, blonde hair and blue eyes.”

Kane shrugged off the suggestion. In his line of work, only a fool believed in coincidence.
“You know nothing about this girl.”

Ned knew she was curious. How far did Julie’s curiosity go? If it
was
curiosity, and not part of some elaborate plot. Kane saw connections everywhere. Frequently Kane was correct.

But not in this case. Not unless Julie’s inexpert kisses and innocently erotic explorations had misled Ned in a manner that the most skilful female agent had not been able to achieve. He watched Kane take another turn around the room. “The Grand Duchess was involved in a plot to assassinate her brother, was she not?”

Kane gestured impatiently.
“Catherine knew nothing of the conspiracy to depose the Czar and put her on the throne.”

“Yet it appeared at the time that she might have. The point being that things aren’t necessarily what they seem.”

Silence descended on the library, while Kane considered Campbell’s latest report that Napoleon was planting mulberry and
olive and chestnut trees on Elba, establishing a body of refuse collectors to clean the streets of Portoferraio as well as setting up a market for bottled mineral water from a spring at Poggio, and at
the same time inspecting the salt ponds and water supply and recording the amount of lettuce and grapes eaten in his own household;
and Ned nursed his sore head
.

Ned was made dizzy by Kane’s incessant pacing. “The name of this particular game,” he offered, as an olive branch, “appears to be blackmail. Niddicock is being blackmailed. One hesitates to guess why.”

Kane swung round. “Blackmail?”

“Julie has an actress friend named Rose, at Drury Lane. Rose taught Julie to act the lady — or tried to do so. She has been in Newgate. Julie, that is, not Rose. So far as I know. Who is behind these things, she can’t be brought to say.”

“If someone else
is
behind it.” Kane moved closer to the sofa. “Which brings us back to the recent spate of thefts.”

“I realize you’re required to be of a suspicious nature, but it grows annoying after a time.” Ned met Kane’s gaze, and held it. “Lady Georgiana warned Julie that I might make an attempt on her virtue. She brought back the statue all the same.”

It wasn’t enough that Kane couldn’t turn around without trip
ping over one or another of the Eminent Annoyances and must attempt to prevent diplomatic negotiations — such as they were — from further breaking down. Now he must also try to circumvent catastrophe on this additional front. “I’m not sure you should tell me more,” he said.