Chapter 18
Night fell early in November, and it was nearly dark as the small, nondescript hackney carriage made its way to 11 Exeter Street. Kiri watched out her window as the streets became narrower and shabbier. Kirkland said, “It’s not too late to change your mind, Lady Kiri.”
She turned and asked curiously, “If I decided to go home, what would you do to catch the conspirators?”
“The same as we’re doing now, only with longer odds of success. In my trade, we work with what we have. If enough good people are working on the problem, eventually there is a breakthrough.” After a long pause, he added in a low voice, “Sometimes that comes too late.”
It was easier to be a soldier than a spy, she decided. More straightforward. “Could you tell me who else will be staying at your house? Mackenzie, of course. Did you mention a couple who take care of the house?”
“Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Powell. They’re very capable and completely discreet. If you need anything, ask one of them.”
“What about my chaperone, Cassandra?”
He laughed a little. “I don’t usually think of her as a chaperone. She’s one of my best agents and recently back from France. She stays in Exeter Street whenever she’s in London. If she wishes you to know more than that, she’ll tell you.”
The hackney stopped in front of a sizable town house. “It’s larger than I expected,” Kiri observed.
“This was a fashionable neighborhood once. The
ton
has moved west, but the well-built houses remain. Most are broken up into flats or rooms to let. Number 11 is considered to be a boardinghouse since people come and go.” Kirkland opened the door and climbed down, then turned to give her a hand out. “I do hope you don’t come to regret your courage in joining this particular mission.”
“I doubt I shall.” Kiri took his hand and climbed from the hackney. His touch still felt brotherly, not that there was anything wrong with brotherly. “I don’t usually look back. When I make foolish decisions, I file the consequences under lessons learned and tell myself not to be stupid in the same way again.”
He laughed. “You’re a remarkably wise young woman.”
“My grandmother said I was an old soul, but she was biased. If I was really an old soul, I wouldn’t make as many mistakes in the first place,” Kiri said candidly.
“If you weren’t a duke’s daughter, I’d recruit you as an agent in a finger snap,” he said with conviction. “Now come inside and meet your companions for the next little while. It’s best not to use your own name. Mackenzie said you told the smuggler that you were Carrie Ford. Will that do?”
“It sounds delightfully average.” As she climbed the steps, she said thoughtfully, “It will be interesting not to be Lady Kiri Lawford.”
“Perhaps, but you’ll be glad to go back to her when this mission is done.” Kirkland opened the door with a key. “Our own problems have the virtue of familiarity.”
He ushered her into the front hall. The table and two chairs that flanked it were modest and the picture above was an unremarkable watercolor of the Thames, but the area was spanking clean. A middle-age man and woman appeared, followed by a hulking man who looked like a servant. Kirkland said, “Miss Ford, meet Mr. and Mrs. Powell. She and her husband will take good care of you.”
Mrs. Powell was short and plump, with shrewd blue eyes and an imperturbable expression. “Welcome, Miss Ford. Our lodgers mostly look after themselves, but I clean the rooms once a week and his lordship has arranged for you to take your meals here. You’re also welcome to make tea in the kitchen whenever you wish.”
“I know I shall be very comfortable, Mrs. Powell.” As for Mr. Powell . . . Kiri asked, “Would that be Sergeant Powell, retired?”
He grinned. “’Tis that obvious, Miss Ford?”
“A lucky guess,” she said, returning his smile.
Mrs. Powell said, “Daniels, bring in Miss Ford’s baggage and take it to the back room on the second floor.”
The servant bobbed his head and moved toward the door with stolid steps. As he moved past Kiri, she caught his scent. After a startled moment, she whirled and said, “Good evening, Mr. Daniels. Haven’t we met before?”
The fellow wore an eye patch, but the other eye sparkled with amusement. It was Mackenzie, looking older and wider and very unlike the dashing club owner. “Doubt it, miss,” he said in a voice subtly different from his usual speech. “I’d’ve surely remembered such a fine lady as yourself.” His visible eye closed in a slow wink before he shuffled outside to get her luggage.
As Kiri grinned, Kirkland offered his hand. “You can trust all the residents of this house, Miss Ford. Good luck and good hunting.”
“I’ll do my best.” She cocked her head. “Am I now an official British agent?”
“Indeed you are.” His gaze was sober. “Be careful. I don’t want to face your brother if something happens to you.”
“I’ll try to spare you that,” she promised.
Then Kirkland was gone, and Kiri was on her own. She must succeed or fail on her own merits, not because she was the general’s daughter or of royal Hindu blood, or the daughter of an English duke. The prospect was . . . exhilarating.
Mackenzie had already left most of Kiri’s bags in her room, so she unpacked. The room was simple, but pleasant. Medium size, very clean, a comfortable bed, and a frayed but warm carpet on the floor.
As she placed folded garments into the clothespress, Kiri realized how carefully thought-out the house was. There was no grandeur that might attract unwelcome attention in a poor neighborhood.
But the modest furnishings were well made and included everything a guest might need, including a screen in one corner, a washstand, a desk, and writing materials. There were even a couple of books, one a King James Bible. Kirkland had created a refuge for agents who might be exhausted or emotionally frayed from their work. The house offered uncomplicated welcome.
Kiri’s heart jumped when a knock sounded on the door. Mackenzie with the last of her luggage? But when she opened the door, she found a woman so neutral in appearance that she didn’t need a crowd to disappear into.
The newcomer looked a few years older than Kiri, probably under thirty, though it was hard to tell. Medium height, medium brown hair, a well-worn calico gown in shades of tan, and unremarkable blue eyes. The perfect appearance for an agent.
Guessing the newcomer’s identity, Kiri said, “You must be Cassandra. Welcome to my humble abode.”
“Call me Cassie.” She moved soundlessly into the room. “You are Kiri, known as Carrie, and I’m supposed to offer guidance and try to keep you from serious trouble.”
They eyed each other like cats. “Cassie and Carrie,” Kiri remarked. “This could become complicated. Do I pass the test?”
The other woman sighed. “You can’t do this kind of work. You may be wearing a gown with a simple cut, but your demeanor says you’re an aristocrat and rich.”
Kiri looked more closely and realized that Cassandra’s eyes weren’t unremarkable. The blue depths went all the way down to hell. Sobered by that recognition, Kiri said, “I’m still Lady Kiri. I can do better.”
“I hope so,” Cassie said pessimistically. “Can you act like a poor Londoner?”
Kiri slipped into her East End accent. “Aye, that I can. Be there any rag shops around where I can buy me a wardrobe?”
Cassie’s brows shot up. “Your accent is good,” she admitted, “but that’s not enough. You move like a woman who is beautiful, confident, and knows that all eyes will turn when you enter a room. That’s all very well for Lady Kiri, but you’ll stand out like a horse in a cow shed in this neighborhood.”
Kiri had worked hard to develop that demeanor because living with the general had taught her the value of confidence. Looking fearful or weak brought out the jackals in some situations, including London drawing rooms. When she first arrived in England, she’d decided it was better to be despised for brashness than weakness.
She closed her eyes and suppressed the knowledge that she was an aristocrat and a general’s daughter. Instead, she conjured up moments such as Lady Norland’s sneers at her mixed-blood heritage. Kiri’s mother might be a princess and a Brahmin, her father and brother English dukes, but Carrie Ford was a mongrel who belonged nowhere.
Her only gifts were a quick wit, enough prettiness to catch a man’s eye, and fierce determination to survive in a hard world. She had learned early to be attractive, but not to look too available. To pretend confidence to keep the jackals away.
And Carrie was as real as Kiri. Opening her eyes and softening her posture, she said, “Who sez a gel like me can’t have a fine gown? Got it for six bob at a rag shop, cut out the bloodstains, and made it fit. Glad you think it makes me look rich and well born. Maybe I should raise me prices.” She swished her hips like a camp follower looking for business. “A gel’s gotta use what she’s got while it’s fresh enough for a good price.”
After a moment of astonishment, Cassie laughed. “You have unexpected talents. I should have known Mackenzie wouldn’t foist an amateur on me. But you do need a different wardrobe. There’s a good shop in the next street that will still be open, if you’re not too tired to go over now.”
“I’m not tired at all.” Kiri thought of the vulnerable royal princess, who wouldn’t be safe until the conspirators were caught. “The sooner I start, the better.”
Another knock at the door. This time it was Mackenzie carrying a small leather-covered trunk. He had the worn air of a tired servant. As practice, Kiri made sure her voice was noncommittal when she said, “Please put that on the table, Daniels.”
As he obeyed, Cassie said tartly, “Everyone knows who you are, Mackenzie, so you might as well straighten up. Did you come up with anything useful today?”
Mackenzie grinned and his posture changed to that of a former officer. “Carmichael and I have been making lists of the most likely hells and sporting houses, based on what little we know of the kidnappers.”
Carrie’s brows arched. “That’s a large task.”
“Which is why we’re reducing the possibilities.” He set the box on the desk.
“Does your list include Les Heures perfume shop?” Seeing his blank expression, Kiri added, “That’s the shop in St. James that makes the cologne worn by the leader of the kidnappers. Since it’s the one thing we know, it’s a good place to start.”
“An expensive shop won’t reveal who buys their products,” Mackenzie warned.
“Perhaps not, but it’s worth trying. Tomorrow morning.” She smiled. “Come dressed as my faithful footman.”
He tugged his forelock like a farm laborer. “Yes, my lady.”
“Carrie or Kiri, but not ‘my lady.’”
“She’s right,” Cassandra said. “You know better, Mac. We must live the roles we’re playing.”
“I stand corrected.” He tapped the leather box he’d brought in. “What’s inside, Carrie? It clinks. A portable liquor cabinet? You’re too young for such dissipation.”
“Too young, and far too wise,” she replied as she unbuckled the lid. “This is my traveling perfume case.” Flipping up the lid, she removed a square of padding to reveal rows of vials packed neatly into racks. “The women in my mother’s family have been perfumers since the world egg hatched. We have a lot more material and equipment in our workroom at home, but I wanted something easily transportable.”
“Why did you bring it here?” Cassie asked, her brows furrowed.
“Since my well-educated nose got me recruited for this mission, I thought it might be useful. And if not—well, I like playing with my perfumes.”
Mackenzie was frowning over what she’d said earlier. “What is the world egg?”
“A Hindu creation myth,” she explained. “My mother’s family says ‘since the world egg hatched’ to indicate a very long time.”
Though Adam didn’t use the phrase, she realized. Kiri had spent most of her life in India and was comfortable with her Hindu self. Adam, as a very young duke who had to prove how very English he could be, had denied half of his own history. He was still learning to balance the two sides of his heritage.
Cassie was studying the vials with interest. “May I open a bottle?”
“By all means.” Kiri indicated the top row. “These are base mixtures that I’ve developed as a foundation for a perfume. This group contains essences that can be added to a base,” she indicated the middle row. “The bottom row is finished perfumes that I particularly like. The one you’re picking up is called Spring Flowers.”
Cassie pulled out the stopper and sniffed cautiously, then smiled with a sweet pleasure that made her look much younger. “It really is like a garden in spring!” She carefully plugged the bottle and picked up another from the top row. After sniffing, her nostrils flared. “This is too intense. Musky.”
“That’s because you have a base mixture. It’s not a finished perfume yet,” Kiri explained. “Many perfumers just combine similar scents to intensify them. I like more complex fragrances. My specialty is blending unique perfumes that fit a woman’s personality. Of course, it also has to wear well on the woman, so experimentation is required. Rather like tuning a violin to find the perfect, true notes.”