Authors: Arpan B
It
took several tries, but finally Ethan heard the last tumbler click
into place. "Come on, lover," he whispered. He lifted the
lever and the latch came loose. The door swung open in a heavy
congratulatory wave.
The
clapping of many hands came from the doorway. Ethan turned to see
Collis, Clara, Phillipa, and Fisher applauding him with smiles. Kurt
glared approvingly as well, but Etheridge only gazed impassively at
him over the heads of the others.
Feebles,
however, was transported. "You've a natural touch, sir, a real
natural touch!"
Ethan
bowed slightly. "I had a good teacher, Mr. Feebles."
Etheridge
stepped forward. "Very well, then, Mr. Damont. You've passed the
most important tests. I think it's time you and I had a talk."
"Jane,
my dear," Uncle Harold called from his study as Jane passed the
open doorway. "Do come in for a moment."
Jane
had walked past Uncle Harold's study a thousand times since she'd
come to London. He'd never so much as looked to notice her before.
This
couldn't be good. As she swallowed nervously and entered the study,
she wondered what Robert had told Uncle Harold.
Well,
what was there to tell? She'd told Robert she wanted to walk on such
a lovely day. He'd certainly witnessed some vigorous walking. He'd
seen her enter a shop, try on a bonnet, speak to a man she'd
encountered in her uncle's own house, and then walk home.
Blast,
she ought to have tried to hide her disturbance more cleverly. Mother
had warned her to watch out for gossipy servants.
"Never
underestimate what a household retainer sees and hears. It usually
does not take much to persuade them to carry tales."
She
moved to stand before her uncle's desk, willing her hands to stop
shaking. That didn't work, so she clasped them daintily behind her
back.
"Yes,
Uncle Harold?"
Her
uncle peered up at her, his usually dour face creased into something
he probably thought more pleasant. Jane's stomach flipped over. Her
uncle never smiled. What was afoot here?
"I've
been meaning to ask you, Jane—have you had a pleasant Season
here with us?"
Jane
relaxed slightly. Uncle Harold only wanted to know if she was going
to stay or go home to Northumbria now that the Season was nearly
done.
"I've
had a very nice time, indeed, Uncle. Aunt Lottie and the girls have
been lovely to me."
Uncle
Harold nodded. "And Society at large? Have you met any young
fellows who piqued your interest?"
Oh,
dear. That whole husband-hunt pretense was coming back to haunt her
now. She painted regret onto her expression. "No, I'm sorry to
say that I have not formed an attachment to any of the gentlemen I've
met." True enough, for Mr. Damont was no gentleman.
Not
that she was attached to him—of course not! He was an enigma—a
puzzle she was interested in solving, that was all.
Uncle
Harold blew out the sides of his fluffy white moustache. "Oh,
dear. That is too bad. I so hoped you'd find the love match your
mother was expecting for you."
The
last thing Mother was interested in was a love match, but Jane only
nodded sorrowfully.
"If
you'd like to accompany us to Scotland for the hunting season, you
certainly may. Then there will be Christmas and all that rot. Perhaps
you'll meet someone interesting at one of the house parties we
usually attend?"
Jane
smiled, relieved that the topic of particular gentlemen was closed.
"I'd like to stay, Uncle Harold. Mother has said I might if you
invited me."
"Well,
then, the matter is settled." He nodded and waved her genially
away. "I'll tell your aunt you'll be staying."
Jane
turned to leave, happy to go. Gruff, indifferent Uncle Harold she was
accustomed to. Genial, warm Uncle Harold was a bit much for her
nerves.
"Oh,
Jane?"
She
turned back. Blast, she'd almost made it out of the study. "Yes,
Uncle Harold?"
"My
dear, you'll need to do some shopping for the winter Season, yes?"
Jane
blinked. That was true. She could hardly wear her light muslin and
silk frocks this winter—and she certainly couldn't be seen
wearing her gowns from last winter. "Yes, Uncle, I will."
He
nodded. "Then you had best give me your bank account numbers so
that I can pay your expenses for you." He smiled. Jane nearly
drew back from the show of teeth. "You can hardly traipse along
the Strand with cash in your reticule!"
That
was also true. Jane hesitated, but could come up with no legitimate
reason not to give her uncle the bank information. Likely he could
get it from the bank anyway, being her eldest male relative as he
was.
She
nodded. Mother wouldn't like it, but really, it only made sense.
"I'll bring that down to you straightaway, Uncle."
But
Uncle Harold was already losing interest. He didn't look up from his
papers but only waved her on once more.
Jane
left, entirely relieved. Now that Uncle Harold didn't have to worry
that she was going to bankrupt him with her shopping, he would likely
forget all about her again.
Jane
found that she much preferred it that way. Especially since Uncle
Harold was sure to disapprove of any interest she might have shown in
that scandalous cad, Mr. Damont.
Not
that she was interested any longer.
Absolutely
not.
Dalton
led Ethan on a circuitous route to a semicircular room high in the
attic of the club. He opened the door and waved Ethan through.
"My
secret office," he said.
"Secret
from whom?" Ethan asked. "I've only been a Liar for half a
day and I already know about it."
"Precisely,"
Etheridge said ironically. "Please, take a seat."
Ethan
was dying to sit. In fact, he rather thought he'd like to lie down
and moan after his session with Kurt. Instead, however, he found
himself refusing the chair. "No, thank you. I'd rather stand."
Etheridge
sat and folded his arms over his chest. "Why don't you trust me,
Damont?"
Ethan
met his gaze levelly. "Why don't you trust me?"
Etheridge
almost smiled. If Ethan hadn't seen the big lord turn to putty for
his lovely wife, he wouldn't have interpreted the easing of Dalton's
jaw for the pleasant expression it was doubtless meant to be.
"You
know, my lord, I happen to think I'm the perfect addition to your
gang. Your lot could use some livening up."
To
his vast surprise, his lordship nodded. "It has been a long road
back. We lost a number of good men this year. I think that new blood
will help them look toward the future."
"What
happened?" Ethan wasn't sure he wanted to know about Liars
dying. He liked his life expectancy right where it was—which
wasn't all that long, come to think of it.
Etheridge
folded his hands on the desk. "We had a non-Liar working in the
club as manager, bartender, and so on. Jackham wasn't a bad fellow,
by all accounts, but somehow the enemy got to him. He gave up the
names and locations of most of the men before he realized what they
were going to use them for. When men started dying, he quit informing
and tried to come back to us. I think he truly regretted it, but it
was too late by then. He came to a bad end in the Thames, we hear."
Ethan
frowned. "Jackham? I thought the traitor was a bloke named
Denny?"
Etheridge
grimaced. "Denny? No, he was never one of us. Just a gossiping
valet that the men handed back and forth until we discovered that he
was telling tales to the Voice of Society."
"And
will this Denny fellow end up in the Thames as well?" What a
bloodthirsty lot the Liars were!
Etheridge
tilted his head. "Why do you care?"
Because
I want to know in which direction to run for my life
.
"I don't. I'm simply curious, that is all."
Etheridge
leaned forward suddenly, his eerie silvery gaze becoming intense.
"Damont, there is something more that I haven't told you."
Why
am I not surprised
?
"And that is?"
"There
is more than one kind of spy, Damont. There is the sort that
infiltrates a place like Maywell's, possibly as a guest or servant,
who simply watches and reports on every detail that goes on around
them."
"That
sounds like what I'll be doing."
Etheridge
shook his head slowly, his gaze never leaving Ethan's. "I wish
you to work another way. I want you to be a double spy."
Ethan
frowned. "Double for whom?"
A
slight smile eased the corner of his lordship's mouth. "I want
you to get Maywell to recruit you as a French spy, so that you can
find out about his organization and feed him misinformation from our
side."
This
was appalling. "Why would he do that?" Ethan asked in
horror.
Etheridge
gazed at him for a long moment, then shrugged. "For the same
reason we would, I suppose. You've a useful combination of talents."
Ethan
took a deep breath. "I think I liked the sound of the first sort
better. I'm very good at watching." If he was merely watching,
he could keep an eye on Lady Jane and the other ladies, just as a
safeguard.
Etheridge
sat back. "Fine. Watch at first, if you like. But I don't think
it will be long before Maywell tries to draw you in." He pinned
Ethan with his gaze. "If he offers a chance, take it. If he gets
that far and receives a refusal from you, he won't dare let you
live."
Ethan
swallowed. "How do you know that?"
Etheridge
let out a breath. "Because that's what I would be forced to do.
That's why we have never let anyone in until we've been absolutely
sure of their loyalties."
Until
you.
Etheridge
didn't say the words out loud, but Ethan heard them all the same.
Sobering thought, to go along with all the other sobering thoughts
that had been conjured in this secret office in the attic.
"If
you're trying to scare me, you've wasted your time." Ethan
shrugged. "I've been scared since I walked in here this
morning."
Etheridge
nodded. "Good. Stay that way. It might keep you alive."
Overwhelmed,
Ethan shook his head. "You're a fanatic, do you know that? The
world is black and white to men like you. Our side is good, their
side is bad—even though their side is made up of ordinary men,
just like us."
Etheridge
considered him with half-lidded eyes. "That ability to see the
shades of gray is going to come in useful as a double spy—if it
doesn't get you killed first."
Ethan
snorted. "So what is the life expectancy of a double spy these
days?"
Etheridge
looked down at his hands, then back up to meet Ethan's gaze. "I
guess we'll find out, won't we?"
Despite
Etheridge's grim-reaper manner, Ethan found himself enjoying the rest
of the afternoon spent in the Liar's Club. He was invited to the
kitchen to partake of Kurt's
coq
au vin
with Collis, Phillipa and Phillipa's son, Robbie (although how such a
young woman could have a strapping lad of ten, Ethan didn't dare
ask), and Fisher.
There
was one thing he couldn't stop thinking of, however. How could
someone who was close to these people suddenly become their
enemy—ending up in their sights, as it were?
"These
blokes, Jackham and Denny—" Phillipa shuddered. "Don't
mention Mr. Jackham to me, if you please. I still have trouble going
up ladders after what he did to me."
"What
did he do to you?"
"He
dangled me off a rooftop by my cravat, thank you very much."
Ethan
stared. "Cravat?"
She
shrugged, a boyish gesture. "It's a long story." Robbie
grinned. "Flip was done up like a lad." Ethan wrinkled his
brow. "You call your mother 'Flip'?"