A Spy in the House (6 page)

Mary slammed the book closed, shaken. She wasn’t an innocent. Growing up on the streets, she had seen obscene pictures before. But she’d never seen anything like this. The women in these pictures were African slaves, and the white-skinned men their owners.

She fought a wave of nausea. Put the book back in its place. Swallowed a surge of bile that left a bitter taste in her mouth. She longed to wrench open the window and fill her lungs with the night air. Filthy as it was, it couldn’t be worse than what she’d just seen.

Instead, she gave herself a sharp mental shake. Playing the delicate young lady was not an option. She was here to find information. Mary closed the bookcase firmly and turned to the rest of the room. The lock on the first filing cabinet was very simple. With a couple of twists of the hairpin, the catch released and she felt that tingle of excitement again as she eased the top drawer open. It slid quietly, revealing rows of neatly tied dockets, each clearly labeled by year and subject.
1836: The Americas; 1836: Bermuda and the West Indies; 1836: India.

What was that sound? Mary glanced around the room. She distinctly heard something . . . but, straining her ears, she could hear only the distant voices of guests, punctuated by rumbles of laughter.

She returned to the filing cabinet. It didn’t take long to learn that the files were old ones, ending in the year 1845. The second cabinet contained files from 1846 to 1855, but nothing more recent. Mary chewed her lip. The active files must be elsewhere. She peeked inside a few files at random just to be certain, but things seemed to be in order: filed by docket number and date, without large gaps or other irregularities. Barring some sort of elaborate secret code, the files looked harmless. It seemed she would have to try the warehouse.

Again, that noise — like a small scraping. She paused to listen. Again, nothing but remote party noises.

Then, suddenly, something — footsteps clicking down the corridor and drawing closer. She slid the drawer closed — no time to lock it — and glanced about. Thought wildly about crawling under the desk, but as the footsteps neared, changed her mind. The wardrobe was nearby and — thank God — unlocked! She bundled herself inside, grateful for a narrow crinoline that allowed such freedom of movement. Pulled the door closed just as she heard the office doorknob click and rotate.

For several moments, Mary couldn’t hear anything over the violent pounding of her pulse. She tried to draw a slow, deep breath. Then a second. A degree of calm returned with the third breath, and she blinked in the warm dark of the wardrobe. Her cheek brushed against a rough woolen garment — a coat? — and she could smell something like the blend of tobacco and male cologne that scented the bookcases.

Her mouth was dry. What was that sound in the room? Oh, why hadn’t she taken the time to lock the door properly behind her?
Impatient,
she chided herself.

Slowly, a new noise entered her awareness, so gradually that at first she thought she’d dreamed it. It sounded almost like . . . quiet breathing. Yes, breathing. Not her own. And it was . . . behind her?

Preposterous.

Wasn’t it?

Instinctively she caught her breath — and the other breath stopped half a moment later. After counting to five, she exhaled very quietly — and heard a faint echo a fraction behind hers.

Poppycock. She could not afford to indulge in this sort of panic. If she began now, where would it end? Right. She would have to demonstrate to herself, once and for all, that her imagination was getting the better of her.

Calmly, slowly, she reached behind with her left hand and came up against — yes, fabric. Fine linen, to be precise. So far, so good: she was inside a wardrobe, after all. The only problem was that this linen was oddly warm. Body warm. Beneath the tentative pressure of her palm, it seemed to be moving. . . .

With terrifying suddenness, an ungloved hand clamped roughly over her nose and mouth. A long arm pinned her arms against her sides. She was held tightly against a hard, warm surface.

“Hush,” whispered a pair of lips pressed to her left ear. “If you scream, we are both lost.”

She couldn’t have screamed even if she’d chosen to. The sound was lodged at the back of her throat.

Her captor tightened the seal over her mouth and nose. “Understand?” His tone was level, his hand warm and dry. He could have been asking if she took sugar in her tea.

She managed, with difficulty, to nod once.

Long seconds slid by. The footsteps in the office came closer, then receded. The swish of metal on metal — once, twice — suggested that the curtains were being drawn.

Tears pricked at Mary’s eyes and she forced them back, her jaw tightening with the effort. She would not, would not,
would not
give him the satisfaction of knowing she was frightened. Instead, she tried to evaluate what she knew about this man in the wardrobe. The voice was educated. Michael Gray? No. This man’s scent was different — cedar soap and a trace of whiskey instead of the faint aura of macassar oil and pipe tobacco that clung to Michael. She surprised herself with her certainty on that subject.

The footsteps made another circuit of the room. Their owner emitted a dissatisfied “humph.” Then, at long last, the door reopened, reclosed, and a key turned firmly in the lock.

Mary and her captor waited. She could feel his heartbeat, steady and slow, at her back. She counted to ten. Twenty. And then to thirty. Was he never going to let her go? She considered biting his hand.

Then his voice again, in her ear. “You will not scream or cry.”

She shook her head weakly.

He waited several seconds before slowly uncovering her mouth.

She drew a long, shaky breath. Tried not to gasp as she did. She tried to move her arms, but his left arm was still locked round her.

After another pause, he released her arms, again slowly.

With trembling hands, she pushed open the wardrobe door and all but fell out. Strong hands caught her and set her upright — not harshly.

Slapping them away, she whirled round to face him. The room was almost completely dark with the curtains drawn, but she could make out a tall, lean figure.

A match flared brightly in his hand, giving her a glimpse of dark eyes and a harsh, uncompromising mouth. He produced a short candle and lit it, holding the light closer to her face. Its glare was almost painful after such prolonged blackness. They inspected each other for a long moment, then the corners of his mouth twitched. Did he find this
funny
? He looked as though he wanted to ask her a question, but seemed to think better of it.

She glared at him defiantly. Her own questions crowded her mouth, but she was determined not to speak until he did. After the heat of his body, her back felt cold.

He strode to the door, produced a key from his pocket, and unlocked it. Seeing that the corridor was unoccupied, he turned back to her and made a courtly gesture with his other hand. “After you.” It was that same damned conversational tone.

Mary stared at him.
What the devil . . . ?

He glanced into the hall again, then back at her impatiently. “Quickly, now.”

Standing her ground, she shook her head slowly. “No. After you.”

“Come, now — are we really going to squabble?” His tone was distinctly patronizing.

“I have no intention of squabbling,” she said loftily. Now that he was talking, she felt more certain about holding her ground. “If you wish to leave, I wouldn’t dream of stopping you.”

He closed the door again and glared at her. “My dear girl, just what are you playing at?”

She looked at him haughtily. “You are hardly in a position to ask such a question.”

The corners of his mouth twitched again. What an odd gentleman.
“Touché.”
He paused and stared at the ceiling, as though for inspiration. “Very well, then. Might I propose that we leave the room simultaneously?”

Mary considered this. They could hardly remain. Apart from the risk of someone returning to the office, she would soon be missed at the party. He might be as well — assuming he was actually a guest. She inclined her head graciously. “An excellent idea,” she murmured, mimicking his polite tone.

She glided toward the door, which he held open for her. They slipped into the corridor, and she watched while he locked the door again, then pocketed the key. It was a proper house key. How had he pinched that?

He glanced down at her, eyebrows rising arrogantly. “Well? Hadn’t you better run along to the drawing room?”

Mary suppressed a powerful urge to hit him. With as much dignity as she could muster, she turned on her heel and walked quickly down the hall.

Why hadn’t she screamed bloody murder in that closet? As he stalked through the crowds in the drawing room, considering his next move, James Easton spotted his mystery lady assisting Angelica Thorold in the pouring of tea. They made a lovely contrast: Miss Thorold, with her blond ringlets and pink-and-white complexion, and Miss Closet (as he’d come to think of her), with her black hair and fierce eyes. What color were those eyes — hazelnut brown? It had been difficult to tell by candlelight. It was a distinctly un-English look that set off Miss Thorold’s doll-like beauty to great advantage. Which was almost certainly the point.

Miss Closet must have paused to repin that hair. It was scraped back severely now, when a few minutes ago it had been tumbling round her shoulders. Her scent came back to him — clean laundry, lemony soap, girl. He’d been surprised by the absence of perfume and then grateful for it in that small space.

He considered her from the opposite end of the room. Her gown, plain and high-necked, made it clear that she was not a debutante. And her hair was wrong, too: the fashion for young ladies this season was a cascade of ringlets pinned high over each ear. Her role at the tea table seemed to confirm all that. Miss Closet kept back slightly, her gaze lowered, and poured cup after cup of tea. Miss Thorold, in contrast, stood forward, daintily adding cream and sugar to the cups and passing them to a string of guests — mainly admiring bachelors. James’s elder brother, George, was part of the pack.

As though she could feel his open stare, Miss Closet suddenly raised her head and met his gaze. A prickle of energy, both pleasant and startling, rippled up and down his body. He had to force himself to remain still and expressionless. Her look was defiant when it should have been ashamed. She gazed at him a moment longer — taking his measure? — and then looked away haughtily, as though she had seen all she required. He bit back a grin. Arrogant brat.

The girl was rather attractive for a governess. She was no fool, either — her behavior in the closet suggested as much. A lesser woman would have screamed or struggled, or at least begun to cry silently. But her reaction had been quick, disciplined, and pragmatic. Not an ordinary young lady, then. Perhaps she was a poor relation? Finally, there was the question of what the devil she’d been doing poking around that office. Alone. In the dark.

James edged his way round the room, toward the open balcony doors. At this point, he’d take stench over stifling.

“Young Mashter Jamesh — what a shurprishe!”

He blinked and focused on the man who’d popped up beside him. “Mr. Standish. Evening.” Warner Standish was an old family friend, a pompous fool, and a shameless gossip.

Standish’s pointy reddish beard parted to reveal the cause of the lisp: a magnificent set of new wooden dentures. “Didn’t think I’d run into you here, young fellow. Nearly time for your beddy-byesh!”

James shrugged. Was it worth pointing out that he was nearly twenty? Probably not.

“Are you at Eton or Harrow? I forget.”

Neither. “I left school a few years ago, Mr. Standish.”

“Ah. Then you’re up at Oxford.”

“No; working with my brother.” James gritted his teeth.

“At that bridge-making thingy? How very peculiar!”

“Civil engineering is the family business.”
As you perfectly well know, you old sot,
he added mentally.

“Where’sh your brother, then?” demanded Standish. “Not sheen him tonight.”

“You must be the only one,” said James through gritted teeth. Good Lord, George was embarrassing. Tonight he’d made a complete fool of himself over Miss Thorold, monopolizing her conversation, following her about with glasses of punch and plates of cakes, and trying to dance every waltz with her even though her dance card was full. Everyone had been laughing at George.

“Eh? Whashat?” hollered Standish.

James indicated with his chin. “Tea table.”

“Ah. Awaiting hish audiensh with Mish Thorold, eh?”

“He’s likely on his fourth cup by now. By the way,” he added casually, “who’s that pouring tea with Miss Thorold?”

“I think it’sh rather a queshtion of what, not who, dear boy.”

James raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I ashked about her earlier. Thorold
shays
she’sh hish daughter’sh new lady companion . . . name of Quinn.
Mish
Quinn.”

“‘Says’ . . . ?”

“Given what jusht happened, it’sh hardly shurprishing, ish it?”