Beauty and the Spy (24 page)

"Gorringe," Kit and Susannah said simultaneously.

"Gorringe. And I thought I'd get me a respectable life of sorts, too. But I was so bored I thought I'd
die
. Spent most of me time at the pub. So bored I dreamed up me
act
there, ye see, so I suppose it wasna complete loss. It's a popular act, ye see."

She smiled meaningfully up at Kit, who smiled back at her, while Susannah tried with difficulty not to mind. Daisy leaned toward Susannah. "You see, dearie," she confided, "I was the first one to get up on stage and give the audience a real close look at my—"

"Was her name really Anna Smith?" Kit interjected hurriedly, leaving Susannah in suspense.

"Smith?" Daisy looked bemused. "Why d'yer think 'er name was Smith?"

"The church records in Gorringe," Susannah told her. "Her name was recorded as Anna Smith."

"Well, I suppose she wanted to live quiet like, an' a name like Smith. I knew 'er as Anna 'Olt. Now which one are ye?"

Susannah noticed that Kit had gone completely still, for some reason, at Daisy's words. She frowned. "I beg your pardon, Miss Jones?"

"Are ye Sylvie, Sabrina, or Susannah?"

"But I don't under…" Susannah stammered. And then suddenly she did, and tiny little moth wings of excitement fluttered inside her.

"Anna had
three
daughters," Daisy Jones leaned forward again and explained slowly, as though reciting the beginning of an arithmetic problem. "Which
one
are
you
?"

Susannah's mouth dropped open, and then her hands went up to her face. She spun to Kit "Sisters! I have
sisters!
I have sisters?" She whirled back to Daisy to confirm it.

And when Daisy nodded, Susannah impulsively seized the laughing Miss Jones in a hug.

Where a day or so earlier she was a cipher on the tablet of time, she was now Susannah, last name of Holt, possibly, and—very likely—had two sisters.

"Oh, ye poor thing, ye didna know? I suppose that's possible, ye were all so very small when Anna left, and the three of ye were split up."

"But… what was my mama like? What became of her? My sisters? My father? I'm Susannah. That's which
one
I am."

Daisy laughed at Susannah's enthusiasm. "Well, me dear, ye'd be the baby, then. Ye mama was in the chorus 'ere at the White Lily until yer papa clapped eyes on 'er, and men it was
all
over for 'er: a little 'ouse in the country, tha's what she wanted, and babies, and yer papa. And Anna—oh, she was the sweetest, funniest, lass, and
oh
, she'd a temper—a fiery one, my
goodness
. She was honest as the day is long. Spoke the truth as she saw it."

Susannah was silent, astounded to hear her mother described after so many years, to feel her come into view. She
must
be alive. She...
felt
alive.

"Yes, she was me dear friend," Daisy sighed. "And she never done it, ye know. I'm certain of it."

"Done it?" Susannah immediately regretted the question, because the answer was bound to be something frankly prurient, which would have been born fascinating and appalling.

"Why, murdered yer papa, lass."

He shook his head once, curtly. Kit was still oddly tense; Susannah had the sensation his every muscle was knotted in preparation to bolt from the room.

Daisy took a deep breath, and began in a gentle voice. "'Is name was Richard Lockwood, Susannah. Beautiful man, devoted, loved yer mama, loved ye and yer sisters very much. 'E was a politician, very important, very rich. As I said, clapped eyes on Anna one night 'ere at the White Lily and, well... 'E never married anyone else�nor did 'e marry 'er. But 'e set 'er up in 'er own lodgings 'ere in London. And after yer two sisters were born, 'e moved 'is family to Gorringe, because Anna fancied a country life, and because 'e got it in 'is 'ead that Gorringe was a funny place, what being named by a rhyming duke, and all. 'Ad a sense of 'umor, did yer papa.

"But then yer dear papa�" Daisy gentled her voice, remembering. "'E was murdered, Susannah, and it was spread about in all the papers that Anna killed 'im. Crime of passion, they said. There were witnesses, they said. As fer me, I never believed a word of it, an' still don't 'E was in London, and Anna was in Gorringe with ye girls at the time, I'm certain of it And she never would 'ave…" Daisy paused, and her face went rueful and dreamy. "If ye'd seen how they loved each other, Susannah… real love, Susannah. Not just… passion."

She paused and peered into Susannah's face with concern. "Ye've gone a bit peaky, luv. Do you need to lie down?" She patted the big tongue of a settee invitingly, sympathetically.

"Why does everyone think I'm bound to faint?" Susannah protested, though, admittedly her voice
was
thin. Her mother was an opera dancer, a mistress, and an accused murderess. And it seemed tragic love affairs ran in the family. If ever she were entitled to faint, now would be the time.

She wondered why Kit had gone so still, so silent Perhaps he regretted ever associating with her. Perhaps he was cursing his folio assignment thinking to himself:
Bloody
voles
got me involved with the daughter of a murderess
. Perhaps he was regretting he'd ever touched her, tainted as she was with the scandal of murder, and wanted to wash his hands of her as soon as he could safely deposit her at home.

Which made a different kind of fear arrest her breath.

And then Kit moved, and such was his stillness the moment before that Susannah jumped. He lifted the pitcher on Daisy Jones's vanity, sniffed it, splashed a little into a glass. He handed it to her.

"Drink." A soft command.

It was brandy. It went down hot and smooth, and quickly buffered the jagged ends of her emotions.

Susannah realized then that Kit had quietly seen to her needs in just this way from the moment she'd arrived in Barnstable, from tempting her to waltz at the assembly to risking his own life to keep her alive. He might never touch her again, but he would never let anything harm her.

And then he was still again, as still as a sentry; his entire being seemed both utterly absorbed and utterly remote at the same time, preternaturally alert, leaving Susannah to ask questions.

"What became of my mother, Miss Jones? Do you know?" she asked when the brandy had worked its magic.

"That's just it, ye see.
No
one knows. She disappeared right after yer father's death."

"But… my father… that is, James Makepeace, I mean… do you know how I came to be with him?"

"Well, I was in London when the uproar over the murder happened—yer real papa, Richard, was a popular man with the people, young lady, and '
andsome!
I don't mind saying. And then a few days after 'e was killed I was 'ere at the White Lily when Makepeace came to me, all in a tizzy like. 'E was a theater buff, Makepeace was, and a friend of Richard's. E told me 'e had ye three girls. 'E swore me to secrecy. And keeping a secret for Anna's sake—well, that was no burden to me. So James kept ye, and I found a home for Sylvie—"

"Like a puppy?" Susannah tried not to sound bitter. Kit's hand dropped onto her shoulder, just the barest hint of a touch.

"What did I know of babies, my dear?" Daisy said gently. "I'd have taken the lot of ye, luv, for Anna's sake, but I was poor as dirt, then. It seemed safer for Anna, and all of ye, somehow, to split you girls up; for the papers had it that Anna had disappeared along with her girls. And if I'd been discovered with three little girls… if
James
'ad been discovered with three little girls…"

Susannah could imagine the fear of the time. The loyalty and love that had kept her mother's secret.

"I'm sorry, Daisy," Susannah said softly. "You lost her, too."

Daisy's eyes were a little moist now and she touched a finger to the corner of one, to keep a tear from racing down to smear the rouge.

"And so… well, I was discreet. A French dancer name of Claude took a shine to Sylvie and offered to care for 'er, and so… off she went. No doubt raised French, more's the pity," Daisy added sadly.

"What about Sabrina?"

"I don't know, luv. I'm sorry, I just don't know. James knew of a vicar's family who may 'ave taken her on, but I never knew for certain."

"I was very fortunate, given the circumstances." Susannah took refuge in formality, as she didn't know quite what to believe yet, or how to feel. It was a little like falling off a cliff, and being thrown a rope… only to discover the rope was actually a snake.

"Did you ever hear from Anna Holt again?" Kit finally spoke. His voice was taut and strange, abstracted. As though he were working a problem out in his mind.

"Never heard from 'er, I swear to ye. No one knew where she went, she was never found, and the 'ubbub eventually died. But Anna would
never
willingly leave her babies�
never
. And I would swear on all that I 'old dear—my gorgeous bosom"�Daisy swelled up to display her assets matter-of-factly—"and my new town house, which my gorgeous bosom bought for me—that Anna didna kill yer father."

"I don't think she did it, either." This came from Kit, low and emphatic, and so quietly, surprisingly cold and furious the hair stood up on the back of Susannah's neck. She turned to stare at him. But her mind and heart were too crowded, too confused for her to speak; she needed to let all she'd heard settle in.

"You said James was a theatergoer, which was how he knew you," Kit prompted Daisy Jones.

"Yes. James was a lover of…" Daisy paused delicately. "Costume. And spectacle. But particularly… costume."

She exchanged a meaningful look with Kit, which bewildered Susannah.

"And you have no idea how James came to have the children?"

"No, but ye might talk to—" Daisy stopped abruptly.

"To whom, Miss Jones?"

"Well, ye do know James was a good man, Mr. White…" she began hesitantly.

"I knew him," Kit said softly. "I agree." It sounded like permission for Daisy to continue.

"Ye should have a word with Edwin, then," Daisy said. "Edwin Avery-Finch. 'E's a gentle sort, Edwin is. 'E was James's…" She paused again, selecting a word, it seemed, to Susannah. Since delicacy didn't seem to come naturally to Daisy Jones, Susannah found these pauses to choose words intriguing. "… Very good friend," Daisy finally completed. '"E sells antiquities. West of Bond Street, 'is shop is. 'Asn't been in the theater since James… well, since James was done in."

"Thank you, Miss Jones," Kit said.

"Oh, by
all
means, Mr. White." Now that the interview was over, Daisy was all winsome prurience again. "It would be my
pleasure
." She winked at Kit, then folded Susannah into her fragrant bosom.

"I hope ye find Anna, my dear," she said into Susannah's hair.

"So do I, Miss Jones." Her voice was somewhat muffled against Daisy's chest "I want to clear her name." Daisy finally relinquished her, and Susannah gulped in a bream.

"May we speak to you again about this, Miss Jones, if the need arises?" Kit asked. "We need to be somewhere else at the moment."

"It would be
me pleasure
, Mr. White."

He'd all but dragged her out of the White Lily by the elbow, such was his speed. Past the handsome Mr. Shaughnessy and the General and all the rehearsing girls, into the waiting unmarked coach. He mumped the roof to get it moving, and hauled her so quickly up to a room at an inn not more than ten minutes from the theater mat her feet nearly left the ground, all the while ignoring her protests, her requests for explanation, until Susannah at last gave up. He closed the door, locked it all but flung her into a chair, and spoke before she could take a good look around.

"I have something to tell you, Susannah. And you need to be sitting for it."

"I never would have guessed it."

He didn't respond to her sarcasm. In fact he still wasn't entirely here with her, she could tell; his eyes still had that remote, abstracted light to them, as if he were reading something written inside his own head.

"I mink James Makepeace was murdered. And I think the same people who murdered him killed your real father, Richard Lockwood, and are now trying to kill you."

And to think, this time last year she was choosing her new dress patterns and swooning over Douglas.

She doubted anything would ever again make her swoon.

"And why do you think this?" she asked. The very steadiness of her voice seemed almost absurd, given that they were discussing her own possible murder.

She looked about the room while Kit took a deep breath, organizing his thoughts, no doubt. One large bed, a little elderly, judging from the person-length dent in the center of it A bureau, against which Kit now propped his long frame. A pair of lamps. It all looked clean enough. It was suspiciously close to the White Lily Theater, too, and Kit had seemed to know precisely where he was going. She didn't want to think of the opera dancers he might have pressed into the dent in that particular mattress. "Friends," he'd called them. Opera dancers.
Friendly
.

"Let me tell you what I know now," he began. "Richard Lockwood was murdered fifteen years ago. Officials intended to arrest his mistress for it But she disappeared, and no one knew what became of her, and no thought was given to what became of her three little daughters—it was assumed she'd managed to escape with them, I suppose. But today we learned from Miss Daisy Jones that your mother was not Anna
Smith
—she was in fact Anna Holt Richard Lockwood's mistress. Lockwood was your father.
And
you have two sisters. You, for some reason, wound up in James Makepeace's safekeeping. And now James is dead, too."

"But… why do these murders have anything to do with me?"

"Well… Richard Lockwood was investigating a politician named Thaddeus Morley—"

"Oh! You've mentioned Mr. Morley. People think very highly of him, do they not?"

Kit's face darkened subtly. His mouth parted as though he intended to comment, but then he shook his head roughly and continued, "Richard Lockwood was gathering evidence to prove mat Morley had acquired his fortune in part by selling information to the French, but he was killed before he could present his proof to anyone. And I believe he was killed because Morley was somehow warned."

Susannah pictured this… her father, a politician, attempting to prove the guilt of an alleged traitor.

And then… Wait.

"How… how on earth do
you
know all of this?"

Kit studied her, as though gauging the current state of her internal fortitude. And then exhaled resignedly. "I'm a spy."

Blue eyes unblinking, face unreadable, he awaited her response. She stared at him, and suddenly:

"I
knew
it!" she said triumphantly.

This made him smile at last. "You didn't
know
it."

"When you're always so prepared for disaster, and so good at warding it off, and armed to the teeth, and unnervingly observant, you had better either be a spy or a criminal. I knew you couldn't simply be a soldier. I've danced with a soldier or two. They hadn't your…"

She wanted to say "confidence." Or "presence." Or "air of danger." But that would probably amuse him and embarrass
her
, so she stopped speaking.

He was trying not to look impressed, anyway. "You know so much about spies then, do you? You are simply very perceptive, which I believe is part of being an artist I disguise it very well."

"
Am
I an artist?" she was momentarily diverted. She was growing accustomed to considering herself talented, but "artist" was a new and very distinct definition of herself: Susannah Makepeace/Lockwood/Holt, artist A wanton, brave artist with a temper. She was coming into focus as a person, a bit at a time.

"A gifted one," he confirmed, and she knew it wasn't flattery, because he'd probably never said a deliberately flattering thing in his life. "You don't seem terribly shocked to hear that I'm a spy." He sounded almost affronted.

"What could shock me anymore?" she said with a faked insouciance that made him snort. It seemed the lesser of revelations at the moment truthfully. "But how did I come to be with James Makepeace? And how would James know about Richard Lockwood, and Morley, and the French, and the documents, and all of that?"