Beauty and the Spy (26 page)

"And that's why… that's why you dislike Mr. Morley." She said it slowly, as the understanding dawned.

Kit frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Because he took Caroline away, when you could not. Because he saved her… when you could not."

Kit stared at her, the sort of stare that should have frightened her but didn't now, because she was growing accustomed to it. And then his expression went…

Well, oddly, he looked
bored
.

And suddenly he was all swift, abrupt motion. "I'll step into the corridor while you get into your night rail and beneath the blankets, Miss Makepeace. We've a Mr. Avery-Finch to visit in the morning. I'll sleep in the chair."

He'd waited a suitable amount of time in the corridor while she fumbled her way out of her clothes and into her night rail. Then he entered the room again, doused the lamps, and stretched out in the chair without saying a word.

Susannah could not have said how much time passed in the dark, but neither of them slept. The events of the day, of the past few weeks, the danger and the sweetness and the discoveries, milled about in her head, colliding and creating more questions. And she dared one.

Her heart began to pound a little harder with the boldness of what she was about to say. "You'll sleep badly in the chair, Kit. Would you like to sleep next to me? I promise not to thrash about."

She tried to make her words light. Tried to make them sound like a practical suggestion, and less like the wanton invitation they disguised.

There was a long quiet so thick Susannah could have grabbed fistfuls of it.

"No, Susannah. I will sleep even more badly next to you."

His voice was night itself: ironic, dense with meaning, a little dangerous. He might as well have slipped a hand beneath her nightdress for how it made her feel.

"Good night, then," she said. Her voice trembling. Doubting she would sleep at all. Wondering why, for heaven's sake, he refused to touch her now, as surely they had gone beyond honor and propriety. Wondering if it was all for the best. Wondering that her body seemed to have a reason all its own, that had nothing at all to do with her rational mind.

And knowing he was very likely right not to touch her, which didn't make it any easier. And trying to be grateful for what he was offering her: safety and the truth about her past.

And not to want anything beyond that.

"Good night, Susannah. We'll visit Mr. Avery-Finch in the morning. I shan't let anyone murder you this evening."

"Thoughtful of you," she murmured.

His eyes had finally adjusted to the dark. He could see her breasts lift and fall gently with her breathing. She'd thrown off her blanket. He watched now. Feeling like an adolescent. Just as ridiculous, just as enthralled.

He imagined going to her, lying next to her on the bed, pulling her into his arms, waiting for her to stir awake. He imagined the feel of the fine, fragile fabric of the night rail against his hands—it would be warm, fragrant from her�and the whisper of sound it would make as it slid over her body when he lifted it from her. He imagined his hands gliding over the curve of her shoulders and hips; over the petal skin of her breasts, and her softer-still nipples. He imagined her lithe body rippling beneath his touch as he discovered her again, and thoroughly this time, he imagined his mouth finding, tasting every bit of her, the hollow of her belly, the musk between her legs, her soft cries of pleasure as he did. He imagined the slow final taking of her, moving inside her as she clung to him—

Oh, God.

He wanted. He wanted. He wanted.

Breathe through it
, he told himself mordantly.
As you would any pain
.

And over the years, he'd become a walking weapon; he knew just what to do with his hands and feet, with sword and pistol, to preserve his own life or save another, and he'd done it again and again in service to his country. He knew he was remarkable; he had enough clarity to see it and was arrogant enough to be proud of it. Still, no matter how he hated to admit it, he knew he was far from infallible. Ah, but fate, with characteristic ironic humor, had thrown yet another endangered female into his all too fallible hands. And this one—

He half-smiled in the dark.
Mr. Morley saved her when you could not
.

She'd said it so casually. When, in fact, it rather unlocked more than a decade of his life.

This one…
saw
him. Clearly and fully, in a way he'd never before felt seen. He found himself offering up his secrets to her; she seemed to know them anyway. He knew she surprised herself even as she surprised him, with the depth of her passion, her strength and resilience. Her wit. And oh God, her beauty burned in him.

Yes, he knew he was remarkable. He knew he was fallible. And he knew, sitting there in the dark, that he was afraid now in a way he didn't fully understand, perhaps more afraid than he'd ever been before.

Bob arrived with a limp.

"That great geezer she's always with nearly killed me. Fought like the bloody devil. Knew what he was about, he did. A
real
fighter."

Bob sounded irritated; he wasn't paid enough to deal with someone who actually
fought back
. Let alone competently.

"So she's alive," Morley said flatly. It had been a little more than a week since he'd had the pleasure of Bob's company. He supposed good news was too much to hope for.

"Yes," Bob said. He didn't sound the least bit apologetic. "And I know his name now, too," he added. "Heard it in the pub there in Barnstable. Getting mighty sick of Barnstable, Mr. Morley. There's a chap what's always at the pub. Mr. Evers. Right boring chap. You said to come if I had news."

"Well?" Morley was impatient. "The name?"

"It's Grantham. And he's a
viscount
."

Morley's heart balled into such a tight fist that he coughed.

"
Merowr
?" Fluff questioned from his feet.

"A
viscount
." Bob repeated, marveling. One didn't expect a viscount, after all, to be able to fight like the devil.

Oh
, Morley thought,
I
really could do without nasty surprises for a day or two
.

He suspected his heart was not at all what it used to be. He could have sworn it had taken more than a second there to continue ticking. But it was ticking now, and so was his mind.

"Heard it in the pub," Bob said again, when Morley didn't say anything. "Local lord."

Dear God, what on earth was
Grantham
doing with Makepeace's daughter?

"Sir?"

Morley supposed he had been silent overlong. "Interesting," he said, sounding offhand. Just to interrupt the silence with a word. Just to make sure Bob noticed nothing amiss.

Maybe, Morley thought, it was a harmless courtship. Grantham hailed from Barnstable, too, and it was entirely possible their paths had innocently crossed. She was pretty, Susannah Makepeace, if she looked at all like Anna Holt. Grantham was a womanizer; that was well known. Perhaps he was merely passing his time in a way any young rake would find agreeable.

But it was another bloody coincidence in a series of bloody coincidences.

Then again… well, he really didn't believe in coincidences, so why bother with the word at all?

He had to admit, however, it was looking worse and worse.

That night, years ago, at the Earl of Westphall's with a single smile, he'd made certain Grantham had known what he was about to do. Perhaps that had been a mistake: allowing his triumph to show, his contempt, his hatred for all the things the lordling had represented, the things that had been denied Morley. He'd forgotten that boys became men, often with long memories.

Morley considered the pieces before him on the chessboard, the people in play.

And with a little thrill, a daring strategy occurred to him.

He couldn't kill Grantham—he could simply imagine the magnitude of the investigation that would ensue, and the difficulty involved in killing him, regardless—but he could play upon the things he knew about him: a taste for heroics, for honor… and for women. One woman in particular, in fact. He might be able to trap him neatly. Possibly discredit him; at the very least, he might be able to distract him from Susannah Makepeace long enough for Bob to do his job, or extract a little information.

"Find Caroline," he said to Bob, "and bring her here."

"
Bring
her here? She's right dodgy now, sir. Can't get close to her. Can't say as I blame her, either, sir."

"Tell her… it's all been a mistake. All is forgiven."

"Beggin' your pardon, sir: She might not be clever, but she isn't
stupid
. You may have to tell her yourself. After all, she knows
you
won't…" Bob drew a finger eloquently across his own throat.

Bob was right. Their only chance of corralling Caroline involved Morley himself.

He would have to meet her.

And then his heart moved again, and it wasn't a dangerous clench this time, but something unexpected.

"Where did you last see her, Bob?"

"A coaching inn outside of Headley Meade. A few days ago."

Headley Meade. Only an hour or so away from London.

"Think you can find her again?"

"Of course, sir. I'm a prof—"

Morley sighed heavily. "Then arrange a meeting as soon as you can."

Mr. Avery-Finch's shop was ripe with the must of age, and stuffed and stacked full of dully gleaming, hopelessly breakable objects: vases and tea sets, plates and pillars, statues and paintings, trunks and chandeliers and plump stools, arranged, it seemed, for maximum precariousness. Some shopkeepers hang a bell upon their door, Kit thought, to alert them of entering customers; Mr. Avery-Finch probably just waited for a potential customer to send something crashing to smithereens.

It wasn't all fine stuff; the fine mingled with the much less fine, but only an educated eye would be able to discern it. He wondered whether this arrangement was carelessness or a device to discover just how much a customer really knew about antiquities, and how much money could then be extracted from them.

Susannah looked afraid to move, burdened as she was with skirts. Kit picked a path between a reproduction of Venus de Milo and a gilded chest, and thought perhaps he would need a compass to find his way back to the door.

"Good afternoon! And what can I do for you, sir?" A man who could only be Mr. Edwin Avery-Finch stood before him, and bowed.

When he was upright, Kit was struck silent.

It was his eyes. Mr. Avery-Finch looked like many Englishmen in their middle years: a palm-sized scrap of hair remained on his scalp; his chin had gone soft; he was dressed well but not ostentatiously.

But his eyes were astonishing. Dark, bleak, and set into hollows carved brutally out by grief.

"Mr. Avery-Finch, I presume? I am Mr. White."

Bows were exchanged. Precise, careful bows, so as not to upset the stacks of things. "Good afternoon, Mr. White. Something for the lady today? I have a very fine Louis the sixteenth settee in the back. Perfect for one of your country homes."

Kit almost smiled. Mr. Avery-Finch had sized them up very neatly and quickly: wealthy, profligate. But the man's cheerful voice was almost in macabre contrast to that grieving face.

"Mr. Avery-Finch," Kit said gently, "Miss Daisy Jones sent us to you. We understand you were close to Mr. James Makepeace."

Mr. Avery-Finch went very still. Before their eyes, the false cheer drained from his face, leaving it gray and empty.

"Yes." His voice was graveled with emotion. "I was."

Kit knew then that "friend" did not begin to encompass what James Makepeace was to Mr. Avery-Finch. And suddenly, in the form of this plain little dealer in antiquities, James Makepeace was no longer a cipher, but a person who had been loved.

"We're investigating his death."
And his life, apparently
.

Mr. Avery-Finch said nothing. Stood motionless, as though the mere mention of James had clubbed him senseless.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Kit said quietly. "He was my friend."

"Were you… perhaps in the same line of work as James, Mr. White?" Mr. Avery-Finch ventured gingerly.

"Would that be… importing antiquities?" Kit said just as gingerly, making it sound like a question.

Mr. Avery-Finch smiled faintly. "You are, aren't you?" He had guessed correctly that this was a sort of code for "spy."

"And you are… ?" Mr. Avery-Finch directed this question to Susannah.

"I was his daughter, Mr. Avery-Finch. My name is Susannah."

Mr. Avery-Finch's eyes widened, and he stared at Susannah, but not in surprise. More in… speculation. Studied her, as though taking inventory of her features. His mouth parted, as if he intended to say something. He stopped himself.

"Perhaps we should have a seat and a chat in my back parlor. I'll just hang the sign on the door, now…"

Mr. Avery-Finch expertly picked through his delicate stock and turned the door. "I can make tea," he offered over his shoulder. "Goodness knows I've no shortage of teapots." He gestured, albeit carefully, about the crowded room.

Susannah laughed and Mr. Avery-Finch smiled a little, pleased that his small joke could lighten things.

"Miss Makepeace knows that James is not her father," Kit said once they were all arranged on settees and clutching cups of steaming tea. He thought he might as well begin that way.

Mr. Avery-Finch stared back at Kit, cautiously, consideringly.

"It's all right, Mr. Avery-Finch. Your confidences could not be safer with me. I do not think James's death was an accident, which is why we are here."

"I just wish he'd come to me before he…" Mr. Avery-Finch's voice broke. "James was in debt, you see. He had such a weakness for fine things, and a better eye for them than anyone. It was how we met—he came into the shop nearly twenty years ago." He offered a weak smile. "He was practical in so many ways, James was—he actually had quite a head for figures—but he couldn't seem to stop acquiring things he could not afford. He adopted them, like children. Seemed to need them. And… well, I had no idea how desperate he'd become for money."

"How desperate
had
he become?" Kit asked. He sniffed the tea. It wanted sugaring, he suspected, but Mr. Avery-Finch hadn't thought to supply any. He took an experimental sip, anyway.

"He told me over claret—James loved his claret…" He smiled a little, looking into Kit's and Susannah's faces, hoping they shared this memory, too. Susannah could only give him a weak smile of encouragement. "He told me he'd sent a letter to Thaddeus Morley."

"A blackmail letter?" Kit guessed bluntly.

"Well, what other sort will get you killed?" Mr. Avery-Finch said with startling tartness. "Yes, the bloody fool, that's what he did. He should have asked me for help. I'm not a rich man, but I could have found a way… together we could have found… have found a way…"

Kit waited quietly for Mr. Avery-Finch's grieving rage to ebb before he asked another question. "Why did he send the blackmail letter to Mr. Morley in particular?"

With this question, Mr. Avery-Finch suddenly seemed to find the teapot fascinating. He stared at it as if he were counting the painted flowers that sprawled over it.

Susannah spoke softly. "If there's anything at all you can tell us, sir… I would be so grateful. For you see, I have no family at all now… and if you perhaps know anything about them…"

Mr. Avery-Finch's face spasmed in sympathy then. And after a moment, he nodded, as if giving himself permission to speak.

"It was for Richard, you see, that James did it. Took on you girls."

"Richard Lockwood?" Kit said quickly.

Mr. Avery-Finch looked up at Kit, his expression wry now. "Mr. White, why don't you tell me what you
already
know about Richard and James, and I shall endeavor to supply you with new information."

This was a reasonable request, Kit decided. "We know Richard Lockwood and Anna Holt had three daughters, of whom Susannah is the youngest. We know that Lockwood was murdered, and that Anna Holt was accused of the murder, but disappeared before she could be arrested for it. No one seemed to give any thought to what became of the girls; I suppose it was assumed they were with their mother. And shortly before his death a few weeks ago, James told me he suspected Thaddeus Morley was involved in Richard Lockwood's murder. We learned yesterday from Miss Daisy Jones that it was James who took on Anna's three daughters."

"You know rather a good deal, Mr. White." Mr. Avery-Finch's mouth twitched, and he sat for a moment, thinking. "I will tell you this: James and Richard were dear Mends. Met at the theater. Shared a love of spectacle, a similar sense of the absurd. They shared a love of antiquities, too, Richard and James. Yes, they became good friends." There was a touch of wistful envy in Mr. Avery-Finch's voice. "Richard confided in James… knew James was very good at"—he looked Kit directly, almost challengingly, in the eye—"keeping secrets."

He would have to be
, Kit thought. "James shared secrets with you, however," Kit guessed.

"Of course," he said. "We were—" He stopped himself, glanced at Susannah, then back at Kit. "Very close." A faint smile touched his lips.

"What about Mr. Morley? Was he acquainted with Richard, too?"

"Well, Richard was Mr. Morley's political rival. Richard never liked or trusted the man—I thought it was snobbery, at first. Richard was from a fine family, and Morley was not, and as my family origins are hardly lofty, I was inclined to sympathize with Morley. But then I had an occasion to meet Mr. Morley and… well, I didn't care for him, either. It's difficult to say quite why." He looked at Kit to see whether he understood.

"Sometimes these things are instinctive."

"Yes," Mr. Avery-Finch agreed, sounding relieved. "And James told me all about how Richard had undertaken his own investigation into Morley, and had apparently actually found something desperately incriminating. When Richard was murdered, I was inclined to believe him. That's when James rushed to take you girls, Susannah�so the authorities couldn't take you away."

"Did James tell anyone else besides yourself, Mr. Avery-Finch?"

"James was close to two people, Mr. White. You're looking at one of them. Richard was the other. He did not share confidences lightly."

"And James was close enough to Richard to risk his life by warning Anna and taking on three little girls?"

Mr. Avery-Finch looked up, surprised. "Close? James was in love with Richard."

In the silence that followed, one could almost hear the dust settle on the stacks of china and tea trays.

"More tea?" Mr. Avery-Finch took a delicately ironic sip of his own.

"I'm sorry, my dear," Mr. Avery-Finch turned to Susannah, though he looked a trifle more mischievous than sorry. "Do I shock you?"

"No," Susannah said quickly. Her eyes seemed to have frozen into a wide position, however.

Liar
, Kit thought.

"Your father, Susannah, was a very handsome man," Mr. Avery-Finch explained. "I liked him, too, you know, but I was never invited into a friendship with him the way James was. And yes, I will confess that I was somewhat jealous of their friendship, but… well, James did spend most of his time with me, so I didn't fuss, and Richard was passionately in love with your mother, Miss Makepeace, you should know that. What he felt for James was… was friendship only. Truly. But James loved him very much."

Mr. Avery-Finch's voice trailed away, as though the magnitude of this revelation had tired him. And then for a disconcerting moment he peered at Susannah as though she were somehow a window through which he could see the past. "You're the spit of your mother you know, my dear," he said finally. "Except for this." Startling her, he reached out and pinched Susannah's chin gently between two fingers. "This square little chin. That was Richard's."

Susannah's eyes flared with poignant astonishment and then a soft pleasure. And when Mr. Avery-Finch took his fingers from her chin, she surreptitiously replaced them with her own, wonderingly. Kit felt again that strange kick in his breastbone again. As though his heart beat in tandem with her own.

Mr. Avery-Finch cleared his throat. "Forgive me, as I am rambling now. So yes, James kept
you
, Susannah, for Richard's sake. And he found homes for your sisters, for Richard's sake. And he was silent all of these years, for Richard's sake. And he warned Anna to flee… for Richard's sake. He kept quiet, too… for the sake of you girls, thinking perhaps he'd find Anna, or Anna would return. She never did."

"And you haven't any idea where Anna might have gone?" Kit asked. "Or the other girls?"

"Nary a clue, and I
am
sorry. I can imagine what it must have been like for her… to lose everything she loved… all at once."

His voice didn't quite break. Englishmen, on the whole, Kit reflected, were made of stern stuff, regardless of whether they fought on battlefields or sold teapots. Mr. Avery-Finch took a deep breath, and another sip of tea. "Louis the sixteenth," he said, gesturing to the teapot. "I'll give it to you for a very good price, if you'd like it."

"Thank you, Mr. Avery-Finch. I shall take it under consideration," Kit told him solemnly.

"I knew…" Mr. Avery-Finch continued once the tea had restored his composure. "I knew if ever a chance came to get justice for Richard, James would take it. But his debt rather interfered with his plans, and addled his thoughts, I believe. Though his profession called for a unique sort of… discretion, shall we say, dishonesty didn't come naturally to James, and when he tried to kill two birds with one stone—that is, get justice for Richard and pay his debt—well… the bird killed him instead, didn't it?" His mouth twitched at his own morbid joke. "He rather went about things backward, didn't he? He blackmailed first, and then set out to find proof."

"Pity they don't teach the proper way to blackmail at Oxford."

"Isn't it?" Mr. Avery-Finch concurred on a murmur, and took another sip of tea.

"Mr. Avery-Finch, did James ever mention anything to you about the nature of this proof Richard Lockwood had collected… anything at all about 'Christian virtues'?"

"'Christian virtues,' Mr. White?" Mr. Avery-Finch's eyebrows lifted ironically. "No, I'm afraid the two of us did not spend much time reviewing Christian virtues. Are they important to our discussion?"

"James told me that Richard had been clever about hiding his proof of Mr. Morley's guilt. Apparently the hiding place had something to do with 'Christian virtues.'"