Beauty and the Spy (5 page)

She reminded herself that the last shining thing in Pandora's box was Hope.

She gave Amelia another deliberately enigmatic look, and split the seal on the letter.

Dear Miss Makepeace,

I hope you will forgive the presumption, as we have met but once, and then when you were only a little girl. But I am your poor deceased father's cousin, and I have heard of your new circumstances. I would like to invite you to stay with me, if you haven't another situation, and I've enclosed enough fare for a mail coach…

And so it appeared that she did have a family, of sorts. "I shall be living with my aunt in Barnstable," she told Amelia triumphantly.

Thaddeus Morley pushed aside a heavy velvet curtain and gazed out onto St. James Square, watching for the hackney that would bring his visitor. He saw only a few pairs of fashionable men and women promenading beneath a sky sullied with the smut of London's daily life, and the statue of William the in, snowcapped with bird droppings.

He dropped the curtain and let his hand fall to his side. His cat immediately drifted over and bumped its head against it.
Perhaps he smells the blood on them
. His mouth twitched in self-mockery at the thought.
Such
melodrama. In a moment he'd be muttering "Out,
out
, damned spot" like that barmy Lady MacBeth.

Besides… there had only been
two
deaths.

Still, blackmail letters arrived nearly as often as ball invitations lately.

He smiled again. Perhaps a good meal would steady his thoughts; he seemed a trifle prone to hyperbole today. There had only been
two
blackmail letters.

Nevertheless, one would have been too many.

"Puss, puss, puss," he crooned, running one of his broad, blunt-fingered hands—hands that betrayed to the world that he was but one generation away from the peasantry—over Fluff's silky body, to make him arch and purr. Something about the arching and purring suddenly brought to mind Caroline, the author of the first blackmail letter, and an unexpected sweep of regret and irritation stilled his hand.

One night, years ago, at a party held by the Earl of Westphall, he'd collected Caroline, much the way one might gather up useful things in preparation for a journey. He recognized darkness and weakness and need in other people, and sank into it, like a tree sinking roots deep, deep below the surface of the ground in search of water. He'd seen it in Caroline. It was, in fact almost integral to her astonishing beauty. And once… well, once he had felt a twinge of something when he was with Caroline. "Perhaps this is love," he'd thought wonderingly.

More likely it had only been gas.

But Caroline—perhaps inevitably—had left him almost two years ago. He hadn't kept her chained, after all, and any wild creature might venture out when the door is left open. She'd chosen to wander out of doors with a handsome American merchant.

Perhaps she'd left the merchant, too. Something had clearly gone wrong with him, or she wouldn't now be resorting to blackmail.

Morley thought she of all people would have understood why blackmailing him would be a terrible mistake. How ferociously, ruthlessly, quietly he had fought for everything he now had. How ferociously he would fight to preserve it.

But then again, Caroline wasn't clever, and rarely thought past a given moment. He'd run her aground soon enough.

The bell rang. He waited for Bob's heavy boots to come up the stairs to his sitting room. He called all of the men Bob; it seemed simpler; it reminded them of their place and imposed a sort of anonymity. This particular Bob had proved his competence and discretion for many years now.

Morley leaned hard on his cane for balance and turned from the window. He said nothing, simply looked a question at Bob.

"Nothing, sir. Searched every bloody cranny, opened all the upholstery, opened up every drawer, went through every bit of furniture. Went over the whole place, stables and outbuildings, too. And you
know
I'm a professional." He puffed out his chest a bit.

Relief was perhaps an overstatement for what Morley felt, because he'd been certain all along Makepeace had been bluffing. Blackmail was usually a desperate act; Makepeace had been crippled by debt. And he'd been neatly, thoroughly, remorselessly dealt with before he could become any more of a nuisance.

Plink
. The sound of a chess piece knocked from the board. That was Makepeace.

"Very well"—he turned back toward the window�"Thank you, Bob." A dismissal.

But Bob, irritatingly, cleared his throat. "Sir… there's something else you should know."

Morley turned around again, waited, grinding the tip of his cane into the plush carpet beneath his feet in impatience.

"The girl… Makepeace's daughter—"

"Yes?" He didn't like to spend more time than necessary in the presence of men like Bob; it reminded him too much of his own origins, which pulled at him, sometimes, like a great wave coming to take him back out to sea.

"She's the image of Anna Holt."

The jolt through his body was extraordinary. For a moment he couldn't breathe.

"Were like seein' a ghost," Bob added, with an illustrative shudder.

"Are you sure?" Morley hated the uncertainty in his own voice.

"I'm
& professional
, sir." Bob sounded wounded. "I've a memory like a trap, you know. And I saw Holt often enough when I was following Lock—"

Morley lifted a hand. He didn't like to be reminded of… well, he thought of them as previous chess moves. Maneuvers planned and executed, literally.

"And anyhow, there were letters."

"Letters?" Morley repeated sharply. "What do you mean?"

"Letters to James Makepeace. They all just said just one thing: 'I beg news of the girls.'"

The girls. Morley had forgotten about the girls. He'd known about the daughters, of course, but they'd been so small, seemed so unimportant in the scheme of things. They'd disappeared along with their mother. Morley had always assumed they were together, Anna Holt and her daughters.

Apparently not.

His mind was moving quickly now. "Where did the letters originate?"

"Couldn't tell you, sir."

"Were they signed?"

"No, sir."

"And did you burn them?" Morley asked.

"Of course." Bob almost sounded wounded by the question. "Went right up in flames, sir."

Morley's thoughts tumbled through the past. "Where is she now? The girl? Susannah?"

"Barnstable, heard her say. She was going to stay with an aunt. Pretty thing. She tried to brain me with a vase," he added, half-awed, half-resentful. "Wanted her dresses, so I left her to them."

The girl
must
be one of Anna Holt's and Richard Lockwood's daughters. But how had she come to live with Makepeace? In his methodical fashion, Morley swiftly riffled through potential scenarios in his mind.

There were two possibilities that he could discern: Perhaps Makepeace had been bluffing in the letter he'd sent, and knew nothing at all about Morley's past or Richard Lockwood. Perhaps he'd adopted the girl. Perhaps the entire thing was a coincidence.

He dismissed this out of hand; he didn't believe in coincidences.

The other possibility was that Makepeace had known all along that the girl was Richard Lockwood's daughter, and very recently had come to some sort of conclusion, or come upon some clue, some exceedingly damning evidence.

But Makepeace had been an agent of the crown. And Morley found it difficult to believe that an agent of the crown would have resorted to blackmail if he'd truly uncovered any evidence. Although desperation and debt could play havoc with a man's sense of reason.

"Is she married? The girl?" he asked Bob. "Has she any other family?"

"No, sir. Watched her bloke jilt her outright, in fact, sir. Right there in the parlor. He can't marry a penniless girl�he's an heir. She went to live with an aunt."

"What a shame." Morley did feel an errant stab of sympathy. The horror of losing all he'd acquired woke him less and less often at night as the years went on, but Caroline's letter, and then Makepeace's letter, had introduced sleeplessness again. Blackmail was not a lullaby.

It was entirely possible James Makepeace had bequeathed the evidence to the girl, if the evidence did indeed exist, and she had managed to keep it about her person, which would explain, perhaps, why they had found nothing in Makepeace's homes. And now that Susannah Makepeace was penniless… perhaps she would resort to her father's means of obtaining an income.

Or, if she was feeling civic-minded, would somehow get the evidence into the hands of people who would know precisely what to do with it.

Morley began to concoct still more scenarios in his head, but stopped himself. He could truly make this complicated, if he liked, but he lacked the fervor for complications that characterized his youth. He was tired, and he rather intended to spend his dotage peacefully—in Sussex, gardening—rather than at the end of a rope, swinging. He'd discovered a passion for gardening, in fact, along with large houses and fine furniture. This was odd, since he'd once considered gardening a sort of farming. But wealthy men could afford to tenderly tend frivolous plants; in a way, cultivating roses was the ultimate expression of Morley's rise in the world.

Sometimes when he was gardening, he'd pull a weed out by its roots, only to watch it sprout again some weeks later, threatening to strangle all he'd carefully tended.

And he knew, suddenly, that the solution was elegantly simple. Susannah Makepeace was a weed. And if her sisters were to sprout up, too… well, they were also weeds.

"Mr. Morley? What should I do about Susannah Makepeace, sir?"

"Why, whatever you do, Bob… you should make it look like an accident."

And because Bob was a professional, he understood his orders. He puffed out his chest again. He did enjoy a new challenge, and Mr. Morley paid well to keep his own hands free of blood.

Two days later, Susannah arrived at the door of Mrs. Frances Perriman's cottage. She would have arrived a good five hours earlier, except that the mail coach in which she had been traveling had tipped over.
Keeled
over, in fact, like a felled elephant, with a groan and a crash, just as everyone had finally tumbled out of it to go into the inn for a meal.

All the weary travelers, who by this time heartily loathed the sight and smell and sound of each other, had gazed back at it stupidly, almost unsurprised. Almost perversely pleased that this particular instrument of torture had been felled.

The horses had been alarmed but unhurt, and it had been determined that the wheel or something or other on the coach had broken. Susannah had heard faint murmurings about it, but she'd been too exhausted to care about the details. And besides, she'd needed all of her resources to locate another conveyance to Barnstable. Someone who would take her there out of sheer kindness, or in exchange for a pair of slippers or gloves. Which was really all she had in the form of currency, anyway.

As the coach driver refused to hire out his horses as mounts, the passengers descended en masse upon a poor fanner who had innocently arrived to fetch his nephew for a visit. A lot of frantic negotiation ensued among the passengers. Some waved bills, some plied charms, Susannah had nearly sprained her eyelashes in an attempt to beguile and disarm him.

In the end she'd been triumphant. The farmer agreed to take her a few miles out of his way to deposit her at the door of Mrs. Frances Perriman, and Susannah had needed to remove his nephew's hand from her thigh only once. Gently, but firmly.

The sheer, chaotic, exhausting indignity of it seemed rather a metaphor for her new life.

And now she stood at the threshold of a little cottage just after midnight, and Mrs. Frances Perriman held up her candle and gazed and gazed at Susannah with what could only be described as bemused wonder, as though a large exotic bird had flown off course into her parlor.

Finally, recovering herself, she flung open her arms. Susannah stepped into them, as that's what seemed required.

Frances was about Susannah's height, but considerably rounder, with the same mild brown eyes and the long nose that seemed to be Makepeace hallmarks, and she was soft and smelled of lavender. Susannah's vision blurred with fatigue and—for heaven's sake,
tears
. Astonished, she quickly dabbed them away, and lifted her head up to take in the softly lit room with a glance: small and worn, though some effort had gone into making it other than plain: wallpaper in a pattern fashionable more than a decade ago, a few pictures upon the wall, one small vase filled with flowers. Her beauty- and luxury-loving heart clenched.

"I'd begun to worry, Susannah, and Mr. Evers finally went home to his family when your coach never arrived at the inn."

"There was a bit of an accident, I'm afraid, hence the delay. I came in with a farmer who was kind enough to bring me."

"Well, I'm glad to find you sound, and there is kindness in the world, then. Anyhow, welcome, my dear. It's not the grand place you've no doubt been accustomed to, but I do hope you'll feel at home. Would you like some tea? Or shall we get acquainted in the morning?"

"I can't thank you enough for having me Mrs. Perri—"

"Aunt Frances," her aunt interrupted firmly. "Call me Aunt Frances. And say no more of it, my dear. I'm happy for your company."

Susannah managed a weary smile. "I think I'd make a better impression after a night's sleep, Aunt Frances."

"And you must by all means make a good impression," her aunt said with mock severity and a pat to reassure Susannah she was teasing. "Let's pack you off to bed, then."

Within minutes, Susannah found herself tucked into a small bed in small room up a flight of creaking wooden stairs, an ascent that couldn't be more different from the marble steps she'd taken to her rooms since she was a little girl. A single rose in a vase next to the bed breathed its fragrance into the room. It mingled with the smells of aging wood and clean linen. The sheets were worn, but deliciously soft from age; her quilt had a patch, she noticed, and smelled, like her new aunt Frances, of lavender.

The room was dense with summer heat, but she saw no fireplace. She parted the blinds to peek out, saw stars strewn thick as salt against the blue-black summer sky. Sleepily, Susannah decided she'd spent her life tripping gaily from star to glittering star; perhaps it had only been a matter of time before she slipped and fell into the blackness between. It was almost a relief to have finally done it.

Her first thought upon waking and looking about was:
Goodness. I must have drifted off in the servant's quarters
.

And then she recalled where she was. She sat bolt upright, sending her pillow cartwheeling to the floor.

Light was pushing through the blinds, and Susannah slipped out of the little brass bed to open them all the way. A wash of sun and green instantly swamped her eyes: the
country
. The country used to be a place to retreat to between parties and balls, a place to wait impatiently for the season to begin. She'd used the country much the way one used the withdrawing room at a ball, to sew up a trodden hem, or pat your hair into place before you reentered the festivities, refreshed.

It was to be her view every morning from now on, this endless green.

It was silent, apart from a bird trilling a maniacally cheerful scale over and over and over again.

She fished a dress out of one of her trunks and pulled it over her head: the three-flounced summer walking dress in blush-colored muslin. She dispensed with drawers for now, a nod to the heat and to the fact that no clucking maid was about to object. She rolled on stockings, however, because she liked her garters; they were pretty, and they cheered her.

She twisted her hair into a quick knot. Out of habit, she seized her sketchbook, and then all but tiptoed down the stairs, discovering that the third one from the top creaked. Soft, snuffling snores came in intervals from behind Aunt Frances's door, but the house was quiet otherwise: no maids about starting breakfast or getting in wood or coal for fires.

The house was so
tiny
. The sort of house a gardener would live in, she imagined, with its faded wallpaper and scrubbed wood floors, its plain, serviceable furniture. The settee in the parlor was a faded ruby and sagged in the center; there was a large nick in the surface of the small table, which supported the small vase of flowers, a vase lacking any sort of pedigree, no doubt, unlike the one she'd threatened to heave at a cockney workman.

Panic squeezed her lungs. She desperately needed to step outside, if only to remind herself that the world was indeed bigger than this little house.

So she pushed open the front door. It was just past dawn, and the roses lining the front of her aunt's cottage were in full exuberant bloom. They were the brightest things as far as Susannah's eye could see; they reminded her of young ladies in ball gowns, with their delicate flounces and rich color—everything else around her was green, green, green. That tiny pressure began somewhere in the center of her chest again, and she knew it might very well blossom into despair if left unchecked, so Susannah reflexively opened her sketchbook.

With sweeps of charcoal, she captured the roses, their contrasts in texture and color, the tiers of petals, the red shading into crimson at their tips; the tiny stalks topped in yellow fuzz springing from their hearts.

Finished with the roses, she lifted her head. Outside her aunt's gate, a tree-lined path wound tantalizingly off into two different directions; to the right, where it surely lead to the town of Barnstable; to the left, where it appeared to lead into a wood—the trees were taller there, the greenery denser.

Something reckless in her reared up.
I
shouldn't walk alone
. Mrs. Dalton certainly would have frowned upon it, as would have all of the duennas who preceded her.

Which seemed an excellent reason to proceed.

Overhead, the birches and oaks and beeches had latticed together, creating a romantic sort of arch. It could hardly be dangerous, could it? She entered into it, hesitantly, and then more boldly, and followed it furtively, promising herself with each step that she'd turn back after just a few more. There was something about paths, however: they drew one forward as surely as a crooked finger, and on she went, over soft dirt and leaves crushed to a fine powder by the passage of other feet over the years.

And she thought, perhaps, if she kept moving, she could outpace the feeling of being dropped outside the comfortable confines of society. Of exile.

A hot spark of green, very like light glancing off an emerald, tugged her eyes off the path. She braved a few steps into the trees toward it.

The spark of green expanded into a pond as she approached, luminous as stained glass. Not an emerald, perhaps, but pretty enough, and the dense smell of wet dirt and green things was strangely agreeable. From where she stood, she could see the tip of what appeared to be a faded wood pier; something pale glared atop it. She squinted. It looked like—could it be—

Good heavens, it rather looked like a pair of feet.

She craned her head to the left, and stood on her toes, and—

Clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a yelp as she ducked back against the nearest tree.

The feet were attached to a man.

More specifically: a rangy, breath-catchingly
nude
man.

Susannah peeped out from around the tree. Just, she told herself, to prove he wasn't an apparition.

He wasn't His torso was a perfect "V" of golden skin and muscle; his slim hips, whiter than the rest of him, tapered to thighs and calves that could have been turned on a lathe, and these were dusted all over with fair hair that glinted in the low sunlight. The hair on his head was cropped short and beacon-bright, but the features of his face were nearly indistinct from where she watched. Given the glory of the rest of him, they scarcely seemed to matter. The man's beauty was, in fact, an
assault
, and a peculiar tangle of shock and delight and yearning began to beat inside her like a secret, second heart.

And then the man stretched his arms upward, arching his back indolently; exposing the dark fluffs under his arms, and this, somehow, seemed more erotic and intimate than the rest of his naked body combined. Susannah had seen paintings and statues of naked men, for heaven's sake, but none of them had ever sported fluffy hair beneath their arms. In fact, the sheer easiness with which this man wore all his raw beauty frightened her a little. He was like someone too casually wielding a weapon.

She fumbled her sketchbook open.

Quickly, roughly, she sketched him: the upraised arms, the curves of his biceps and legs and the planes of his chest, and when he turned, the darker hair that curled between his legs and narrowed up to a frayed silvery-blond line over his flat stomach. Nested right between his legs were, of course, his…
male
parts… which looked entirely benign at the moment, really, at least from this distance. She sketched those, too, as she intended to be thorough, hardly thinking of them as anything other than part of her drawing.

A squirrel rippled by and stopped to stare at her, its tiny bright eyes accusatory. It chirped once; Susannah frowned at it and put a finger to her lips.

The man bounced lightly once on his toes and then dove; the smooth water shattered.

He surfaced an instant later, sputtering happily, his arms rising out of the pond in rhythmic long strokes that took him away from the pier, and then he rolled over and did it on his back, his pale toes kicking out of the water, playful as an otter. And Susannah's knees locked; she toppled over with a little grunt.

She fumblingly righted herself again, and to avoid any further toppling, braced a hand against the oak tree, and while he swam the length of the pond she took the opportunity to refine her drawing, quickly roughing in the trees behind him and the pier beneath his feet.

The man finally pulled himself from the water onto the pier again. Dazzled, she watched water run in clean rivulets down the muscles of his back and buttocks. He shook himself like a great cheerful animal, diamond droplets flying from him, exhaled a satisfied-sounding, "
Ahhhh
!" and then strode off the pier and vanished from her sight.

For a moment, Susannah remained very still, staring at the place he'd been, feeling light-headed, oddly elated.
Perhaps he does this every morning
.

The thought filled her with an entirely improper hope.

The magic of the moment finally began to ebb a bit and sense seeped in; she worried about her aunt waking and finding her gone. She pushed herself upright, and found herself eye-level with a pale, heart-shaped scar gouged into the oak. Inside it, the words kit and caro had been carved; they were now swollen with age. Susannah traced the heart with her finger, half enchanted by it, half sorry for the wound to the tree.

And this was when two hands—
smack, smack
—landed on either side of her face, fiat against the tree's trunk.

Her heart turned over like a great boulder in her chest�
thunk
—and lay still.

There passed an intolerable moment, during which no one moved or said a thing. And then a masculine voice drawled virtually into her scalp, fluttering her hair and causing gooseflesh to sweep up her arms. "Do you think it's air that you have seen every inch of me, and I have seen none of you?"