Elizabeth Boyle (5 page)

“Are you sure it was Webb?” Giles finally asked.

“You saw what it said. He was seen riding in a tumbril along the Rue St. Honoré. There is no mistake.”

“Send someone to verify it. To make contact with our other operatives. Surely, someone knows the truth.”

“I haven’t anyone to send.” Dryden settled his eyeglasses back onto his nose. “We’ve lost four agents in the last three months. With that damned Revolution and now the war, the situation is very grave.” The old man looked toward the window, obviously unwilling to meet Giles’s gaze. The shoulders Giles had always thought so rock solid slumped with defeat.

Grief tore at Giles. Webb, though young, had not been inexperienced. In fact, he rivaled Giles in his skill and cunning.

After all, he had been Dryden’s son.

“He’s gone,” the man said, as if to no one in particular, as if he were practicing the words. “Now I must tell his mother and sisters. I doubt they will ever forgive me.”

“I’m so sorry, sir.” The words were inadequate, but he didn’t know what else to say. Dryden, his horde of children, and his overly sensible wife had been a substitute family for Giles throughout the years his own father worked for the Service. With his mother long dead, he’d gone to Dryden Manor rather than remain at his own empty estates over school holidays. It had been there that he’d met Webb. Though younger by nearly ten years, the lad always tagged after Giles, more nuisance than anything, always wanting to be included in the rough-and-tumble games they found with the local lads and stable hands.

Looking back, Giles realized that during those years he and the other older boys spent trying to hide from the younger boy, Webb had learned the persistent skills of a master spy.

It had been no surprise to anyone that Webb Dryden stubbornly followed his father and Giles into the Service.

And now it had killed him.

“Someone of Webb’s skill doesn’t get caught, not unless he’s been—” Giles couldn’t say the final word.
Betrayed
. Instead, he looked up at Dryden. “Send me.”

“I intend to.”

Giles was shocked by his superior’s quick agreement.

“There’s more,” Dryden said, with a controlled voice.

Giles knew that serious tone. It meant it was time for the real business at hand.

“There is a woman in Paris called
La Devinette
. Have you heard of her?” Dryden asked nonchalantly.

Giles nodded vaguely. There were so many rising and falling factions in the rapidly changing Paris political scene that it was hard to keep them all straight. Even so, La Devinette stood out. Vociferous in her loyalty to the Revolution, she was something of a popular heroine to the ragged masses of Paris. She’d arrived out of obscurity to carve her name on the roll call of change.

“The last message I had from Webb was that he had discovered La Devinette’s identity.”

Giles leaned forward. “Was he sure?”

Dryden sat back in his seat. “Yes. Webb was convinced she could be used to assist us.”

To other men, the notion would have left them stunned, but for Giles it made sense. Leave it to the ever-charming Webb to turn France’s most loyal daughter into a double agent.

“How so?”

“Because Webb learned she’s been traveling quite often between London and Paris under a different guise.”

Giles’s gaze snapped up as the mysterious pieces fell into place before his eyes. “The Brazen Angel.” His fingers curled around the fabric in his hand, crushing it in his anger at her devious deception.

“My thoughts exactly.” Dryden’s eyes narrowed. “So it is true you’ve been making inquiries?”

Giles nodded.

“Good. You’ll need all the information you’ve gathered.” The older man sorted through his desk drawer again. “Here’s something you might find interesting,” he said, pulling out a pouch.

When he turned the bag over, jewels spilled onto the desk. Giles reached out and picked up a large emerald brooch to examine.

“That’s been in the Rostland family for nearly two centuries,” Dryden commented. “It was sold to a London dealer. The ring, that was discovered in Paris several weeks later.”

“But how did—” Giles began.

“Webb sent it to me. Before—” Dryden examined the ring for a moment before tossing it back on his desk. “It was fenced at the shop of a Swiss jeweler on the
Ile de la Cité
.”

“So you’re convinced—”

Dryden waved off any further supposition. “That scandalous woman has all these addlepated idiots running around in a lather. But the truth is, she’s stolen enough money to ransom half the crowned princes of Europe. I don’t like it.” He gathered the remaining pieces of the Rostland jewels back into the small pouch. “Good English gold going out for bad. I want to know why this booty is being taken to France.” He paused, his wide jaw set with iron firmness. “If she betrayed my son for that damned Revolution, I want her captured and brought to justice.”

“This might take more than a month.” Giles’s mind raced with plans. He’d take his own ship across the Channel. In four days, with any luck, he could be in Paris. “You’ll have to explain my disappearance to my fiancée and her aunt. I’m rather sorry about all the work they’ve gone to for the wedding.”

“Bah! Get that look of false concern for Lady Sophia off your face. I have no intention of going against my word to your father. I’ve taken the liberty of obtaining a Special License. You’ll be wed tonight. And sail on the tide at dawn.”

“Your aunt is up to something. Did you see the way she practically smiled at breakfast?” A pipe clutched between her teeth, Emma continued refolding the items Sophia haphazardly tossed toward the open trunk. Smoke curled around her black hair.

A tall, thin woman, Emma Langston never wore anything but the black weeds of a widow. Her dark hair and even darker eyes gave her a strict, almost puritanical appearance. It was just those straight-laced looks that had persuaded Sophia’s three aunts, who shared the guardianship of their niece, to give Emma the job as Sophia’s companion.

Some women do not need references
, Lady Dearsley had declared in her always decisive manner.
You can see their character in the way they hold their head
.

Emma’s posture was perfect. Her past was not.

But what her aunts didn’t know, Sophia realized, didn’t hurt them. And in the last few months her companion’s less than proper past had come in very handy. Sophia found it complemented her own troubled history quite nicely.

They were quite a pair, hidden outcasts in a society that demanded virtue and modesty of its ladies.

“Are you listening to me?” Emma repeated. “Lady Effie is on to us.”

Standing in the chaos of their packing, Sophia paused for a second, riding boots in one hand and dancing slippers in the other. “She’s up to something, I’ll agree with you there.” The riding boots went into the valise next to the trunk, the slippers back into the dressing room. “But what does it matter? By this time tomorrow we will be far removed from her and her wretched wedding plans.” She crossed the room and began fishing around in the tall armoire for another load of clothes.

Her rooms in her aunt’s house were spacious and bright, the late-September sun pouring the last warm light of summer through the windowpanes. A fireplace took up one end of the room, while a delicately carved table and chairs sat near the windows at the other end.

Next to the chairs waited long-neglected baskets of needlework and threads. Sophia and Emma found little time for the refined accomplishments of ladies.

Returning with an armful of gowns, Sophia dumped the costly dresses into the trunk.

“I don’t see how you will do it.” Emma closed the lid with a firm thump. “What excuse will you give her?”

“I’ll use a combination.” Sophia stuffed a pair of rough-made breeches and a white shirt into the valise. “We’ll tell her I received a note from Auntie Mellie this morning, and the poor dear is failing again. In her condition I would be terribly remiss if I didn’t return to the country without delay. Then when Auntie Effie protests, I’ll add that my heart is having a terrible time adjusting to the rigors of city life.” Sophia fell back into her chair, her hand resting on her breast. She sighed loudly and patted her brow.

Emma smirked and threw a pair of thick, practical socks at her. “Considering what I saw of Lord Trahern last night, you’ll need all the rest you can get. Now there is a man worth marrying.”

“Don’t remind me of what I’ll be losing.” She’d spent most of the night wishing the Parkers’ ball could have been different. “Just once I’d like to spend a night like every other girl.”

“You aren’t like the rest of those dim-witted, simpering misses.” Emma stopped her packing for a moment. “And you wouldn’t want to be.”

“Perhaps.” Sophia wasn’t so convinced. “I just wish I hadn’t seen him last night.”

“Him? I take it you mean Lord Trahern. Rather inconvenient running into your fiancé as you are trying to rob another man.”

“Inconvenient?” Sophia sputtered. “He could have unmasked me. I would have been discovered.”

Emma tipped her head and stared at her. “You’ve known that since you started. Why was last night any different?”

“It just was.” Sophia turned her back to her astute companion. She was risking so much as the Brazen Angel, and last night as she stood next to Lord Trahern she realized just how much the discovery of her identity would mean. She’d never thought beyond her immediate plans to her own future. To what it would mean to be loved, to be married, to share his bed—all of which would be lost if anyone discovered who the Brazen Angel truly was. And until she’d seen Lord Trahern she’d never considered their impending marriage anything other than something to be avoided at all costs. Now it held a tantalizing appeal, especially the sharing-his-bed part.

But if the strict and honorable Lord Trahern ever found out that his impeccable reputation would be tainted by her misadventures, a vow to his father or not, he’d cry off their wedding and be gone from her life.

The Traherns, Sophia knew, held their family lineage to the highest of standards.

Emma reached over and nudged her. “Quit woolgathering. We still need to come up with a plan for dealing with your aunt.”

“I told you, we’ll tell her I’ve been summoned to York.”

“So I suppose I’m required to stand close by, wring my hands, and add my own worries about your ill health?”

“You should know the routine.” Sophia tossed the socks into the valise. “You taught me. Besides, if we don’t leave tonight we’ll never make it to Paris in time.”

Emma gathered odd items from the room and packed them into her own black leather bag. “I don’t see how we’ll pull this off. We haven’t a third of the money necessary. Without Lord Delaney’s gold, how will we be able to . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she looked anxiously at the door. Beyond the wood panel, footsteps echoed along the long corridor.

Sophia bit her lip and listened. She wouldn’t put it past her aunt to spy on them. The hallway outside quieted as the steps resounded down the grand staircase. After a few seconds she nodded at Emma to continue.

Emma’s voice fell to a sharp whisper. “Without that money we stand a good chance of finding ourselves dead.” She chewed the pipe clenched between her teeth, closed her bag, and placed it next to the trunk. “There are always those plates you stole from Lord Lyle. We could use them and print ourselves a fortune.”

“You know as well as I do that Lyle’s counterfeit
assignats
would deceive only desperate widows and country fools,” Sophia commented wryly. She’d been shocked to find the printing plates for the Revolutionary currency hidden in Lyle’s study. Whatever an Englishman was doing manufacturing French bills, Sophia was of no mind to let him continue. She’d taken them to spite him, though she’d known they were worthless to her. She thought they may just come in handy, but for what she knew not. “We need gold, Emma, not worthless pieces of paper, and I have yet to find someone who could manufacture that from thin air.”

“Then you should never have let go of Lord Delaney last night. His gold would have come in quite handy.”

“Who said anything about leaving London without the Delaney fortune?” Sophia rose from her seat and walked over to a separate pile of gowns laid out on the bed. Selecting an especially frothy confection of white lace and ribbons, she held it up for Emma’s keen inspection.

The woman puffed her pipe furiously, smoke billowing out around her. “I see what you mean. No one expects you to appear two nights in a row.”

Waving her hands to clear the air, Sophia frowned. She opened the window and began fanning the room to clear the smell of tobacco.

“When are you going to give up that dreadful thing?” she chastised. “If Auntie Effie finds you smoking, you’ll be out in the streets.”

“She’ll have to catch me first,” Emma declared defiantly. “Besides, you should give it a try. It might take away some of that color in your cheeks. It’s rather difficult to keep convincing everyone you are on the brink of death when you insist on staying in such fine form.”

Sophia glanced over at the mirror, her face flushed from packing. Her hair curled down from the confines of her chignon, the chestnut strands glossy with good health. Where once Sophia had been proud to the point of vanity of her clear, fair complexion, the rich luster of her hair, and the light blush of rose at her lips and cheeks, now she found her attributes a true hindrance.

After all, it had been her looks that attracted men at the French court in droves to the irrepressible young beauty. She’d been foolish and unwise in her choices back then, choices that resulted in her being sent to live an ordered and regulated life in England with her aunts.

A knock on the door interrupted any further arguments.

“It’s me, my lady. Hannah,” a maid called out.

Sophia grinned as Emma scrambled over to the fireplace and furiously tapped her pipe out in the grate. She reached for her own shawl, pulled it over her head, and wrapped the ends around her shoulders.

Hannah, not waiting for a reply, boldly opened the door and started into the room.