The Fashionable Spy

THE FASHIONABLE SPY

Emily Hendrickson

Chapter 1

“Where on earth are you, you wretched man?” Victoria muttered. She stamped her foot, shivering from the damp. It was to be so simple. A pause in Dover, pick up a packet at the castle from her contact, then on to London. She brushed back a wet tendril of chestnut hair that had somehow escaped from beneath her hood, then looked down, blue eyes ablaze with annoyance, at her faithful companion.

Rain dripped from the end of Victoria’s nose, now pink with cold. She gave it an impatient wipe.

“I have stubbed toes on rocks, searched everywhere in these miserable ruins, and now I’m near frozen with this horrid June weather. June! More like March, I say. But I shan’t give up just yet,” she murmured to her friend. The wind tugged at the hood of her sturdy gray cloak, seeking entry beneath its protective folds. Cold mist tingled against her skin. The dim roar of an angry sea could barely be heard, but she knew the tide was wicked. Victoria shivered again. She stared across the bay that curved along the Dover coast. Where was he? Why was he late?

The snap of a branch caught her attention. Again she searched about her. “Not a soul around. Silly girl,” she scolded herself. “ ‘Twas the wind, most likely.” Merely because the hour grew late and the light became dim because of this blasted drizzle was no reason to be missish. But her heart began to beat faster.

Another growl. She whirled about, staring into the gray mists in vain, her hand clutching at her cloak. Nothing, no one to be seen. The black dog at her side bristled, head lowered as though ready to charge at a foe.

“What is it, Sable?” she whispered, although there was not a soul to hear her.
Or was there? The lowering gloom concealed others as well as herself. Her gloved hand steadied her against the cold stone wall as she willed her heart to cease its foolish pounding.

The shadows grew longer; pinpricks of light began to show in the town below. Across the bay, the undulating hills swept inland from the sea, a slash of black above the pale gray of the cliffs. Never had she felt so alone, so vulnerable as today, this moment. A few minutes more and she would leave, regardless.

Sable growled once again, and Victoria hastily dropped to her knees to reassure him, threading suddenly nervous fingers through his fur. As her hand touched the enormous black poodle, an object whistled past her shoulder, clattering against the stone wall behind her.

The dog tore off into the darkness like a shot. Snarls punctuated by muttered curses rooted Victoria to the spot. The sounds faded as her pet pursued whoever threatened his owner’s life. It couldn’t be her contact, because Sable knew him. But there were others, menacing unknowns who could wish her gone.

Her mouth grew dry as she stretched trembling fingers to pick up the object. A knife. The blade glittered in the dim light. It was a short, lethal-looking weapon. She could feel carving incised on the rough handle.

“Oh; Sable!” she whispered, quite relieved as he trotted up to her. He looked enormously pleased with himself. “Good dog,” she whispered as she rose from where she crouched.

She silently darted from her waiting place, the knife still grasped in her left hand, cloak billowing about her, rapidly slipping down the steep hill through the trees and scrubby brush that covered the slope. Her pet kept pace with her, staying as close as possible, showing her the way when necessary. Shortly she was enveloped in the mists below the castle.

“You came at last,” she softly exclaimed to the dark figure who emerged from the first alley to confront her. For a moment their figures blended, then parted. Victoria thrust the packet of papers inside her cloak as he melted into the shadows. She was alone again. At her side, Sable growled.

She glanced behind her, up the hill to where the castle sat obscured from view. Nothing could be seen moving but a solitary gull, who complained his state with a mournful cry as he wheeled about through what was now a steady rain. Nonetheless, she suspected there was someone out there, possibly watching her even now.

“Come, Sable. We must hurry. There is not a moment to lose.” She gathered her cloak tightly about her while the pair slipped along the deserted cobbled streets. At first she ran, skirts lifted slightly, dashing from street to street, staying on the lea side for protection from the rain, her heart in her throat at every sound, every shadow. When they entered the more populated area, she slowed, fearing curious eyes at such unseemly haste.

Afraid of what she might see, yet knowing she must look, she risked a glance behind her. A tall lean man, his battered hat tilted forward, paused beside a tavern. No one else was fool enough to be out and about this rainy night. The man seemed not the least interested in her, so she ran on her way, her delay having been but seconds.

At last she and Sable reached the small neat house where she rented a room. She had been warned to leave, and leave she must. At once.

Across the street from the house, a tall lean man blended into the shadows, patiently waiting, biding his time. When he saw the girl leave, he followed her to the mews where her coach was kept. Not close enough to overhear her instructions, he surmised her destination. He knew her well.

Leaving the mews, he returned to the neat house where the girl had stayed. It was a simple matter to rent the same room. Once he closed the door behind him, he searched every corner, hoping for a snippet, a clue.

“Damn and blast,” he grumbled, as not one shred could be found. She had picked the room clean.

“Bless you, Sam,” Victoria said in a low voice as she clambered into the traveling coach, nudging Sable before her. “London, with all possible speed,” she commanded before he closed the door.

“Aye, Miss Dancy, I suspected as much,” the portly man replied as he climbed to his perch with an agility that belied his years.

In short order the coach was headed north and west on the Dover Road, the driver skillfully making his way along the darkening path. The lamps were lit, the horses prime goers, but Sam had made it evident he didn’t relish the journey. Those snapping eyes had told her all. Her pity for Sam warred with the need to reach London as soon as possible.

Victoria peered out of the window, then turned to her pet. “The rain is growing worse. ‘Tis not the best of times to be making a dash for the city.” Then she reflected a few moments. “I wonder who it was that found me out. Where did I make a slip? Worse yet, what does he do next. . . and why? Have we a traitor in our midst, as they fear?”

The dog whined in seeming sympathy, rubbing his head against her sleeve as though to comfort her.

“Aye, Sable, what’s to be done?” Her fingers smoothed the packet resting in her lap. One never knew what might happen, and she could take no chances. Her own life aside, it was important to the security of England that these papers not fall into the wrong hands. The portmanteau she always carried with her sat on the opposite seat and she reached for it.

In moments she removed the carefully wrapped head, then dumped the chisels and sculpturing tools in a tumble on the opposite seat. She secured the packet in the false bottom of the case before restoring it to its previous untidy state.

Smiling at the dog, she said, “I doubt if anyone will be interested in that clutter, eh, Sable?”

The dog gave a friendly growl, if one could say there was such a thing, then placed his head on her lap, seeming happy to have the matter bothering his mistress settled.

Victoria sensed the storm was worsening, with rain pelting the coach in ever-increasing strength. When the coach slithered violently about on the road, she rolled down her window to peer into the gloom. Nasty. She drew her head back inside, shaking the water from her hood with annoyance. Lurching to her feet, she thumped hard on the roof. Shortly Sam picked up the trap to peer down at her.

“Sam,” she called out as loudly as she might, “best stop at the next inn, wherever it might be. No sense in killing ourselves.” There was a wave of a gloved hand, then the trap fell closed once again.

“At least,” she murmured to the dog while sinking down to the seat, “there is no one else fool enough to be on the road.”

* * * *

Sir Edward Hawkswood swore fiercely while he attempted to retain control of his bays as his traveling chaise tore south along the Dover Road. “Bad going,” he shouted to his groom.

Higgens, a spare little man with a long, thin nose, shouted back, “Aye, sir,” his eyes alight with admiration for the skill of his master’s driving.

“This road is abominable, the weather worse. Why did I think I had to reach Dover as soon as possible?” Rain streamed down Edward’s face and soaked his many-caped greatcoat. “Should have stayed at the inn in Canterbury.”

As it was now, he wondered if he might survive the trip. His leg ached horribly, the pain piercing, eating at him with relentless intensity.

“Pity we had to be pressing on.” Higgens glanced at his master as though to see if he might divulge the point of this harebrained trip.

Edward grimly thought of the information he’d received. Spies, traitors—fantastic stuff indeed. He couldn’t rest until he’d investigated the matter. The tip he’d received had offered information. Now, if he’d but get there in time.

And then he caught sight of a post chaise coming toward him. At first he thought it to be a phantom, a figment of his imagination rising from the gray mists.

“Who in their right mind would leave Dover on a day such as this?” he wondered to Higgens.

The groom, looking worried at the sight of another coach on the appalling road, exhaled, “Aye.”

Edward fought to guide his team on the slippery highway. He had a chance, though a near one, that he might safely skim by the other vehicle. The other man looked to be a skilled driver, for he held his team well.

Then a clap of thunder rolled across the sky and a crack of lightning flashed. The horses took violent exception to this terror, plunging wildly, and were nigh impossible to control.

“Good God!” Edward exclaimed. There seemed no way he could prevent a collision.

The sound of dreadful smashing of wood and grinding of metal, horses in distress, and the cries of men reverberated across the valley, and in concert with this, another rumble of thunder.

The other driver jumped to escape the brunt of the crash, landing on the back of the near wheeler. The front-right corner of Edward’s chaise had come off the worse in the encounter between the two carriages. The other chaise had been snapped off its springs, and now tilted crazily, with its occupants surely in a heap.

“Best see what we can do,” Edward observed as he clambered down, ignoring the pain in his leg. Obviously the last thing the other man wanted was to have the horses panic and bolt, thus dragging the damaged traveling coach through the mire.

Hawkswood handed the reins to his groom, knowing the man would have the team under control in a trice. He limped over to the other driver, wondering how anyone in the other coach had managed in the crash.

“Here, let me lend a hand,” he offered.

“Best see to Miss Dancy, what’s inside,” replied the other man as he tended the horses.

Ignoring his painful leg, Edward made his way about the vehicle, and, seeing that the coachman had now attained control of his animals, he wrenched open the coach door.

About at his knee level lay the figure of a woman garbed in a plain gray cloak, strands of dark chestnut hair trailing down from beneath her hood. She was ably guarded by a black poodle of formidable size. Its intelligent eyes studied Hawkswood with disconcerting thoroughness.

“Easy now, fellow, be a good dog and let me have look at your mistress. She’s in a bad way, make no mistake about it.”

Hawkswood knelt, ignoring what the mud would do to his fine coat and breeches. A cursory examination of the woman revealed that she was likely concussed, with a possible bruise where the case had struck her. A small lump had formed on her brow. Even in the dim light he could make out her lovely features, delicately shaped face. They both needed a warm, dry spot in which to recover from their collision, but where?

Glancing about, he could see no sign of any houses, and knew it had been some time since he had passed one. No farm buildings were near, with the exception of a windmill off to one side, up the hill. He couldn’t recall an inn on the remainder of the Dover Road either. There’d most likely be no doctor to be found, worse luck.

Blast it! He needed to get to Dover and quickly. Even now, it might be too late. Yet he was in no condition to drape her across a horse for a ride to town. He suspected she’d not thank him for such a jolting ride, either. When concussed, the patient needed quiet and rest. Rain swirled about him into the coach, turning her cloak dark with wetness.

Reaching a swift decision, he approached the coachman.

“I’d best get her to a dry haven. Sooner the better,” he said tersely, not wanting speech in the rain. “Hawkswood’s the name.”