The Spymaster's Lady (28 page)

O
NE FEELS FOOLISHLY JOYFUL THE MORNING
after taking a lover—tired but exhilarated, as if one had danced all night and successfully stolen a Prussian dispatch or two.

She considered herself in the mirror of Grey's bedroom. She looked smug, she thought. “Maman did not tell me not to let men buy me dresses, as other mothers advise their daughters. She told me not to let men pick them out.”

“A wise woman.” Grey had told her to wear the lavender walking dress for the activities of this morning. The color made her look fragile. The excellent plainness of the design was, on her, entirely
jeune fille.

More puzzling was the knife he handed her. She tossed it from hand to hand a few times, then slipped it into its place in the sheath he himself strapped onto her wrist. He acted as if it were altogether normal to make love to a captive spy at dawn and then arm her in this deadly fashion. She could not imagine why he did this.

“This is Adrian's,” she said, because the knife was flat and matte brown and balanced precisely as Adrian's other knife had been.

“He says to take better care of it.” He rummaged in the armoire. “Wear this, I think.” It was a straw bonnet with lavender ribbons, which meant she was going outside. Truly, this was an altogether odd first morning of captivity.

She pondered this as they left the room and headed for the top of the stairs. Voices came from below. Soon enough she could look over the banister and see Galba in the hall on the ground floor, being courteous to a skinny old man, very fashionably dressed.

“…my nephew, Giles,” Galba said, which was something she had not known about Giles. “He's assisting us till Devlin recovers. Giles, this is Lord Cummings.”

“New doorkeeper, eh? That's keeping it in the family.” The visitor spoke in the high-pitched whinny of an English aristo. “I'm sure you do a fine job holding off the villains, young Giles. Fine job. I imagine in a week or two you'll be back to Eton, telling them all about your adventures in London.”

“Harrow, sir,” Giles said.

“Umm. Yes. Best years of your life. Cricket and…so on.” He tucked his cane under his arm. “See here, Anson, we must talk.”

Galba walked around him and continued toward the parlor. “You're here on a Sunday, Cummings. It must be a matter of urgency.”

The aristo trotted in his wake. “What's this nonsense Reams brought me? You're refusing to hand over a French agent?”

She was engulfed in a mad instant of fear. She was to be given to Reams. That was why she had been dressed to go out. Aristos still ruled here in England, and they had immense power.

Then Grey poked her in the back, which told her she was to continue walking and for some reason dissolved the foolish panic altogether. Grey would not give her up. Not for a thousand English aristos.

Galba said, “Essentially, that is correct.”

“Nonsense. Oh, I know what happened, of course.” The aristo gave a fruity, aristo chuckle. “Reams barged in and made an ass of himself. Offensive to everyone in sight. Not quite a gentleman, the colonel. But useful. Useful. We have to tolerate men like him in wartime.”

Galba said, “I will tolerate Reams. What I will not tolerate is his interference in Service affairs.”

The popinjay's noisy suit swished with each step. “Quite right. Quite right. Here your men snabble themselves up a bit of French crumpet. Reams goes blundering in, ruffling feathers, demanding a taste. Nuisance of a man. Now you and I have to smooth the whole fracas over. Tell you what. I'll bundle our bit of French fluff off where she won't be fought over. I brought a couple marines with me, don't y'know. I'll drop our game pullet off on my way home, and we'll call that the end of it.”

Grey continued down the stairs and along the hall, pushing her ahead of him with the greatest sangfroid.

In the parlor, Galba stood in front of the mirror over the heavy and hideous sideboard and put on his gloves. “Miss Villiers remains with us.”

“Devil take it, man. This isn't one of your political games. This is a military matter.”

“And I say it is not. Will you dispute prerogatives with me, on behalf of Colonel Reams?”

“Are you claiming jurisdiction over a piece of French tail your Head of Section has a fancy for?” The aristo stabbed his walking stick into the rug. He looked, every minute, less the peevish fool. They played a game of power, these men. “When this gets out, your Service is going to look—”

“
Is
this going to get out? We had hoped for an end to the leaks in your office.”

Grey chose this moment to push her forward.

“Ah, Robert. In good time.” Galba reached out. She had no choice but to let him bring her forward and place her firmly under the nose of this aristo and into the midst of their game. “Annique, allow me to present Lord Cummings to you.”

“Your niece? A charming child. Charming. Anson, we should continue this in your office.” The Lord Cummings was not interested in her, except to be polite a moment because she was pretty.

“But no.” She gazed upward through her eyelashes and curtsied like a schoolgirl. “I am Anne Villiers, my Lord.”

“Villiers. Villiers? This is…?” The aristo's face hardened. Oh, most excellent. He had been made to appear ridiculous by the Colonel Reams. “Reams said she was a…Reams said she was…older.”

“Reams was mistaken,” Galba said, very dry. “I hope you slept well, mademoiselle.”

Grey answered for her. “She slept fine.”

So. It was to be obvious to this English lord that she had become the mistress of Grey. She swiftly considered several alternatives and decided to be very young and shy. That was a role with many possibilities. By thinking of some of the things she had done last night in bed with Grey, she made herself blush, a deception of great skill. She was proud to achieve it, especially before Grey, who would appreciate the genius that called it forth.

She still held her bonnet, so she let it swing by its strings, as a child does. It would do no harm to play thus with the aristo.

The Lord Cummings cleared his throat. His eyes flickered from her to Grey, who scowled, to the front window where carriages waited. “It could be temporary custody. Only temporary. She'll be treated well.”

“No,” Grey said.

“I give you my personal assurance.” He shifted his cane from right hand to left. “See here, Major, you're infantry. You understand how important—”

“No.”

“I'll make it clear to Reams he's not to…That is, I can see she's young. I'll tell him to treat her with every respect.”

Of a certainty he would. He would know it meant nothing. He would give her to Reams to rape and torture, and he would feel badly about it for much of one evening. He would regret it for five minutes the next day. Then he would forget her altogether. The British called this “deploring the necessity.”

Grey said, “Be damned to that.”

“She is a French agent, privy to military information. We—”

“I don't care if she has naval codes stuffed in her corset. That bastard's not going to get his hands on her.”

“Enough, Robert. You've made your point.” Galba rested one hand on the high back of the crimson sofa, making a barrier, acting as if Grey were imminently dangerous and must be restrained. “Military Intelligence has no legitimate interest in Miss Villiers. Her work has always been political, and never directed against England.”

It was time to play her own part. She took a hesitant step toward the aristo, working on tears. “Please. The colonel frightens me very much. Please do not send me to him.”

Cummings did not look directly at her. Oh, but she knew the men of his type. He gave his orders in some pleasant office in London. Never did he involve himself with the torture of women in basements or directing artillery fire into towns to bury children under the rubble.

“She was one of Vauban's cadre. Vauban dealt directly with the traitor in Military Intelligence. I'm bleeding secrets from my whole department, and she may know the name of the man who's doing it. Give her to me.” The aristo had abandoned all pretense of being a fribble. His words were hard as horseshoe nails.

“Your bloody incompetence doesn't give Military Intelligence the right to pirate my operation.” Grey matched snarl for snarl.

“This is a military matter. It falls in my jurisdiction. The sooner Reams cracks that name out of her…”

She thought like lightning. “But it is Reams's own office where the traitor is. It is his—”

Everyone turned. She lifted her hand to her mouth, as if she had said more than she should.
Dieu.
She should bite her lip and stammer like a schoolgirl. This aristo expected no more from her.

The lordship had gone perfectly rigid. “What do you mean, it's Reams's office?”

“Hush, Annique,” Grey said quickly. “You shouldn't talk about that.” One would swear they had worked this out beforehand, he did it so smoothly.

“But you must not give me to Colonel Reams.” She selected a tiny sliver of her fear and blew it into her voice. To build a role out of the blocks of emotion already within one—this was a great art. “If you send me there, I will not live to speak. Do not do this to me.”

“Reams won't touch you.” Grey was grim as stones. She did not think he was acting. “This is a waste of time. He's frightening Annique,” he said to Galba, “and we're going to be late.”

“I demand to know what she meant by that.” The aristo almost danced in frustration.

“Our investigation has only begun.” Galba picked up his hat from upon the hideous sideboard. “Too much has already been said. Leave her to us, Cummings. It's in neither of our interests to release her to Colonel Reams.”

The Lord Cummings did not speak at all. Much internal calculation was going on behind his eyes. She had been correct to conclude he was no fool.

Galba collected a pair of small black books from the marble top of the bureau. “Now I must ask you to excuse us. As Robert says, we are late.”

“You can't take her…I mean, where are you taking her?”

Galba raised his eyebrows. “Is it possible you have forgotten what day this is?”

“Day?” Lord Cummings was bewildered.

“It is Sunday, as I pointed out. We are going to church. A pleasant morning to you.”

T
HE HACKNEY AWAITED THEM AT THE CURB.
S
HE
followed Galba decorously down the steps, and she did not let an eyelid twitch with all the vast amusement that was bouncing around inside her. Grey held the door, and Galba helped her tenderly in.

“The men are in place?” Grey slid in next to her. As the coach started, he opened a panel in the upholstery, removed a gun, checked it, and returned it. Then he reached past her and did the same on the other side. This was a hackney carriage very well supplied with guns. He had one in his coat as well. She felt it bumping against her thigh.

“Will's been up since five. He assures me we're adequately covered.” Galba filled the seat across from them with his large, square body. She should not have called him fat. He was simply one who took up a great deal of room, like an old tree, strong in its fiber. He had his own gun, a small one he held just clear of his jacket pocket.

“Well, that was fun.” Grey scanned the streets on the right as the carriage rolled along. Galba was watching the other side. “Annique wasn't what he expected.”

“Reams is an imbecile.”

“Whatever else happens, Cummings is going to flay Reams alive for making him look like a fool in front of you. Annique, why did you say the traitor is in Reams's office?”

He looked at her, straight and level. She was jolted into remembering that Grey was not just a lover in her bed, he was the Head of Section for England and master of many spies. She must decide, this moment, what she would give to the British.

A hundred yards of pavement rolled under the horses' hooves. Were there depths of treason? Small trivial treasons and large ones? She waded in dirty water, deeper and deeper.

But she had only one choice, unless she wished to visit Colonel Reams's interesting cellars. “The lordship is wrong in one thing. It was not Vauban who dealt with the traitor in your Military Intelligence. It was Leblanc.”

Grey and Galba stayed silent. Silence is a potent weapon in interrogation. After another hundred yards had passed, she said, “Our spy is in Reams's office. He has been in the pay of France for three years, recruited only for money. We have deposited to him hundreds and hundreds of pounds through an account at Hoare's Bank. His name is Frederick Tillman.”

Grey hit the cushion beside him, an eye-blurring boxer's jab. “Got him! We got the bastard! Tillman. Reams's brother-in-law, for God's sake. His second-in-command.” He grinned, tight and fierce. “This is going to bring Reams down.”

Galba smiled.

They were very pleased. She sold one small secret for a little safety. She did not feel delighted.

Thus it began. Not with a dramatic decision to reveal the secrets of the Albion plans. With the name of a minor and greedy weasel. The British would corrupt her one secret at a time, upon this excuse and that, until she was wholly their creature. She knew how such things were done. She was no match for these men in determination, or in wits, either.

Grey needed no more than a glance to read what was happening within her. “It's not the thin edge of the wedge, Annique. You know exactly what you're doing.”

That was true, so she felt better. In Fouché's files in Paris, Tillman was marked as untrustworthy and expendable. He had outlived his usefulness. Any French agent might reveal his name, at need. “He is an inferior sort of traitor, your Monsieur Tillman, who works only for money. He sells us British secrets, then sells French secrets to the Romanovs, and everyone's secrets to Hapsburgs. He betrays several masters.” Her fingers were making creases in her dress, which was a bad habit, so she stopped. “There is no proof I can give you. Only the name that is in my head.”

“I'll get the proof. Now that I have the name, I can get the proof.” Grey put an arm around her. It was not the touch of a lover but the comfortable hold of a comrade before battle. All the time his eyes kept watch through the window, seeking in every corner, as if this were indeed a journey onto a battlefield.

Galba, too, studied the street. “Nobody's following us yet. Robert, your assessment—does Cummings dare to challenge me directly? He brought twelve uniformed boobies with him. He's a politic, cautious man, but he is also enamored of seizing the moment. Will he take her by force? We are prepared for all eventualities but that.”

Another street passed. Grey took that long to think about it. “He intended to. That's why he brought that gaggle of marines. He changed his mind when Annique dropped her little grenade. He can't risk backing the wrong player. Besides, he's afraid I'd shoot him.”

“You would.”

Grey did not need to answer. His silence was like the flatness of a polished knife.

Not far onward, they reached a church, small and old, crowded between houses, with the name St. Odran on the front gate. Sooty stone went upward in many sharp points, some with knobs on the top, and it had small, bright windows.

“We are really going to church?” They had said so, but she had not taken that at face value.

“Contact with the established religion will leave no outward scars.” Galba collected his hat from the seat beside him.

She walked through the church door between two men, armed to the teeth, and saw, almost at once, Adrian in the back row, looking like a tomcat at a tea party so little was he suited to this place.

“You will kill me with bafflement, you,” she whispered to Grey.

“Look reverent,” he advised, and he left her to sit beside Galba. He went somewhere behind her. After that, she felt him watching her most of the time.

Galba sat imperturbably through the long, incomprehensible service. He was transformed, as soon as he entered, into the very portrait of a prosperous city merchant, a shade cunning and foxlike, but fitting wholly into this assemblage of petty bourgeois. He had about him an air of conscious self-satisfaction, as if he were a proud grandfather taking his pretty young granddaughter to church.

So she played the pretty young granddaughter, as she had played so many roles, and held an English prayer book when he handed it to her. After searching her memory, she concluded this was entirely the first church service she had ever attended. She stood and sat and knelt with everyone else and tried to relate these activities to what was happening at the front of the church and failed.

While she was sitting and the man in black talked at great length, she paged slowly through the
Book of Common Prayer
and put it in her memory, for one never knows what will become useful. She felt bewildered through all of this, without pause, until finally they stood and chanted and everyone except them started to leave. Grey joined them. After a few minutes, they were the only ones in the tiny church.

The minister finished shaking hands at the door of the church and bustled to see them. He greeted “Mr. Galba” and “Mr. Grey” and then took her hand.

“This is Miss Jones,” Galba said. Such names, the British Service chose. It had struck her from time to time that the men of this Service had a peculiar sense of humor.

The clergyman smiled upon her benignly. “I married your mother, you know. You want to see the entries, I understand. I've put them out in the vestry. Do follow me.”

She was completely on the other side of the church, walking in a puzzled daze, before she realized that the old man in black was not claiming to be some husband of her mother, but rather the clergyman presiding at a marriage.

Maman had married someone? She was not completely amazed, except that it had happened in England. But her mother had done many interesting things in her life, so one more was not impossible, even in England.

A vestry turned out to be a small room. One came to it through a narrow door set between stone columns and, once there, found it dusty and full of cabinets. On the table a large book had been laid open. It filled the entire table.

“Mr. Galba tells me your mother passed away recently. Allow me to offer my condolences. I remember her well, though she wasn't one of my regular parishioners. A most beautiful young woman. You have a great look of her, by the way. This is the record.”

He pointed to one line. In the dim light that came through the diamond-shaped panes, she saw that on September 3, 1781, Lucille Alicia Griffith had married Peter Daffyd Jones.

There are not so many Lucille Alicias in the world. It appeared that, indeed, her mother had been married to someone.

“The christening.” The minister lifted one huge page, turned it, and trailed his index finger down the entries. “Here. This is it.” Small, neat, spidery script, a bit faded, read, Anne Katherine Jones.

She had been christened. How odd. Galba took the minister away and talked to him.

“Do you accept this as authentic?” Grey asked her.

“What?” She had not thought of that. She drew her fingers across the page. The powdery slickness under her fingertips told of undisturbed inks. No trace of discontinuity. No telltale roughness. The colors were properly faded, and they matched. The binding was untouched. The smell, old. “It is real. I just don't understand.”

“Not a forgery. Not a substitution. You accept this as genuine.”

She nodded. “I was in England as a child. I remember it, just on the edges of rememberings. But I did not know I was born here, in London. Why would I be born in England?”

“We all get born someplace. Let's get out of here.”

Outside, Adrian waited, his back against the wall, watching everything with the impartial, carnivorous attention of a hawk. He passed a few words to Grey.

“One scuffle in the churchyard,” Grey said to Galba as they got into the coach.

Galba held his gun across his lap on this trip back. Grey kept his at his side, resting on the seat. The coach skirted Booth Square to take a different route home. She felt the presence of men out on the streets, shadowing the coach on all sides, protecting her. She had a sense of moving in an ocean of events, pulled by tides she did not understand.

Meeks Street had been emptied of its assemblies of spies. She was escorted up the stairs by hard-faced men, looking serious, and Doyle, looking amiable and completely relaxed. She was so preoccupied she scarcely noticed she was walking back into her prison.

In the parlor, while they waited for Giles to unlock the door to the inner portion of the house, she said what had been on her mind since she left the church. “Peter Daffyd Jones.” Grey and Galba turned. “Has anyone told him my mother is dead?”

Grey said, “He's dead, too, Annique. Peter Jones was your father.”

It was impossible that they did not know. This was common knowledge about her. “My father was Jean-Pierre Jauneau, called also Pierre Lalumière. He was a hero of the Revolution. He was hanged in Lyon with the other leaders of the Two Sous Rebellion when I was four.”

“Pierre Lalumière was Peter Jones. He was Welsh. Stay still a minute. I think I'll disarm you for a while.”

She pulled back her sleeve and held out her arm so Grey could unstrap the sheath. “This makes no sense. My father was Basque, or perhaps Gascon. Do you tell me my father was Welsh? Why should he be a Welsh? Nobody is Welsh. I have never known a single person in my life who was Welsh. It is an utterly stupid thing to be.”

“I'm Welsh,” Galba said. “Come upstairs.”

“That does not wholly amaze me, for I should suppose there are many in England, which is nearby, but there are not any in France that I ever heard of. Why should someone who is Welsh live in France? Why should he pretend to be French?”

She was halfway up the stairs when the first of several realizations hit her. She stopped dead. “
Sapristi.
If that is true, I am legitimate.” She put her hand on the wall, not to hold herself up but to reassure herself that something in the world remained solid and reliable.

Grey waited beside her, so she informed him. “I am not a bastard.”

A shadow of amusement crossed his eyes. “Does it matter so much?”

“I don't think so.” She felt inside herself and did not notice anything different. “It is just that I had not thought of myself in that way.” She climbed two more steps, and a thought struck. “I have a name then, one that is rightfully mine.” Another thought followed. “Jones? That is a name? But no one on earth is truly named Jones. It is preposterous.”

Grey obviously expected her to continue upstairs and then to walk the length of the hall to the front of the house. They came to a wide, light room with five tall windows and a view, through white curtains, over the street. She had not been here before. It had broad leather chairs and a fireplace and racks of swords on the wall and many bookcases. An oval oak table was empty except for a few files in a stack. She could smell coffee and tobacco and the leather of the chairs and the fire. Homey smells. Meeks Street was a house of many such comfortable places.

“Jones is a perfectly ordinary Welsh name,” Galba said.

Giles had come upstairs behind them with a tray, carrying coffee and bread. He gave coffee to Galba, who took it, and offered to Grey, who refused, and set a cup on the table next to her without asking. They were insidious, these English.