My Lord and Spymaster

Thirty

“THE FIRST LEAK WE KNOW ABOUT WAS MARCH, five years ago.” Adrian stood in front of the long bank of windows, facing her. “The most recent was two weeks back. Where do we start?”

Jess didn’t know who’d been ejected from his office at the Admiralty. Somebody important. This was a huge room with a commanding view over the parade ground and a globe the size of a wheelbarrow in one corner.

A pair of armed marines stood outside the door, looking tough and alert, guarding things.

She unrolled the first of her charts. These were tides, weather conditions, winds, and the phases of the moon for every month, every year. Give her a ship, and she’d tell you how far it could travel on any given day, all up and down the Channel. It had taken a while to put this together. “We’ll start with the oldest and go on from there.”

“I knew you were going to say that.” Sebastian started restacking books. He had Kennett ledgers and Whitby ledgers. Some from other shipping companies. To his right was what looked like the shipping books from Lloyds. She wasn’t going to ask how he’d come by those.

The Service had torn London apart, giving her all this. Spread out on the tables was an amazing collection of ship manifests and paper from the Customs, Board of Trade clearances, naval logs. There must be two hundred pounds of government paper that didn’t have any right to be here. There was a fine selection of British Service agents to help her sieve it. They stood at the long table, twenty of them, each commanding a small kingdom of paper, waiting for orders. Trevor’d put himself beside her, behind a stack of clean paper, ready to make notes.

“It’s your show, Jess,” Sebastian said. Adrian brought her the big, red leather chair from behind the desk. She was in the center of the long table. Best seat in the house.

The pompous young man from the Admiralty hovered protectively over his own stacks of records. “May I say it’s an honor to meet you, Miss Whitby. I’ve been working with Captain Kennett on the Whitby ledgers since they were brought in. I’m thoroughly familiar with the Whitby system. I’ll explain anything you don’t understand. Your father’s accounting methods . . . even under these circumstances, I have to say they’re tremendously exciting. I only wish I were half the accountant he is.”

“If you’re half the accountant my father is, God help us all.” If he started explaining the mysteries of bookkeeping, she’d scrag him. “Can we send one of those monkeys at the door to bring us tea?”

The men from the British Service were watching her. The room got quiet.

This was going to work. She’d make it work.

She rested her fingers on the tabletop and looked from man to man, up and down the room. “March twenty-fifth. A memorandum on troop movements slipped out of the War Office. It surfaced in Boulogne on April third. Let’s see who sailed.”

A tall man, thin as a scarecrow, unsmiling, was already deep in the files Lazarus had sent over. Trevor picked up the pen and took ink.

A man to her left said, “The Pretty Henrietta, owned by George Van Diehl, sailed on March twenty-sixth. Bound for Bristol.”

Another voice, “The Parrot. March thirtieth. But that’s just a coastal lugger.”

She said, “Put her down.”

Sebastian angled a Whitby ledger out of his pile and slid it in her direction.

From the end of the table—“The Nancy Lee, seventy tons, bound for Bristol. March twenty-sixth. No cargo listed here. Owner is . . . I can’t read it.”

She knew that one. “Michael Sands, owner and captain.” It was time to add the Whitby ships. She leafed to March. “Northern Spirit, for Lisbon. She didn’t weigh anchor till April first. That’s cutting it close, but put her in. Northern Destiny sailed March twenty-seventh.”

“Island Dancer on March twenty-sixth, bound to Cagliari,” Sebastian was started on his own ships, “which would put her well past the coast of France before April. I suppose she could have hove to in a bay somewhere and waited a week. The Belle Dancer didn’t sail till April seventh.” He closed the Kennett books and picked up another ledger.

“Red Tempest from the Red Star Line, bound for Boston, April first,” someone said. Trevor wrote it down.

“Cross Northern Spirit off. She put into the Isle of Thanet on April second and set two sailors ashore. Measles. Didn’t leave there till the fifth.”

“The Manatee, owned by Gregory and Fitch, April first for Boston. Likewise the Haughty Girl, registered at Plymouth.”

She could eliminate some of these. The Van Diehl books were down the table. She headed that way and leaned over a shoulder to check an entry. And here it was. A fine bit of memory on her part. “It’s not Pretty Henrietta.” She’d had her hands on these books for about an hour, three weeks ago. “Hunt bought a crate of Sheffield knives, in Bristol, on April fifth. Had to be off the Henrietta. Here it is.” She watched Trevor strike out the name.

“The Crystal Jane, out of Bristol. She left . . . No . . . didn’t leave March twenty-eighth.” A rustle of papers. “She sailed April first, instead. Delayed for refitting.”

“Cross that one off, too.” Sebastian said it before she could. “That’s Pettibone. They went out of business the next year.”

Mr. Admiralty was still playing bump on the log. She fixed her attention on him. “You need help with those naval vessels?”

“I am perfectly capable of addressing the naval vessels.” Admiralty was talking around that wad of annoyance he was keeping in his mouth. “The ships of His Majesty’s Navy, unlike merchant vessels, weigh anchor on time. They go exactly where they are told, and they stay there. They most definitely do not carry illicit memoranda, and they do not—”

She said, “You would not believe what naval vessels get up to.” He didn’t know much about lace smuggling, did he? “Get to work or get out.”

“Another ship for Boston, the frigate Oak Tree, registered in Baltimore to McFarlane, sailing April first. The sloop Betty of Newark, registered in Plymouth to . . .” He’d uncovered a whole flock of them, Boston bound.

“You can cross every one of those off. This isn’t going to be a ship moving all chummy in convoy.” The Service didn’t know a thing about shipping, did they?

Adrian set a cup of tea by her elbow.

NINE hours and twenty-three minutes later, she closed the Whitby ledger for August. Her eyes stung. She put her head down into her hands and pressed her fingers tight to the bridge of her nose.

“We’ll finish tomorrow,” Sebastian said.

“Jess, we can stop this now,” Adrian said.

The Admiralty man said hoarsely, “I’ll get you some tea.”

Sebastian snapped, “She doesn’t need any more of that.”

“No tea.” All kinds of pain shot through her back and her legs when she stood up. She hurt everywhere. A clean sweep, when it came to pain. “I don’t need to finish tomorrow. You know that as well as I do. We’re done here.”

The agents from the British Service stood up when she did, every man jack of them. Adrian opened the door for her without saying a word. Only Sebastian followed her out.

They walked past the marines and through the corridors of the empty building and out into the night. The big court-yard was shadowy with distant lanterns. Out on the street, Sebastian had a hackney waiting. He opened the door and flipped down the steps and helped her in. No comfort and explanations from Sebastian yet. He was just getting her away from the Admiralty.

Twenty feet farther along the street, the Whitby small wagon was pulled to the side of the road, the horse and driver dozing. A man sat huddled up in his coat on the back, waiting.

It was Pitney. She’d known he would be here. If anyone had asked, he’d say he was here to pick up the Whitby books. But he was here to see her.

“Stop. Over there.” It was the first thing she’d said to Sebastian. “I need to talk to him.”

She opened the door of the hackney and put a knee down on the floor and leaned out. “Pitney . . . I’m finished in there.”

Pitney saw everything in her face. Had to see it.

“I found . . .” It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. Her throat closed tight as a fist. “I traced everything . . . to the Whitby ships. I know . . .” Breathe in. Breathe out. It cut like knives. “I’ll see Papa tomorrow. I can’t face him tonight.”

“Jess . . .”

“I can’t . . .” She’d run out of words. Pitney looked flat and unreal, like he could tear into strips and blow away. “I have to get out of here. Are you going to be all right?”

He shook his head. There was nothing to say. Nothing to say. He’d been Papa’s friend for thirty years. “Jess—”

“Leave her be.” Sebastian pulled her roughly back to the seat and reached past her to pull the door closed. The coach started.

It was Whitby ships. The secrets crossed the Channel with smuggled goods, carried by crewmen under orders, who didn’t even know what they passed along. Whitby ships. It was in the records, again and again and again.

The design on the leather walls of the carriage was fleurs-de-lis, imprinted in worn gold leaf, one about every four inches. Sometimes the pattern made diamonds, sometimes squares, sometimes long, slanted rows. It depended on how she looked at it. The horses clattered through St. James Park and into the silent streets of Mayfair. Nobody was out at this hour. The wide, dark spaces between the streetlamps were empty. Once, a cat darted across the road in front of them.

At some point Sebastian put his arm around her and pulled her against him, and she started crying, noisy and wet, gasping into his jacket like she was choking on something. If he hadn’t been holding her, she would have broken into three or four pieces.

They pulled up in front of his house. After they’d waited there a while, she wiped her nose on her sleeve and drew herself up stiff and held her breath. A couple more sobs got out. It was hard to stop.

“I’m . . .” It scraped the inside of her throat. “I’m sorry. I’ll be out of your house tomorrow.”

“You’ll stay. You have nowhere else to go. Jess, we have to talk about this.”

“I don’t want to talk. Let me go inside, Sebastian. I’m so tired I’m shaking with it.” Of all the useless emotions of her whole life, being in love with this man was the most hopeless and useless of the lot.

“Listen to me. Your father—”

“I’m about to start crying again. Will you please, please, let me go do it someplace that’s not in front of you.”

“Fine. We’ll talk when you’re not exhausted. Go to bed.”

She let him climb out and lift her down from the coach. Someone was waiting in the lighted doorway. Eunice. How did she always know?

She was crying again even before she got up the stairs. Eunice didn’t say a word. Just held her.