The Spymaster's Lady

Thirty-four

GALBA COUNTED ELEVEN CHIMES FROM THE clock in the front parlor. Another hour had passed. Still no sign of Robert and the others.

There were no clocks in the study. This was one of the places they occasionally kept prisoners and contained no glass, no sharp points, no wire and springs, nothing that could be made into a weapon. Even the plumed and bannered army of chessmen, Venetian and very old, was papier-mâché.

His granddaughter set her index finger upon a scarlet miter. “I will not move the bishop, I think.”

She’d advance the queen, he thought. She’d send it scurrying around the board instead of manipulating pawns and knights and rooks. Emotionally, right to the core, Annique was an independent agent. When she joined his Service, she’d never be Station Chief or Head of Section. She was not another Carruthers. And she was a truly dreadful chess player.

“I am not good at this.” She slid the queen forward. “I would rather play cards.”

“But sometimes you win at cards.”

“I thought, when I first came to know you, that you had no sense of humor whatsoever…” She managed to add the next word, though it was obviously prickly as a cocklebur in her mouth. “Grandpère. I now believe you have a diabolical one. I do not enjoy being related to you. It is like being granddaughter to one of those large monuments in Egypt that no one can read the writing upon. You are about to tell me I am in check, are you not, with that annoying pawn of yours?”

He’d had ten days with her. She delighted him and filled him with boundless regret that he’d never known her as a child. When she tilted her head like that, he could see his Anna in her, his wife, long dead. Her face was the face of Peter Jones. The passionate warrior. The dreamer. She had Lucille’s charm, all of it, and made it distinctly her own. But her brain—that cool, amused, assessing brain—that came from him. She and Robert would have formidable children.

“Check, Annique.”

He was coming to understand her moderately well, his Lucille’s daughter. It had puzzled him, at first, that she could be such an effective agent and yet so unguarded, so open and direct. In ten days, his spontaneous, unstudied, frank granddaughter never slipped up, not once, in all that chatter.

“So.” He did not intend to let her sit brooding about Robert. “We were talking about the nature of secrets, were we not?”

“Yes.” She slid her knight into his trap.

He didn’t immediately fall upon it. It would be more instructive if she had time to apprehend her mistake before he moved. “We agreed, did we not, that secrets are intangible, but commodities? That they may be bought or sold or stolen? They may be owned?”

“Certainly they may be owned.” There. That flick of an eyelash. She had realized her knight was doomed. She was probably beginning to suspect her bishop was the next to go. He would teach this woman to play chess yet. “We are agreed upon it. I wish my conversations with you did not consist of me agreeing with things you have said and then concluding things I do not at all want to believe.”

She was so strictly disciplined under that frivolity. Not once did she glance to the front of the house. There were no signs even he could detect that her whole spirit was poised, waiting for the carriage to return.

Robert and the others were taking a long time. The negotiations with Lazarus must be more difficult than expected.

“If a secret may be owned, it can change ownership,” he said.

“Oh, surely. Secrets are most promiscuous. I have eloped with a few myself, in my time.” With a thoroughly French shrug, she accepted the loss of her knight and sent her queen to cunningly waylay his bishop.

“Can they also remain faithful? Do my cuff links remain mine, though resting in Robert’s dresser drawer?” He moved a knight. “The drawer does not own the secrets.”

“Hah. You say, in effect, the secrets in my head do not belong to me. I disagree.” She scooped up his bishop, muttering, “This does me no good whatsoever. You merely toy with me, I think.”

“So I do.” He moved a pawn. “Check.”

“But where? You do not…Oh.” She bit her lip. “I think that is cheating. You have not moved your rook for such a long time I forgot him altogether.” She set her finger on the queen. “I see clearly how to escape this trap so it is probably more subtle than is believable. Grandpère, my head is not a dresser drawer. I do not care who has put the secrets into it or who needs them. They are mine now. I will decide.” She moved the queen.

He set the last pawn into place. “Exactly. They are no longer French secrets. They are yours. You must dispose of them according to your own conscience. That is checkmate in three moves.”

She glared at the board. It took her a minute to work the moves out, twice that long for her invincible stubbornness to admit she was beaten. She gave an exclamation of disgust and stood up. “I do not know why I continue to play chess with you, since I never win.”

“You play because I ask you to, Annique.”

He set the white king and queen, side by side, into their velvet-lined nests in the box, then the red queen and king. It was always a pleasure to touch these old chessmen. His Annique picked a rook, a bishop, and a pawn from the table and began to juggle. The pieces hovered before her like hummingbirds while her hands flew in circles around them.

He stopped, fascinated. The girl was such an odd compendium of talents. She used just the tips of her fingers, soft as the wind.

“I am teaching Adrian to juggle.” Her attention was all on the chessmen; absorbed, unselfconscious, cat-quick. “It will help him with his throwing knives and also amuse him. Doyle will not learn. It does not accord with his persona, he says, though not in those words. Grey has not the time, since you work him without mercy at all hours of the day and night.”

“Is it hard to do that? Juggle with the different shapes?”

She caught them. One. Two. Three. Then tossed the bishop by itself so it spun in the air. “But they are the same, these pieces. There is a weight inside—small stones, perhaps, from the feel of it—and it is alike for all. One juggles the center of balance.” She set the three pieces down in a row on the edge of the board so he could put them away.

He should have brought this child to England ten years ago. What Lucille had done to her, what he’d allowed, was nothing short of criminal. It was one more regret among many he lived with. “Find the center of balance and everything falls into your hand.”

“That is one way to think of it. I must tell you, though, that I am not so easily manipulated as these chessmen you use so well.” She gave her street urchin grin. “Do you know the small thing I missed most when I was blind?”

He put the red bishop, rook, and pawn each into its place in the box and closed the lid. “Juggling?”

“Juggling, too.” She was looking past him, out the window. “I missed pigeons. I could hear them everywhere, but I could not see them. I am very fond of pigeons. I admire of them that they are large and yet they do not continually bully the sparrows. They also keep their tongues within their teeth and do not argue politics at one continually through the day and night. Do not be the natural historian and tell me pigeons do not have teeth.”

“I would argue instead that pigeons do not have politics.” Now he must choose something else to distract her till Robert and the others returned. They were on a small errand, this business with the criminals of the rookeries of East London. But he’d lost agents doing small errands. And Marguerite was with them. “To the piano, Annique. It is time for your practice.” He pulled the cord for Giles to come and unlock doors.

“They do not know, any of them, the hideous things you do to prisoners in this house.” Her eyes danced when she said that. She was comfortable with him, feeling at home here in even these few days. His granddaughter was a woman of strong, uncomplicated loyalties. She was binding herself to him and his organization and to England every hour. In another week, or even a few days, it would be done.

Giles was another lure. The two of them walked ahead of him down the hall toward the front parlor, heads together, murmuring. She was enchanted to have a blood relative her own age, a cousin. She listened endlessly to the dullest family gossip, marveling that all these people should be related to her.

She’d already forged an unbreakable bond with Robert. His daughter and his granddaughter had both chosen remarkable men to love. The Griffith line was safe.

But not its music. That had been misplaced along the way. He followed her into the parlor to find her standing, outlined by the sunlight of the front windows, scowling mutinously at the piano.

She was beautiful as the dawn, of course. One of those troublesome women born to drive men mad. That old devil Fouché was right in one thing—it was high time this agent exchanged boys’ clothes and the battlefield for the salon and politics. She was too valuable to waste on the military side. “You will wish to portray a young woman of good family someday. You should have learned to play the piano badly years ago. I don’t know what your mother was thinking of.”

“I am not musical, me.”

“Neither are the young ladies of good family. They worship at the shrine of Euterpe, but they hear her not.”

“Which is to say ‘they cannot play.’ You make my head ache with your classical allusions and your piano lessons and your endless arguments.” She propped sheet music on the stand. “You are very certain I will stay here and work for you and give all my secrets to England.”

“I am certain. You’ve spent ten years wading through the carnage Napoleon has made of Europe. You are neither a nitwit nor a savage. Rather than see Kent raped and burned, you will give me what is in your head.”

“And shift advantage to England, so I may see British soldiers burn the little farms of Normandy.”

“Or perhaps you will save the Vendée from being burned again by Napoleon. No one can know the final consequences of his actions.”

“No one can know…It is foolish what you say.”

She was so very young. He forgot that, sometimes, talking to her. “For thirty years I have contrived and schemed to command events. What I have learned is that the future is not a performing dog. Nothing happens as we plan. Expedience is the most delusive of guides.”

“And yet, one must choose.” She turned a page of music and then another. “I must choose.”

“Then stop trying to read the future and do so. Do what is right to do, here, in this minute. And that, granddaughter, you are perfectly capable of discerning.”

The knowledge she carried, the unbearable weight of it, showed in her eyes. Just a glimpse. Then she hid it and thumped herself down on the piano bench and flipped the wood panel up from the keys. “Even if I could understand you, which I do not, I would not listen. You will say anything, you and Grey, to get what you want.”

“You are not a woman one lies to with impunity. Whatever we say, you will decide for yourself. Wisely, I think.”

She would choose correctly in the end. She could never be of the cult that worshipped Napoleon. Not Peter’s daughter. It would be her terrible duty to betray France. His job, and Robert’s, to reconcile her to the guilt of it.

“I speak politely to you because I have been taught respect for age and white hairs.” She let off a few loud discords to make her point. “You become sure of me. It is a mistake on your part. I am a woman of infinite cunning. I will give to you precisely as much information as I wish, no more. And I will do it for my own reasons, in my own time.”

A formidable woman, as Paxton said. Thank God Robert knew how to deal with her.

She began to poke through Bach’s “Prelude in C Major.” Her hands could never be clumsy, of course, but she was utterly without an ear for music. He chose the red sofa, a deliberately uncomfortable piece of furniture, and closed his eyes and accepted his penance.

The notes ceased abruptly. “Ils arrivent.”

They were coming. She stood and gripped the back of a chair, keeping well away from the window and its chance of snipers. Vauban had trained her supremely well. The young girl longing for her lover’s return was wholly subsumed in the experienced agent who never made mistakes.

Now even he could hear the horses. Out front, Ferguson stumped up the basement stairs to greet them as the hackney pulled to a halt. They were back, safe. From the corner of his eye he saw Annique truly relax for the first time in hours.

He is back. She pressed her hand to her stomach and felt the knots untie, one by one. Was she not foolish to worry about Grey, who had survived battles, when he went upon a trifling errand? Being in love made her an idiot.

Galba pretended not to notice her weakness. She was disarmed, utterly, to be the recipient of such delicate politeness.

Marguerite came in first, Grey and Adrian following. She looked extremely pleased with herself, so it was even more clear that all had gone well.

“Done.” Adrian tossed his cane on a table and spun his hat down on top of it. “Smooth as silk. I told you it would be.”

Marguerite’s fingers worked at the ribbons of her bonnet. “I saw the child myself, on board, still sleeping. She is recovering. Everyone is agreed to let her go with her father, though the man is a rogue.”

“Walk in. Steal someone. Walk out.” Adrian’s eyes gleamed. “I love this work.”

Doyle was the last one in. He portrayed some low English type in a leather coat and a neckcloth with brightly colored dots upon it. “Lazarus is annoyed. Mostly at that young fool.”

“I’ve annoyed him before.”

“How you managed to stay alive as long as you have…” But his Marguerite brought him a glass of wine from the sideboard and kissed him upon the mouth, right there in the parlor. It was a serious, married kiss that looked as if it had been practiced a good while.

“You like him dressed rough, do you, Maggie?” Adrian dodged back from the small fist Marguerite raised in his direction. He was like a buzzing fly when it amused him to be. “Must be like having an affair with the groom. You should try that sometime when he’s off wandering in France.”

“You, Hawker me lad, are going to get your comeuppance one fine day,” Doyle said. “Maggie don’t need no advice who to have affairs with. Woman with a mind of her own, she is.”

Marguerite chuckled. “I prefer my lovers more soigné, but a woman my age cannot be particular. I think this one will clean up nicely when I get him home.”

Adrian went to help Giles pour wine. “Lazarus didn’t slit my throat, the smugglers owe us a huge favor, and the Service walks away clean. Ye gods, sometimes I even amaze myself.”

And Grey had come to her, come as if there were no one else in the room. He put a glass into her hand and closed her fingers around it. How could she think at all when he looked at her this way, as if he wished to drag her to his lair upstairs and make her naked?

Adrian lifted his glass. “To espionage. The bladeless sword…”

“…without a hilt.” Galba made the answer. “My congratulations. You’ve done well, all of you.”

She toasted with the others. How easy to sink into the camaraderie here, to pretend she was one of them.

It was time and past time she escaped this house. She was disconcerted by many of her thoughts nowadays. Day by day she could feel her certainties seeping away. Each night she slept curled in Grey’s arms, warmed by his rumbling breath as he slept. She felt herself slowly become Welsh, as a caterpillar might lie, puzzling in its cocoon, dreaming and changing. Soon she would not want to leave. Soon, perhaps, she would trust the British and give up her secrets to them. She felt them waiting for that, Grey and the others.

Marguerite strolled across the room, drawing her fingers through her hair. Sunlight dappling her blue dress as she passed the windows. Thin curtains swayed with the wind, molding the bars, blowing loose. Outside a coach approached. It slowed.

A shaft of uneasiness pierced her. Wrong. Something was wrong. In profile, passing the window, Marguerite could be any woman. Any target. “Marguerite!”

“Maggie,” Doyle said sternly. “You’re making a shadow. Get away from the window.”

The carriage outside. Slowing. Wrong. Wrong.

Adrian already had his hand on Maggie. The bullet shattered the window, and Maggie fell like a stone.

That shot was the signal. The world crashed apart. Windows burst inward, one after another, in thundering blasts. Splinters of glass flew like a million spears in the air. She hit the floor. Hid her face. Broken glass cascaded down on top of her. Her arms stung and began to bleed. The curtains writhed like mad ghosts. More shots. Chaos.

“Maggie!”

Adrian’s voice cut across Doyle’s cry. “Not hit. She’s not hit.”

Which was a lie. She could see blood upon Marguerite’s head. But she knew what Adrian meant—that Maggie was not killed.

Outside, horses neighed in terror. Hooves rang on the cobbles.

Rattling concussion pounded and pounded and tore the room apart. The ceiling caught the force of a direct hit. Plaster thudded down around her. She wriggled and crunched forward. Women’s clothes were no good for this. No protection from the glass. She cut herself. Lead smacked the rug an inch from her face. She crawled forward, right there, through the path of that bullet. Shots hit the bars and bricks and marble sill and bounced off, striking at random. Death riding little slugs of metal. Everywhere.

A pause. Then three shots came in rapid succession. Another pause. That was reloading. She crawled fast toward the front wall.

There’d been nine separate blasts in the first volley. Three in the second. Shotguns and rifles, not muskets. Probably three or four men only.

She made it to the wall, to Maggie, who seemed to be unhurt, except for a cut through the scalp. Her face was bloody. But everyone was bloody now, from the shower of glass. Maggie had sensibly rolled to the wall under the window, which was the safest of all places at that moment. Adrian crouched over her, guarding her with his body, his knife upraised like a cold, black flame.

He had an extra knife to toss to her, grâce a Dieu. She wedged in next to him, putting her body also between Maggie and the bullets. There was time now to be afraid. Time to consider the doors to this room. Soon, men might break through. She wished she had two knives.

Doyle scuttled toward them, pistol drawn. “You hurt, Maggie?”

“No. Only crushed.”

Another battering volley. Lead hit the wallpaper and gouged holes six inches deep. The piano took a direct hit and died noisily.

“That’s my girl.” Doyle stretched to peer through the broken window. He shouted to Grey, “One coach. Men inside. One on top. Nobody on the ground.”

Doyle kept out of her line of throwing, Adrian did also, a courtesy of great value in this tense moment. This was the advantage of working with men of some experience. She was also relieved beyond measure that no one was bleeding much or thrashing with a wound. How much longer that could continue, she did not know.

Two shots in rapid succession. Then more. The red velvet sofa whooshed and sucked air. Feathers joined the plaster dust floating in the room. Galba had folded himself tight in the corner, keeping out of his operatives’ way, his lips thinned, his eyes frigid and distant.

“Four shooters. One driver,” Grey announced. He calculated the interval of the shots, as she had. He was flat, elbows braced on the floor, covering the front entrance. It was a classic position, the way Grey held that gun, pure army. The manner in which he ignored the bullets slapping into the floor around him was also purely army and showed that he had been much in combat. He rapped out, “Out of here. Everybody. Into the hall. Giles.”

Giles had his keys out. He half stood to open the door. He was young enough, that boy, to think he was immortal.

“Down, you fool!” Grey grabbed him and shoved the idiot behind what was left of the sofa. “And stay down.” He waited, counting. A double blast shook the room.

Smooth as if he could slip between bullets, Grey launched himself at the wall, at the bracket that had held the jagged remnant of a lamp. He grabbed the brass sconce and twisted in a wide circle. Inside the wall, smoothly, the bolt pulled back, and the door swung free.

“Giles. Anson. Out,” Grey ordered. “Into the safe haven. Doyle, take the front. Annique, can Maggie be moved?”

“She is not hurt.” She raised her voice above a volley of gunfire. “Except cut.” A spindly table chose this minute to rock and crash to the floor, carrying with it the last still-intact lamp globe.

“Get her out of here. Adrian, with me.”

Maggie, once no one was kneeling upon her, showed every ability to crawl with commendable speed. Halfway down the hall Galba opened a door and pushed Giles ahead of him. The safe haven room was windowless, small and dark, but it would give some security from the bullets. She pushed Maggie through and slammed the door behind her. She stood with her back to it.

Grey met her eyes as he passed. He nodded one swift approval and headed to the back of the house, leaving her as the last guard of those within the safe haven. Wholly and completely cold was her Grey at moments like this, most entirely deadly.

So. This was her post. She knelt, hunkering down as far as was practical. Bullets spat through the front window, down the hall, and pockmarked the plaster. She did not like the thought of one hitting her. Her knife—good. It was completely familiar. All Adrian’s knives were of the same balance within the weight of a pea.

She had a good view of the front door. Doyle, in the parlor, would take the first man through. She would take the second and perhaps give him time to reload.

The piano was hit again, more bass this time. Then pistol shots began outside, a sound like the popping of pine logs in a fire. Grey had circled the house and was shooting into the coach. Doyle took this as a signal to raise himself and fire out the window. He dropped to the floor to reload. She heard the coach rolling away, and in a minute gunfire ceased altogether.

Silence. Her ears were dull and stuffy. Plaster dust, feathers, and gunpowder hung in the air. The walls of the parlor dribbled plaster and strips of wallpaper. She waited, unmoving. Doyle, too, stayed in position, his back to the wall, gun held close to his chest. In the safe haven behind her there was no sound. So much experience they had, all of them.

“It’s me,” Grey called from outside. “Hold fire.” And when the front door opened, it was indeed Grey, not anyone she should throw a knife into, so she stood up and breathed out, long and slow. She had not thought the attackers would loiter when men began to shoot back at them.

The door of the safe haven opened behind her. Galba emerged into the hall, stiff and angry. “Is anyone hurt?”

Grey walked toward them, his pistol primed and pointed to the rug. “Stillwater has a sprained ankle. Ferguson got cut on the arm. Nothing serious.” He touched her face, turned it to see where she was bleeding. “You’re fine.” He said it as if she were one of his men. It warmed her that he should think of her that way, that he did not make of her a civilian like Maggie and Giles. He set his gun on the hall table and took out his handkerchief to stop the bleeding on her forehead. Doyle came to take Maggie away, picking pieces of glass from her hair, his huge bearlike hold tight around her. Outside, she could hear men swearing imaginatively.

Leblanc had come all the way to London to kill her, braving the wrath of Soulier, knowing the the British Service would take great interest in the events at Bruges. Now, more than ever, he would be desperate. He committed this outrage on a street where children played, where women might come out of their houses at any minute. What a dog of a man he was.

“Someone,” Galba said, “has offended me. Leblanc?”

“Leblanc.” Grey’s eyes were the color of granite.

“That was Leblanc.” She was sick to know what she had brought upon this house. “That was his first try.”