A Spy in the House (23 page)

“Would you rather get down? We could follow her just as easily on foot.”

He looked at her dress: another frumpy brown sack. “We’ll be covered in dust. How will you explain that at home?”

They sat. After some time, a reluctant coachman organized a small gang of men to help shift the debris. But despite these efforts, it took nearly three-quarters of an hour before the road was clear. The driver of the tipped cart was no help. He spent the interval gibbering with rage and bemoaning the damage to his axle. Eventually, a narrow route was cleared through the broken casks and spilled ale, but even then it took several minutes for traffic to resume movement.

At the first opportunity, Mrs. Thorold’s carriage nipped precariously through a narrow gap on the edge of the pavement, very nearly crushing a dirty toddler and the basket of watercress to which it was strapped and causing another temporary stoppage as the indignant cresswoman rescued her child. For a few minutes, Mary was sure they’d lost her. As they cleared the junction, though, she caught sight of the familiar carriage disappearing round the corner of a side street. Their driver made a sharp right turn and urged the horses to a trot.

The Thorold carriage turned left into Denbigh Place, a narrow street of terraced houses. The road was remarkably empty: no children playing outside, no vendors going door to door. In a perpetually loud and active city, the effect was chilling. It was as though the entire area had been evacuated.

Mrs. Thorold’s carriage halted halfway down the street, and the door flew open even before Brown had clambered off the driver’s seat. He did manage to fumble the steps down, but with a sharp gesture the lady in the carriage dismissed his attempt to help her down. Her build was substantial and familiar, and she was wearing full matronly gear — wide crinoline, multiple skirts, bonnet. Her step was sure, and she descended with a matter-of-fact confidence completely unfamiliar to Mary. The distance from curb to front door was only a few paces. Yet it was enough to note the woman’s upright posture and brisk stride. She opened the door using her own key and vanished inside.

James and Mary exchanged incredulous looks.

“Did you . . . ?”

“Was that . . . ?”

Glancing toward the house again, they were in time to see Brown drive on and turn into the back street. Apparently, she was staying awhile.

“What are the chances of another lady using Mrs. Thorold’s coachman?” asked James.

“Another lady with her figure?” Mary shook her head. “It’s almost impossible.”

“Charming family,” he drawled. “Papa’s corrupt, Mama prowls London on the sly. . . . Is there anything George and I ought to know about dear Angelica?”

Mary kept silence. There was indeed, but she’d promised not to tell. And, truthfully, she didn’t want to tell. If he knew the latest developments, he’d have no reason to keep working with her. He was useful to her. And she’d actually come to enjoy his company, arrogant as he was.

He was watching her expression intently. “Is that a yes?”

“It can wait.” She jumped down from the cab and waited impatiently while he paid the driver.

“All right,” he said as the cab rolled away. “How do we learn more about Mrs. Thorold’s business here?”

“We ask the neighbors.”

“We just ring the bell and say, ‘Beg pardon, who’s that lady and what does she do?’”

She rolled her eyes. “We ring the bell and explain that I’m feeling faint from the heat, and may we come inside for a moment.” She took his arm and leaned on it dramatically.

“And I just stand there like a dolt?”

“You’re my brother, who’s extremely concerned for my health.”

James shook his head. “I’ve a better idea. I’ll do that while you explore the back street. See if you can’t get a look in the windows.”

“But ladies won’t talk to you as freely as they will to me.”

He grinned. “I’m not going to the front door. I’m going to charm a pretty housemaid into telling me all.”

“You seem very certain of your charm.”

He tried to look modest and failed. “It worked on Angelica . . . and I wasn’t even trying with her.”

Mary’s exploration of the back street was brief. The rear of the house was tidy and blank, the windows tightly covered from prying eyes. There wasn’t a single clue for the eager sleuth. She prowled the length of the alley for ten minutes or so, then returned to the corner of Denbigh Place to await James. He was some time — at least half an hour by her estimate, although she had no watch — and it occurred to her that, purposely or not, he was repaying her for his wait outside the Lascars’ refuge. The only other human in the street was a boy of about ten, idly kicking a ball.

“You look smug,” she said to James when he finally appeared.

He grinned. “The housemaid, Janet, is a charming girl. Served me tea and told me every detail of her life, from dawn to midnight. Apparently, I remind her of the hero of some novel she’s reading, but I’m better-looking.”

“Why is modesty never one of the hero’s attributes?”

He took her arm. “You’re only envious because I had tea. And some rather nice scones with jam and cream.”

“Is this a sample of your famous charm?”

“Oh, I don’t waste it on just anyone,” he said with a grin. “For example, ladies met in wardrobes, ladies who punch me in the nose, ladies who —”

Mary had to laugh. “Very well. Tell me what you learned.”

He turned serious. “Mrs. Thorold lets the house under the name Thorpe and she comes by in the afternoons. She has a gentleman friend, a Mr. Samuels, who calls in two or three times a week.”

“Has anybody seen inside the house? Does ‘Mrs. Thorpe’ keep a maid?”

“No; it’s something of a local mystery how they keep the house clean.”

“Well, what about any unusual deliveries? Anything that could link them to Thorold’s cargoes?”

He shook his head. “Nothing of the sort. These two keep a low profile; Janet doesn’t know where Mr. Samuels comes from either, and she’s as nosy as they come.”

Mary digested this. “It certainly sounds like an adulterous affair.”

James nodded. “Janet thinks so. Apparently it’s a favorite topic for all the local housemaids when they see each other.”

They walked on a little farther, to the edge of a small garden square. The boy with the ball suddenly booted it toward them. “Pardon, sir!” cried the boy.

James caught the dirty ball almost as a reflex. “Excuse me a moment, will you?” He motioned for Mary to walk on and dragged the boy about twenty feet off. At first it looked as though he was scolding the child, but then as the boy began to speak, James began to listen intently. Mary watched this byplay without particular interest until she noted the sudden change in James’s body language. He stiffened, glanced over at her, and spoke to the boy again. The whole exchange took only two or three minutes, but when it was over, James gave the boy something — money? — and rejoined her.

“Who was that?” Mary asked.

“Funny you should ask.” James’s grip on her arm was tight and he stalked along with long steps, forcing her to scurry to keep up.

“What’s happened?”

He stopped short. “When were you going to tell me?”

Mary felt that moment of dread again; the knowledge that she was caught. “Tell you what?” she said cautiously.

His grip on her arm tightened. “This morning you witnessed the marriage of Angelica Thorold and Michael Gray. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I — I promised.”

“You promised.” His voice was contemptuous.

“Michael and Angelica. I promised them not to tell anyone.”

“You should never have made that promise. You had already agreed to work with me, and our agreement should have prevented such a promise.” He glared at her for a minute longer, then suddenly released her arm. The movement was so sudden that she stumbled backward. “You went back on your word!”

Stung, she defended herself. “You had me followed, so clearly you don’t trust me anyway! You’re so outraged now, but you’re the one who’s been spying on me!”

“I have no need to justify myself to you,” he muttered, “but that boy was shadowing Gray. Not you.”

Mary blanched. Her righteous anger evaporated, to be replaced by cold nausea.

“That boy only reported what he saw in the church this morning. You witnessed the marriage.” James stared at her for a long moment. “How old did you say you were?”

“I — I said I was twenty.”

His eyes narrowed. “You
said . . .
”

She couldn’t manage another lie. Not now. Not to him. “I’m seventeen,” she admitted in a small voice.

“So the marriage isn’t even legal.”

“No,” she whispered.

“Is this your idea of a joke? And if so, who’s it on? Angelica, Michael Gray, or George and me? Or maybe your plan was to deceive all of us for some reason of your own.”

She couldn’t speak.

He looked as though he’d tasted something rotten. “I hope to God no one else finds out.”

She was shaking now. “They won’t!”

He only stared at her again, shook his head, and turned away.

Mary stared after his receding form. When it was clear that he wasn’t going to stop, she hurried after him. “Wait — where are you going?”

He swung round to face her and spoke formally. “I regret having urged this so-called partnership upon you. Consider yourself rid of me.”

Stupidly, she gaped at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Good-bye, Miss Quinn. I wish you well.” He turned on his heel and strode away.

Another sweltering, foul-smelling day. Sunlight glowed round the edges of the curtains. Mary lifted one eyelid. Why did she feel so . . . ? Even before she could frame the question, the events of yesterday came back. They didn’t rush or ebb so much as cudgel her brain. James. Their argument. Their separation. It ought to be for the best, but she hadn’t yet persuaded herself of the fact. Had she no shame? He was arrogant and hot-tempered, but her behavior had been worse: dishonest and foolish.

On her return yesterday, she’d taken refuge in that classic lady’s complaint, the headache, in order to avoid dinner and a family evening. Cass had taken it upon herself to smuggle up a supper tray: a lukewarm cup of tea, three door-stopping slabs of bread and butter, and a wedge of slightly stale Madeira cake. Even in the hard grip of self-loathing, Mary had to smile at the girl’s idea of comfort and easily persuaded her to consume most of it. This morning, however, she felt hollow as a result of the missed meal.

Was it even worth getting up today? She wrinkled her nose. Such a question was embarrassing, even when unspoken. And — how had she managed to forget? — the conclusion of the assignment awaited. Her first assignment. Her much-compromised assignment. After which she could finally go back to the Lascars’ refuge. And here she was, feigning illness over a man who despised her.

Spurred by that thought, she sat up in time to hear the clock on the landing toll nine. Nine! Where was Cass? No tea, no bathwater, and it was two hours past her usual rising time. She was becoming quite a lady, marooned in her room by the absence of the maid. She washed using the water from her hand basin, dressed quickly, and went down to the breakfast room. It was deserted, and she was just sitting down to coffee, eggs, bacon, tomatoes, and toast when, from the back of the house, she heard a muffled but distinct crash and an outbreak of shrill scolding.

With an inward sigh, she went into the corridor. It was easy to determine the location. Even from the top of the servants’ staircase, Cook’s voice was enough to make her wince. Mary hesitated; she had no authority there, of course. But even as she paused, she heard the meaty slap of flesh against flesh. That decided her.

The trouble was in the larder. Rounding the corner, Mary saw fragments of glass strewn across the stone flags. Sprawled on the floor among the shards was the cringing figure of Cass Day, protecting her head with her arms.

“Good morning, Cook,” Mary said coldly.

Cook, a brawny woman in her early forties, glared at her. She was breathless. “What d’you want down here?” On the floor, Cass did not move.

“Miss Thorold is much concerned by the din,” Mary improvised. “She sent me to assist you.”

Cook wiped her forehead with her apron. “It’s that lazy, thieving brat,” she spat. “Caught her nicking those lamps.”

The remnants of a pair of oil lamps lolled drunkenly in a corner. “I see.” Mary swung her gaze from the lamps to Cass’s still form and back to Cook.

“She’s sacked, o’ course. But she needs a good lesson first, the sniveling weasel.” Cook’s sleeves were rolled up well past her forearms, and she was still enraged.

The two women stared at each other for a minute, weighing their choices. It was certainly within Cook’s powers to fire Cass and even to beat her. In the taut silence, a violent tremor shook Cass’s curled-up body.

“You’re busy. I’ll see her off the premises.” Mary glanced down at the girl, her voice cool and neutral. “Stand up, Cass.”

Cook’s eyes narrowed. “And just who’ll clean up this mess?”

“Cleaning and trimming the lamps is William’s responsibility.” Mary tucked Cass behind her. “I’ll inform him of the damage.”