A Spy in the House (8 page)

“Oh.
George
Easton.”

Mrs. Thorold’s eyes widened. “You can’t think I meant — really, Angelica!” She seemed genuinely annoyed. “A
younger
son? Have you learned nothing?”

Angelica made a sour face. “I don’t see that it matters, Mama. They’re businessmen, not aristocrats with inherited titles.”

Mrs. Thorold ignored this piece of logic. “You will forget about other candidates. This afternoon, you will encourage
George
Easton. Miss Quinn, you will ensure she does so.”

“I take it you’ll be in your room resting, Mama?” Angelica’s jaw was tense.

“I’m going now, dear.” She paused in the doorway and fixed Angelica with a sharp look. “Sit up straight and behave prettily. Or else . . .”

The moment the door closed behind Mrs. Thorold, Angelica sprang from her chair. “Behave prettily!” she snarled. “I suppose you’ll be taking notes, Miss Quinn?”

Mary blinked. “I — well, no.”

“And reporting every word to your kind employer?”

“What?” Mary asked faintly. Angelica couldn’t be referring to the Agency. . . .

“Permit me to teach you a lesson, Miss Quinn.” Angelica leaned over Mary’s chair, her scarlet face just inches from Mary’s. The effect was rather grotesque.

Mary tried to sound calm. “What is that, Miss Thorold?”

“My mother may pay your salary, but I’ll make your life a living hell if you cross me!”

Angelica was very convincing. However, Mary was mainly relieved that her “kind employer” meant Mrs. Thorold, and not Anne Treleaven.

There must have been something in Mary’s expression that Angelica didn’t like. She glared at Mary for a moment longer. Then, without warning, she seized Mary’s burned hand, her sharp fingernails digging deep into the pink, blistered skin.

Mary sucked in a sharp breath. Her eyes watered with pain, but she managed not to scream.

Angelica stared into her eyes, daring her to move.

Mary remained perfectly still, choking down the urge to fight back.

After several seconds, Angelica let go. Her fingernails glistened red at the tips. “You’ve been warned.”

The bloodletting seemed to improve Angelica’s mood. When her callers began to arrive a few minutes later — there was one for each bouquet sent — she had achieved a reasonable degree of good humor, and there was still a faint pink flush on her cheeks. Mary returned to the drawing room, hand bandaged, in time to hear the footman announce, “Mr. George Easton. Mr. James Easton.”

George led the way with quick, eager steps. He was immaculately turned out in a silk waistcoat and patterned cravat, his boots were brightly polished, and his watch chain gleamed as brilliantly as his smile. He’d even waxed the ends of his moustache. James, a few steps behind, was very soberly dressed: gray waistcoat, plain cravat. His mouth had a slightly cynical twist to it, visible because he was clean shaven.

Very properly, Angelica greeted the elder brother first. “Mr. Easton! I must thank you for that exquisite bouquet. How did you know that I adore China roses?”

George bowed ceremoniously over her hand, then straightened and glanced around the room. “I am impressed that you remember which bouquet is mine, Miss Thorold.”

She gave a tinkling laugh and presented her hand to James. “I must confess that I remember only my favorites.” Settling herself in the middle of an unoccupied sofa, she glanced over her shoulder and said carelessly, “Ring for tea, Miss Quinn.” With a graceful gesture, she invited the brothers to join her.

They sat.

Mary rang the bellpull.

Tea arrived.

From her place in a straight-backed chair near the window, Mary was in a good position to watch them maneuver and flirt. Angelica’s manner was girlish and playful and focused very much on James. She tossed an occasional remark to George to prevent him from wandering away, but her preference was obvious. Mary couldn’t be certain whether this was to spite her mother or because she genuinely preferred James.

Mary kept her mouth shut and pretended to knit. Her hand throbbed. For someone who played the pianoforte, Angelica had very sharp fingernails. After a little while, though, the conversation took an interesting turn.

“What I object to,” said James, “is the way Florence Nightingale has become a sort of modern-day saint. Nursing soldiers was one thing, but she’s now the center of a ridiculous cult. When you think of those foolish young ladies leaping onto the first train bound for the Crimea . . . it was dangerous and utterly irresponsible.”

Angelica tinkled with appreciative laughter. “Oh, how true!”

“Every bored old maid in England now thinks herself fit to play battlefield surgeon,” he continued with lazy disdain.

“Without those ‘bored old maids’ in the Crimea, English losses would have been much greater.” Mary managed to surprise herself: that clear, caustic voice was hers. Was she mad, intruding into their private conversation?

All three pivoted toward her.

James merely elevated his eyebrows. “True. But I am speaking of the tendency to romanticize the nursing profession. . . . It is a messy, ugly business, and so very few young ladies seem to understand that.”

Mary raised her eyebrows back at him. “Certainly, the newspapers made Miss Nightingale and her nurses into heroines. They also romanticized the soldiers, and plenty of foolish young gentlemen still manage to buy commissions.”

He sighed patronizingly. “When men enlist, they know they are risking their lives. When gently bred young women flock to a military encampment, they not only endanger themselves; they also distract those who must look after them and who ought to be thinking of other things.”

“And males are only too eager to blame all their shortcomings on the distraction represented by females,” Mary retorted. “As though nurses are the only women in an encampment!”

George’s jaw dropped at her rather obvious reference to prostitutes.

James grinned.

“I had no idea you two were so well acquainted,” snapped Angelica, her eyes small and hard.

James seemed not to notice her tone. “Indeed,” he said blandly, “I have not had the pleasure of a proper introduction.”

George’s face was rigid with disapproval.

Angelica could hardly refuse, although her voice was icy. “May I present to you Miss Mary Quinn. Miss Quinn, George and James Easton.”

George shook her hand as briefly as possible. “A pleasure,” he mumbled, his face suggesting anything but.

James bowed deeply over her hand, his lips not quite touching her fingertips. “
Enchanté,
Miss Quinn. I delight in meeting dangerous radicals.”

She muttered something and snatched back her hand.

“Speaking of nursing . . . I hope your hand is beginning to heal nicely.”

Her right hand was on fire. “Yes, thank you.”

“Did the special salve help at all?” His tone was vaguely . . . insolent, she’d have said, except that he was her social superior.

Mary’s chin lifted a fraction. “Indeed it did.” If anything, the greasy ointment seemed to make everything worse.

“Such a relief to hear that,” he murmured. “And how very kind of that gentleman to assist you so promptly. . . . One of the family, is he?”

What was he driving at? “Mr. Gray is secretary to Mr. Thorold,” she explained in her starchiest voice.

“Ah. I thought I’d seen him before. Have you known him long?”

“Only for a few days, since I was engaged by Mrs. Thorold.”

He raised one eyebrow. “I’d no idea you were so recently engaged. You seem so very familiar with the house.”

Mary gritted her teeth. “You, too, seem to know the house — and the family — quite intimately.”

His lips twitched in a familiar way. “Intimacies can spring up so quickly, can’t they? That between you and Mr. Gray, for example . . .”

Angelica’s expression underwent a sudden change from bored irritation to avid interest.

Mary frowned at him repressively. “I’m afraid
intimacy
is entirely the wrong word, Mr. Easton. Mr. Gray merely showed polite concern for my injury.”

“Mr. Gray’s ‘polite concern’ was extreme,” James persisted. His mouth curved in a mocking smile. “Few husbands show such tender care to their wives.”

Angelica’s smile was hard and brittle. “Michael Gray fawns over all young females,” she snapped. “It is his greatest fault. Papa says so,” she added, as though that settled the matter.

George turned to her immediately. “I hope he does not tire you with such cloying attentions, Miss Thorold.”

“He wouldn’t dare!” Angelica tossed her head like a rebellious heroine in a novel. “He knows his place.”

“I’m relieved to hear it.”

“I hope you, too, know your place, Miss Quinn,” drawled James.

Her face flushed with anger. “Are you lecturing me, Mr. Easton?”

“No, I am merely observing that young women in your . . . position . . . sometimes find themselves in rather awkward situations.” He managed to make the word “position” sound particularly offensive.

Mary drew herself up in her chair, spine like a plumb line. He was alluding to more than the wardrobe incident. Fragments of last night’s conversations came back to her: he was accusing her of being someone’s mistress. But whose? Thorold’s? Michael’s?

James lounged back in his chair, crossing one ankle over the other knee. “Merely that governesses and paid companions occupy such a delicate place in the social hierarchy. . . . If a secretary — or another male — behaves inappropriately toward them, what recourse do the poor things have?”

Mary was livid. “You have a distinct interest in the powerlessness of women and strong ideas of where they do and do not belong.”

Angelica suddenly spoke, her cheeks scarlet. “Are you — are you casting aspersions on my family, sir?” From the quaver in her voice, it seemed that she, too, had heard something about the former parlor maid.

The cursed man looked amused at the reaction he’d created. “Oh dear, I seem accidentally to have offended both of you. I beg your pardon, Miss Thorold.”

Once again, Mary fought the urge to punch him.

Angelica still looked vexed.

George jumped in anxiously. “My dear Miss Thorold, my brother was speaking generally; no reflection upon you or your household was intended.” He turned to his brother ominously. “Isn’t that right, James?”

“That’s right, George.” James’s tone was mild and suggested that all this fuss was someone else’s doing.

Angelica’s neck remained stiff, but in a few moments she relented. “I suppose it is a compliment that you respect my intelligence enough to discuss such matters with me.”

“Naturally, my dear Miss Thorold.” James’s voice held a suspicion of laughter, but Angelica seemed to enjoy his use of “my dear.” He turned that dark, persuasive gaze onto Mary. “Miss Quinn, I do hope we understand each other?”

She widened her eyes in mock innocence. “I believe we do, Mr. Easton.”

“I am so relieved.” Quite suddenly, James stood up. “I’ve been enjoying myself so much that I nearly forgot my next appointment. Thank you for the tea and the delightful conversation.”

George looked startled. “What appointment?”

James smiled. “No need for you to rush off, Brother. I’ll see you this evening.”

Angelica blinked, her little pink mouth agape. It may well have been the first time a gentleman had left her company before she dismissed him. “Oh. I see.” She blinked again, then rallied. “Good-bye, then. Until next time?”

“Until then. I’ll see myself out. Good afternoon, Miss Thorold.” He was at the drawing-room door when he turned to glance over his shoulder. “And Miss Quinn . . .”

She arched one eyebrow.

“Dare I fear you’ll say ‘good riddance’?”

The letter was addressed to G. Easton, Esquire, but when James saw the postmark, he opened it anyway. A brilliant grin lit up his face, and he went tearing across the main office to his brother’s private room.

“We got it!” he bellowed, bursting through the door. “We’re in!”

George jerked upright and scowled. “Bloody hell, James, can’t you learn to knock?”

James thrust the letter in his brother’s face. “Look! The railway contract. In India. We’re going to build railways in India. We break ground in September, which means — my God — you’ll have to leave by the end of the month! Earlier, if possible.” He began to babble on about booking passage and quinine tablets but soon ground to a halt. “George? Are you listening?”

George looked up from his blotter. “Mm?”

“This is the biggest contract Easton Engineering has ever won, and you’re going to go to India, and you look like someone’s just stolen your accordion. What’s wrong with you?”

George heaved an enormous sigh. “She has, in a way.”

“I don’t follow. Who’s ‘she’?”

“Miss Thorold, of course. At the party, I told her that I was a musician, too, and she seemed interested, but when I said I played the accordion, she — she
laughed
!”

James hid a smile. “Well, perhaps she was laughing sympathetically.”

“It’s no use. She thinks I’m a clown.”

“That’s not true,” lied James valiantly. He noticed, for the first time, that George’s desk blotter was covered in doodles:
Mrs. George Easton. Angelica Easton. George & Angelica
. The most popular was simply
Angelica,
surrounded by curlicues and hearts and arrows.