Beauty and the Spy (10 page)

"It… did what?" Morley fixed Bob with a pleasant gaze.

Bob flinched. He knew from experience that Morley was at his least pleasant when he… seemed pleasant. "Tipped over, sir."

"Tipped… over…" Morley repeated musingly. He knelt to waggle his fingers at Fluff, who trotted over urgently, as if it had been far too long since he'd been petted. It had been about five minutes.

He scooped the cat up.

"In the yard of the coaching inn," Bob explained hurriedly. "I replaced the linchpin with a short 'un, ye see, which works a treat nearly every time. When the coach came to the turn on the road just past West Crumley, it
should
have made a right nice accident—arms, legs, trunks, everywhere." Bob's mouth twisted wistfully. "Why, just last year a mail coach on the way to… on the way to…"

He trailed off at the look of frozen politeness on Morley's face.

"I'm a
professional
, Mr. Morley," Bob muttered defensively. "Deuced timing, is all."

"You also aren't the
only
professional in your… field, Bob."

Bob said nothing. He shifted his sturdy legs, one then the other, as though attempting to extricate himself from something sticky.

Morley sighed. "She's in the country now. Surely there are any number of ways one can… experience misfortune in the country? I can think of dozens. But I pay
you
to do the thinking, Bob."

"I'll see to it, sir."

The viscount had been efficient: he'd spoken to her aunt; somehow managing to explain his need for artistic assistance without mentioning how she'd demonstrated her skill. This proved that he had at least
some
diplomatic skills. And now Susannah was to meet him at eight in the morning. It seemed a barbarically early hour, but she'd heard before how everyone who lived permanently ("permanently" rather sounded like one has been sentenced) in the country was up with the light.

And so had she been. She'd rubbed the kernels of sleep from her eyes and splashed water over her face, managed to butter a slice of bread for breakfast, and then dosed herself with strong tea (her aunt's one indulgence seemed to be excellent tea). The night before, Aunt Frances had been kind enough to pack her a lunch, too, in a basket, in case the viscount neglected to feed her. She found the basket on the shelf leading out on to a mud porch, hooked it over her arm, and plunged into the bright, uncompromisingly green, birdsong-filled day.

If Aunt Frances was aware that going out to "work" constituted a cataclysm for Susannah, she'd said nothing of it—she in fact seemed so pleased about the whole thing that Susannah entertained a fleeting suspicion that she had conspired to get her to Barnstable precisely because she'd needed a wage earner under her roof. She
had
mentioned something about extra sausages and beef for meals, now that there would be a little more money.

Susannah dismissed that unworthy thought. Aunt Frances couldn't possibly have known that her niece harbored any particular income-producing talent.

Beautiful clothing had always been her battle gear, so she'd dressed with particular care this morning. Laying her mourning dress aside, since it was her only one and she had no wish to ruin it, she'd chosen the soft pink muslin trimmed in an even paler shade of ribbon, with two flounces, as it suited the weather as well as her complexion. An admiring glance or two from the intriguing viscount would at least make the day more tolerable.

She found him waiting for her at the end of the path that led to the pond, wearing snug fawn breeches, Hessians, a white shirt open at the throat, and an impatient expression. He, in other words, had
not
taken particular care with his dress. But still, somehow, he managed to look as though he had. The man seemed to confer elegance upon his clothes, rather than the other way around.

"Good morning, Miss Makepeace," he began pleasantly enough. But then he paused and swiftly appraised her, from her bonnet to her boot toes. "Your gown…" he began, and stopped, seeming at a loss. And then for some reason an amused furrow appeared between his brows. "… suits your coloring."

Susannah decided she might as well treat this as a compliment. She dipped her head demurely and looked up at him through her lashes, which had never failed to disarm any male within five feet of her. "Thank you, sir." Soft as a dropped handkerchief, her voice.

The amused furrow deepened and became Amusement, as though she hailed from some exotic land and her customs were foreign to him. "That wasn't a compliment, Miss Makepeace. It was an
observation
. A demonstration, if you will, of the sort of thing we'll be doing today. Observing. Now show me your shoes."

Grrrr
. While irritation and chagrin wrestled for control of her tongue, she lifted one foot out in front of her. Like a bloody child. Or a high-stepping horse. She couldn't seem to help it: he had that sort of voice. A taken-for-granted-that-no-objections-would-be-brooked sort of voice:

The viscount examined her brown-kid, rosette-topped half boots critically. "Not Wellingtons, by any means, but sensible enough for traipsing through the woods. Good choice."

Good
choice
! Did he really think she would wear dancing slippers out to the wood?

"Are you quite certain about that, Lord Grantham? Perhaps you need to inspect the
rosette
more closely, to ensure it meets your approval."

She dropped her foot again, stared up at him.

Well. She could tell from his crooked smile that her sarcasm, for some reason, met with his approval.

"As much as I would enjoy inspecting your…
rosette
more closely, Miss Makepeace—" and the smile spread, becoming that intimating, preternaturally confident smile of the night before "—I'll forego that pleasure for the moment. And I suppose we can avoid the water today. In honor of the rosette."

The wit-scrambling smile had her staring back at him blankly. Still, she had a concern.

"Water?" The word came out a little more faintly than she would have preferred. But really: did he intend to drag her through a
swamp
?

He was laughing again, silently. "Let's get started, shall we?" He made a startlingly fast turn and began covering the ground with strides so long she had to scramble after him to keep up. "And mind the snake," he called over his shoulder.

"Sna—"

A bright, slender
S
of a creature whipped across her path and vanished into the grass. She bit her lip against a shriek.

"Don't worry, Miss Makepeace," came the viscount's voice again. "It was only a little grass snake.
Those
, at least, aren't poisonous."

Somehow, she could tell he was smiling from the back of his head.

Kit wondered whether he was taking his resentment toward his folio assignment out on Miss Makepeace, and forgave himself if that was the case. He was enjoying keeping her off balance; it was like idly prodding a pianoforte in different places just to hear what sounds would emerge. He knew from experience that surprising people was the quickest way to take their measure, for they had no choice but to respond with their true natures.

So far, he admitted to himself, the sounds she made weren't entirely boring.

Wicked of him to tempt her to waltz—he'd seen the longing all but vibrating in her posture from across the room last night—but then, he'd been feeling more wicked than usual all day. And besides, he'd seen so much of death in war that the very ritual of mourning—the clothing, the sequestering, the denial of pleasures—struck him now as shockingly extravagant, given how capriciously, terrifyingly short life could be, and how splendid it often was to be alive. The impulse to waltz struck him as infinitely braver and saner than the inclination to languish. Better to celebrate the lives of the dead by living thoroughly.

He suspected Susannah Makepeace might even become truly interesting… given a little encouragement.

She was pretty. Not in the usual way, the way the Carstairs sisters were pretty, the sort of beauty that would become indistinct with age. But… well, Miss Makepeace's eyes seemed filled with colors, and with a spy's impulse toward investigation, he had an urge to get a look at them in the full light so he could see how many and which ones. And her mouth… it was plush, her mouth. Pink as the inside of a seashell.

The softest, softest shade of pink imaginable.

The sort of mouth that made him feel restless and ill tempered, given that Susannah Makepeace was no doubt the veriest babe when it came to matters of passion, naked sketches notwithstanding, and that a dalliance with her would take unfair advantage of her status, which was no status at all, really.

Egyptian sand dunes undulated threateningly in his imagination, and Kit lengthened his stride: the sooner he completed some sort of folio, the sooner he could resume his life in London and return to the countess's practiced lips and arms.

A wedge-shaped shadow floated across the ground at his feet then; he looked up for its source.

High overhead, against the brilliant blue sky, a small kestrel was circling, wings tipping into the wind. Kit dropped his gaze, swept it along the trunks of trees, and saw the telltale signs: bark nibbled away in rings at the base of young trees. Circling kestrels plus nibbled bark usually equaled voles. Voles ate the bark; kestrels ate the voles. It was a very sensible, no-nonsense arrangement, but then nature was like that.

And damned if the thrill of discovery, of tracking, didn't stir in him. Just a yawn and a stretch, really… but a stir, nevertheless.

If he didn't know better, he would have sworn he was excited over
voles
.

Unfortunately, the dreamlike—or was it nightmare-like?—sensation hadn't yet ebbed. Susannah was accustomed to music, and comfort, and the company of gorgeous friends. Instead she was kneeling in a meadow next to a small hole in the ground, and a tall viscount, who by all the laws of nature, should be admiring
her
… seemed enthralled by what appeared to be a nest of baby mice.

He had a dent of concentration between his eyes, a pencil between his fingers, and he was scratching things into a small bound book.

The sun was seeping through Susannah's bonnet, baking her head; she could almost imagine it swelling, swelling atop her neck, like a great loaf of bread. She now regretted wearing the blush colored muslin, as she was certain perspiration was darkening it even now.

She gazed down at the little creatures. Again: mice were as shriek-worthy as snakes. Or so she'd once thought. Certainly, if she'd encountered one in the presence of Douglas, she would have shrieked a little for his benefit. But these lot, six or so, were scarcely the size of the first joint of her thumb. Vulnerable babies, and, astonishing though it was to think it… charming. They were sleeping in a little heap. Her impulse was to apologize for staring and leave them to it.

"Voles," Kit whispered. "Long-tailed voles." He sounded as though he were sharing an exquisite confidence.

Susannah looked at them a moment longer, indulging him. And then:

"I heard you made a fortune in smuggling," she whispered. Which to her, seemed a much more pressing topic than voles.

"Did you?" he murmured. Still looking at the voles. Still writing in his book.

She'd wanted an affronted objection. She'd wanted to startle him the way he so excelled at startling her. Perhaps he
had
been a smuggler, then. Perhaps he still
was
. Perhaps this was how Aunt Frances managed to acquire her marvelous tea.

She tried again: "I also heard that you are wanted for piracy."

He stopped writing then, but only to look out across the meadow with a pleased, contemplative half-smile on his lips, as though he was imagining what it would be like to be a pirate, or fondly remembering a piratical moment.

He never did comment; silence went by, and he bent his head over his book again. He'd missed a few whiskers when he'd shaved this morning, she saw; they glinted gold on the underside of his sharp jaw. He wasn't wearing a hat. By the end of the day, his face would be darker than the pale gold skin that covered the rest of his body.

"Did you happen to hear the one about the opium dens?" he whispered.

"No!" She started guiltily from her thoughts of the rest of his body.

He looked mildly disappointed. "I was fairly certain that one wouldn't take."

Her mouth dropped open; she closed it hard again. "Why do they—why do you—"

He was laughing silently now. "Draw the voles, Miss Makepeace. You're in my employ now, or have you forgotten?"

She
had
forgotten. She felt the heat of a blush layering over her already sun-warmed cheeks; she really wasn't sure how employed artists were supposed to behave. Like a governess? Like a cook? No doubt deference was involved, not questions and flirtation.

She lowered her head to the task, and was soon enough submerged in it, in the strange deliciousness of drawing. She sketched the textures of their fur, shaded in the soft shifting colors of their overlapping bodies, their tiny toes and noses. And those tails, of course, where they showed. For these were, after all, special, rare, long-tailed voles.

She put the finishing touches on a vole toe and looked up from her drawing; she was surprised to find his eyes fixed on her hands. He was frowning in concentration.