London Calling (9 page)

They reached a paneled oak door downstairs, which James opened to reveal what looked to be the library, its walls lined with shelves upon shelves of leather-bound books.

James followed Susanna’s gaze around the room and smiled briefly. “I rented this house from an impecunious earl’s son. The collection is his‌—‌though, as he assured me himself, he does not read. He commissioned his agent to buy sets of books that would make the best showing on his shelves.”

James sobered, though, as he led Susanna to an upholstered sofa beside the hearth, then used the candle to light the twin lamps that stood on side tables.

“Susanna—” he cleared his throat as he took his place beside her on the sofa, linking his hand with hers and then looking down at their joined fingers. “God knows I am glad to see you. But I meant what I said last night. Not that I . . . ‌that I would wish for you to leave, at least not for myself. But for you—” He stopped speaking and looked at her, and Susanna saw a shadow of something bleak cross his gaze. “I am not at all sure that I should not wish something else entirely for you. Another life‌—‌a safer life, with a better, safer man—”

Susanna put a hand across his mouth, stopping him. “I do not want a better, safer man. I want you, James‌—‌you and no other. So long as you still want me?”

Her voice turned the words into a question‌—‌and for answer, he took her hand and pressed a kiss to her inner wrist, making her shiver.

“God help me, I do.” James raised his head, tracing the curve of her jaw with the tips of his fingers. He spoke in a bare whisper. “But I cannot lose you, too.”

“Lose me, too? What do you—”

James shook his head, though. “No. Let me explain. In the proper order,” he said. A shadow of the same bleak hardness crossed his face. “Then you may decide for yourself whether you still want anything to do with me.”

He took a breath, but did not begin at once, staring instead at the opposite wall, his gaze both fixed and distant.

Then at last he said, “To begin with, what I told you about having estate business to see to was entirely true. When I left you, I really did go to Derbyshire, and I had every intention of staying. I was there nearly a week, and then I was approached by . . . ‌well, better not say the name. It’s not likely it would mean anything to you, in any case. Suffice it to say that one of the powers in the present government approached me with an intelligence report of an alarming nature.

“It seems that for some months now, they’d had reason to suspect a ring of French spies was working out of London. Reports from the Admiralty about the movements of our ships kept going astray, apparently falling into enemy hands. And there were whispers‌—‌vague rumors among the criminal classes‌—‌that a gang of French immigrants was planning something. Something of serious danger to our nation’s security.”

“What?” Susanna asked.

The line of James’s mouth tightened. “An uprising, of a sort. A kind of miniature revolution. A group of Bonaparte’s agents was quietly recruiting various recent arrivals from France‌—‌as well as discontented members of our own British citizenry‌—‌to take part in an armed rebellion against the government.”

“But that is madness,” Susanna breathed. “What could they possibly hope to accomplish?”

“Madness, yes. But there are enough malcontents and radicals in London to make the scheme stand a chance of being pulled off. These are hard times. There’s enough misery and starvation about to make a good many people willing to take part in an attack on those they see as the cause of their suffering.” He paused. “We got word of the scheme from one of our agents, Cameron Benson. He made it a practice to infiltrate the members of the criminal classes, to keep one ear to the ground about any big movements that might be underway. Apparently someone‌—‌an agent of France‌—‌approached him and asked whether he’d be willing to take part in an attack on Parliament. He agreed‌—‌and brought the news straight to the War Office.”

“But I don’t understand. Could not this Mr. Benson tell you who the rebels were, and where to find them?”

“He might have done.” James’s voice was grim.

Susanna knew already what the answer would be, but she began, “You mean that he—”

“Is dead,” James finished for her. His jaw tightened as he spoke, and he still stared into the middle distance. “Cameron Benson’s body was found six weeks ago, floating in the Thames.”

His face was all but expressionless, his tone even and controlled. But Susanna drew in her breath and asked, “Did you know him?”

James was silent so long that she thought he was not going to answer. But then at last he said, “Yes. Cameron Benson was . . . ‌he was a friend. A good friend. We started at the War Office at the same time. And we used to be sent out on assignments together‌—‌to watch each other’s backs.” James rubbed the space between his eyes. “Cam saved my life for me, more times than I can count.”

Susanna touched James’s hand. “You cannot blame yourself for his death.”

“Can I not?” James’s smile was bleak. “I was asked to take this assignment, as well as Cam. I refused it. I—” He glanced at her. “I had you to consider. I thought . . . ‌I thought that it was time I stopped risking my neck and settled down to a peaceful, safe existence. So Cam—” James’s fingers curled themselves into fists, and Susanna saw the knuckles whiten beneath the skin. “Cam went into this mission alone.”

Susanna swallowed. “Then,” she said steadily, “if Cameron Benson’s death is anyone’s fault, it is mine.”

James’s head jerked up at that, dark eyes widening in shock. “Susanna, I did not mean—” He stopped, bracing his thumb against the bridge of his nose and exhaling hard. “God, I should give up on talking until I’ve wits to string two coherent sentences together.”

Susanna edged towards him on the couch, running her fingers lightly across the back of his neck. “How long has it been since you’ve had a decent night’s rest?”

James’s shoulders moved in a shrug and he made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “Three nights? Four? I rather lost count after the second day.”

Susanna could feel the tension in James’s neck, his shoulders. She rubbed, kneading the knotted muscles, and he let out an involuntary sigh. “You should sleep, then,” she said softly.

James looked up, blinking the fatigue from his eyes and shaking his head. His mouth twisted in a wry smile. “And let the next visitor who climbs in through my window cut my throat? I left the window open because I—” Susanna saw James’s hands clench themselves once again. “I could not seem to get my breath in a closed-off room. But—”

“I’ll go upstairs and lock the window,” Susanna finished for him. “And I will stay with you and keep watch. I will wake you if there is the slightest sign of danger, I promise.”

James rubbed his eyes again and said, “I should not involve you—”

Susanna stopped him. “Hush. For tonight, at least, I am already involved. Now lie down‌—‌here, I suppose you can sleep on the sofa. That way you can be already downstairs if anyone else does try to get in.”

She got up from her place‌—‌and James must have been even more tired than she had thought, because he did not fight her as she gently pushed his shoulders back and settled one of the cushions under his head. He swung his legs up, stretching out the length of the sofa with a long sigh. His eyes slid closed. But he opened them again almost at once, and said, dragging each word out with an effort, as though fighting his own fatigue, “Susanna, I meant it. I should not involve you in this business. It is dangerous.”

Susanna looked down at him a long moment. Even drawn with exhaustion, his face was almost breathtakingly handsome‌—‌the lean lines of his cheekbones, the curve of his mouth, the sweep of his long lashes that half veiled his eyes. He was looking back at her as he seldom had before‌—‌without any mockery or humor or even teasing in his gaze, only a kind of bleak, shadowed sadness.

Susanna touched his cheek. “We can talk about it later, after you have slept,” she said. “But let me ask you this, James. Did I ever say that I wished you to give up taking assignments? Did I ever tell you that
I
wanted a safe, peaceful existence?”

As tired as he was, James’s eyes still flared wide with astonishment. “But I thought—”

Susanna put her hand across James’s mouth. Their conversation was far from over. But for the moment, she was willing to let it wait. “I spent nearly four years working as a governess, James Ravenwood‌—‌which is a very peaceful, safe existence‌—‌and I suppose you could try it if you decide to resign from your work as a spy. But I promise you that I for one have had enough of the dull and the peaceful to last me a lifetime.”

James let out a smothered burst of laughter‌—‌but then his hand tightened on hers, and his voice when he spoke was uneven, husky. “God, Susanna, you make me—”

“Sleep.” Susanna bent her head and lightly touched her lips to his. “Go to sleep‌—‌and I will go upstairs and lock the window.”

#

As well as closing and locking the window, Susanna gathered up a blanket from James’s bed and his pistol and carried them back downstairs. James was asleep. So deeply asleep that he did not even stir when she covered him with the blanket, then dragged one of the big library armchairs over so that she could sit beside him.

The clock on the library mantle showed it to be a little past two in the morning. And considering all that had happened in the past days, Susanna ought to have been exhausted, too. But she felt instead wide awake and alert. And at once strung tight with nerves, and almost frighteningly happy.

She looked down at James’s face. In sleep he looked younger, his mouth relaxed, almost vulnerable, his breathing deep and slow. He was involved in a mission every bit as dangerous as Susanna had feared. If Cameron Benson had been killed—

Susanna tightened her hands, quelling that thought. She had found James. And she would keep him safe. The only trouble was going to be convincing him to let her.

Chapter 9

Susanna had chosen a book at random from the shelves‌—‌a copy of Samuel Richardson’s
Pamela
, as it turned out‌—‌and was nearly a hundred pages into the story when James stirred, muttered something in his sleep, and then sat up with a jolt.

His gaze found her almost at once and he stared at her, then ran both hands through his tousled hair. He was silent a long moment. Then he turned away, clearing his throat. “You’re still here. I was not sure whether I had only dreamed your presence last night.”

His voice and his manner were . . . ‌guarded, Susanna thought. As though he were recalling all he had revealed to her the night before‌—‌and moreover regretting it. She felt now as though he had politely but firmly stepped back behind the invisible wall that separated them.

Susanna glanced at the library windows, where a faint gray light was beginning to creep through the chinks in the shutters. “I should be getting home soon. I told Aunt Ruth where I was going, but I don’t want her to worry for me. And the servants will wonder if I am out all night.”

James nodded and pushed back the blanket, getting up from the sofa. “I’ll take you.”

“It’s not far‌—‌I can perfectly well walk,” Susanna began, but James stopped her.

“Let me walk you back to your aunt’s. I may have been ungentlemanly enough to fall asleep and force you to sit here half the night. But I’m not so far gone that I cannot stir myself to make sure that you get safely home.”

He smiled‌—‌but it was a forced smile, Susanna thought. And though he looked more rested than he had a few hours before, he still had about him the air of controlled, coiled tension.

He crossed to the library door. “Just let me get my coat.”

Susanna, watching in the hall as James found beaver hat and greatcoat on the rack, reflected that loving someone did not necessarily confer insight into how best to approach him. At the moment, James was firmly entrenched behind his walls. And she had no idea how to coax her way past them.

She waited until they were out on the street and walking across the Square. James had taken the pistol, sliding it into the pocket of his coat before they left. And though his gait was relaxed and unhurried, Susanna noticed that his eyes were continually alert, scanning the street before them, and he kept his hand in his pocket on the pistol.

A light, drizzling rain had begun to fall, making the streets and pavements gleaming wet where they were not patched with mud. A farm cart, piled high with pumpkins and turnips, rumbled past on its way to one of the London markets. Susanna waited for it to pass, and then she said, “Will you tell me the rest of the details of your assignment now? The parts of the story you did not have the chance to give me last night?”

James’s face turned, if anything, more grim than before, and he began, “Susanna—”

“Please, James.” Susanna put a hand on his arm. “I will be less frightened for you if I know the whole.”

Which was, Susanna reflected, rather an unfair card to play‌—‌and moreover made her sound like the swooning heroine of some gothic romance. But the truth was that she did not have to work to add a faint tremor of worry to her voice.

James’s lips compressed. But at last he said, reluctantly, “You said last night that a planned uprising by French immigrants and malcontents could hardly hope to succeed in toppling the government. Our military is strong enough to crush such a rebellion before they do any significant damage. However”‌—‌James paused, eyes focused on the road ahead‌—‌“the rebellion could divert a significant portion of our troops to London. I don’t need to tell you what that would mean. If the coast were unmanned, the way would be wide open for Napoleon to mount an invasion. He has threatened it before, but never attempted it. If this rebellion scheme comes off, it could give him the chance he needs.”

“I see.” Susanna had begun to be cold with a chill that had nothing to do with the raw, early dawn air. But she kept her voice steady. “Then your part . . .”

“My part has been to infiltrate the men in charge‌—‌the men you saw at the warehouse the other night. I have persuaded them I’ve been sent over from France to take charge of supplying arms for their intended revolution.”