Marissa Day (19 page)

“I owe all to my excellent tutor.” The Duchess of Kent beamed at Jane, who curtsied gravely and did not meet his eyes. She looked tired, and pale. She plainly had not had much rest or exercise since he’d last seen her. Suddenly, Thomas wished them both back in that same park he’d been cursing in the darkness. There, at least, they’d been able to talk, and he could have asked at once how she did.

“Jane,” said the duchess. “You will take
Herr
. . . Sir Thomas, and see he is made known to all. Then straight back to me. All this crush and noise.” The duchess beamed again as she gestured with her ivory and mother-of-pearl fan at the array of England’s finest that surrounded her. “I cannot stand it without my Jane.”

Thomas felt the strong urge to kneel at Her Grace’s feet in gratitude. Jane smiled as she stepped up to his side, but that smile did not reach her eyes. She was glad to see him, but she was worried by something as well.
Why wouldn’t she be? She’d be a fool not to be worried by an approaching burglary.
Still, seeing Jane so reticent did not sit easily within him.

He reassured himself it was only for a little while. Then he would wipe all the worry away from Jane’s mind.

Jane murmured something to acknowledge Her Grace’s instructions and led him away from the duchess’s chair. Thomas allowed himself the luxury of feasting his gaze on her. Jane wore a fetching moss green tea gown adorned with cream scallops and lace, with a scooped neckline that allowed him a tantalizing view of her lovely breasts. Her chestnut curls were piled high on her head, practically begging to be undone by his hands. His cock twitched resentfully at the distance between them, and only grew more restless as she laid her hand on his sleeve to steer him through the gathering.

Jane lead him slowly around the pavilion, every inch the proper lady as she did as she was told and made him known to the company. The Duke and Duchess of York stood alone and sour in a corner of the pavilion, as forgotten as horses left at the starting gate in the race to produce England’s heir. The Duke of Clarence and his wife looked stiff and uneasy amid a crowd of bankers and merchant men, some of whom were openly ogling the lady’s belly to see if it showed signs of increase. Of the prince regent there was no trace. His Royal Highness still preferred to pretend it was his direct descendants that would inherit the throne.

At last, Jane was able to extricate herself and Thomas from the thickest crowd and lead him out onto the grounds, murmuring something about his never having seen a particular masterpiece of the gardener’s art. This polite nothing was readily accepted by those around them, and no one spared them a second glance as Jane steered him to one of the ruler-straight paths.

By some miracle, the weather had held, and a perfect May afternoon spread all around them. Warm and gentle sunshine fell on their shoulders. The scents of the spring flowers and carefully tended greenery hung in the still air.

According to Jane, about three hundred of the noble and the wealthy filled the grand gardens of Kensington House. They promenaded among the topiary, the statues, the sparkling fountains and formal flower beds. A few strolled the curves of the remaining parterre maze, the others apparently having been plowed under in a fit of modernization ordered by the old king.

It was strange, Thomas mused, seeing the world isolated from all sense of magic. Of course, he’d been as isolated when he’d entered the house before to deliver to Jane Fiora’s invitation to supper. But that time, he’d only stayed briefly. Now he was fully immersed in the space sheltered by the Kensington wards. Oddly, instead of muffling physical sensation, it made the physical stand out more sharply. The colors and scents of the garden seemed brighter and more distinct; almost, indeed, as bright as those in fairy. The garden, in fact, seemed like a work of art with each detail clearly labored over and cunningly joined into the whole.

He’d heard that when a man lost his sight, his other senses became keener. Perhaps that was what was happening to him now. Without access to his sense of magic bestowed by the queen, his more mundane perceptions were becoming more acute. He also found that he did not care to ruminate on the phenomenon. For the first time in far too many weary days, he was with Jane. The sun kissed her skin, adding a pretty pink to her cheeks, and bringing out the red in her hair. Her eyes remained fixed straight ahead, however. He would have much preferred to find her gazing up at him. Her lovely, expressive mouth was also too solemn for his liking. He needed to remedy that before he left for his other work.

Parties in open, formally planned gardens were useful things. It was easy to tell when you were out of earshot of the other guests.

“You look lovely, Jane,” Thomas murmured. “I like that dress.”

“I was thinking of you when I picked it out,” she replied with only the smallest hesitation. “You appear very fond of green.”

“I am more fond of what it covers.”

“Don’t, please,” she whispered as they moved into the shadow of Kensington House’s eastern wing. A perfectly round pond lay nestled in the green lawn, guarded by a cadre of poplars planted at precise intervals. It was a still day and the pond flawlessly reflected the windows and the house.

“Have I said something wrong?” he asked, as they circled the pond. He could see their images in the water, both of them looking so calm and proper. It was an appearance as deceptive as any glamour he could have conjured for them.

“It’s so difficult to be near you, and not to be able to touch you properly,” whispered Jane.

She meant it, but that was not all she wanted to say. He could tell by the set of her shoulders and the light touch of her hand. She was holding on tightly to something beyond her desire. Worry touched Thomas.

“It’s just for a few more hours.”
And then I’ll find out what you’re not telling me.

“I wonder.” Jane looked up at the red brick walls of Kensington House with their orderly regiments of windows.

“You think I’ll fail,” he teased. “Can you really believe Conroy’s wits are a match for mine?”

“You’re worth a thousand of him,” she answered at once, but the words fell flat. Her mind was not on him, or what she said. “I’m going to have to make a decision, Thomas, and . . .”

“Wait, Jane.” He covered her hand with his briefly. “Before you make any decision, let me do what I came to do. Then we will talk.”

She didn’t like it, but she nodded. “Conroy’s study is the second on the right. There.” She nodded toward the windows. “Do you think you can find it from the inside?”

“I’m certain I can. And his apartment?”

“Directly above. Thomas . . .”

“No, Jane,” he told her firmly. “We’ve no time now. Where shall I meet you?”

She thought for a moment. “The kitchen gardens,” she pointed. “I’ll begin looking for you in an hour.”

Thomas risked brushing the corner of her mouth with his thumb, lifting it into a smile. “An hour. Then all will be right, Jane. I promise.”

He wanted to kiss her, to hold her against him and assure her with the strength and shelter of his body that he spoke the truth. But the same openness that protected them from eavesdroppers denied him the opportunity to reinforce his promise with any such act.

 

 

W
ith the gathering being held in the gardens, the interior of Kensington House was all but deserted. The door to Conroy’s study was, of course, locked, but the carefully bent wire Thomas had provided himself with before he left Fiora’s that morning soon eliminated that obstacle.

Thomas’s hand with locks had been something of a party trick for his father. When they paraded chests of Spanish treasure before Queen Bess, he’d popped the fastenings on them to gain the applause of the court and to demonstrate the varied skills of her privateers. He’d once worn a pearl and ruby ring she’d given him off her own hand for that cleverness. What had happened to it?

Thomas shook himself. Why was he thinking of that now? He closed and latched the door behind him.

Thomas turned in a slow circle, surveying the chamber around him, finding it matched his expectations exactly. Other portions of Kensington House might show signs of wear, but not John Conroy’s personal study. The room was immaculate, with each thing in its place. The broad desk was entirely empty of papers, and Thomas did not even need to try them to know the drawers were securely locked. Even taking into account the brief duration of the duke’s residence, it was clear that hours of work had been put in by the household staff to keep the bookshelves lining the walls immaculately dusted and the great expanses of wood paneling and floor highly polished.

If Thomas had access to his magics, finding Conroy’s secret account book would have been a trivial matter. But cut off as he was, he had to fall back on older teachings.

A man’s room tells tales on him, laddy,
said his father’s voice from memory.
Room, ship’s cabin, any place he’s lived. There’s no need to be smashing the place to ruin to find what’s hidden. Just pay attention to its stories.

This room said Captain John Conroy was an exact man. He was a careful man who was very sure of his due, and his potential. But more than this, it said he was confident in his own cleverness. Why shouldn’t he be? He managed one of the highest ranked men in the kingdom to perfection, and was showing every sign of starting to manage the duke’s wife as well. Thomas fingered his lockpick and decided to start with the desk.

The latches on the desk drawers were good, for their kind, but Thomas still had all three sprung within a matter of minutes. He did not expect his prize to be waiting in plain sight in there, but he felt carefully around the sides and bottoms, in case Conroy went in for secret compartments. That search yielded him nothing. The locked map cabinet proved similarly disappointing. The barrister’s bookcase held the ordinary ledgers, but no drawers or cleverly constructed and concealed spaces. Nor was there a safe conveniently located behind any of the heavy oil paintings, or under the three Turkish carpets on the gleaming oaken floors. Even the flue, that favorite hiding place of smugglers of all kinds, held nothing but ash and clinker.

Where then?
Thomas turned again, and fought to keep his temper. He did not have long. Beyond keeping Jane waiting and worrying, this was a drawing room, not a rout. He did not have hours to dismantle Conroy’s study at his leisure.

Memory rippled through his mind again. He stood with his father in the dim, tiny cabin of the wallowing tub of a Spanish galleon. Smoke and gunpowder from the battle they’d just finished above hung heavy in the air. John Dee had sent them there. The Spanish captain had letters for a traitor in Queen Bess’s court. They’d get all the treasure in the hold if they found those letters and burned the ship afterward. He’d been insistent about the burning and the letters. So insistent, that he’d also hinted that without the traitor’s letter, their own Letter of Marque and Reprisal might be revoked.

Father had taken the lantern and peered into every corner of the cabin, touching nothing, just looking. Thomas stood impatiently in the center, the excitement of battle still singing through him and urging him to start tearing the boards apart.

“Pay attention, Tommy!” Father snapped. “Use yer damned eyes. There’s not enough room to hide a pig’s grunt in here, but he’s done it. Where?”

They had found them. His father had worked it out. The reliquary in the little drawer where that captain had kept his rosary had a hidden compartment with neatly scrolled strips of paper tucked inside. It was too small for ordinary letters, but plenty big enough for those coded scraps . . .

He had it.

Thomas shook his head. His mistake had been thinking an account book must necessarily be a book.

He returned to the barrister’s bookcase. This was where the ordinary accounts were kept; thick leather-bound ledgers each with the relevant year stamped in gold on the spine. He reached for the volume marked 1839, and flipped it open. The accounts marched down the page in tidy double columns of black and red ink. Much more red than black, of course. They were commendably up to date. The end papers of the ledger were whole and sound. The spine was unbroken. Thomas hefted the volume and ran his fingers around the edge of the front cover.

There. There was a slit at the bottom. Someone had taken their time with it, because it had not disturbed the stitching around the cover’s edge. He hadn’t even seen it the first time he picked up this book. He could find it only by touch.

Thomas slipped his fingers inside and drew out three sheets of thin, light writing paper, all covered in red and black ink.

John Conroy’s secret accounts. In these pages, unlike the duke’s, there was far more black ink than red.

Got you, you bloody bastard.
Just to be sure, Thomas swept his finger into the little pocket again. This time he brought out a length of black ribbon. Jane’s keepsake of him, her memory of their passion and their time together.

Thomas tucked the papers and ribbon into his coat’s inner pocket.
Thank you, Father,
he thought. No sooner had his mind formed the words, though, than a wave of sadness washed over him. Not for what he remembered, but for what he didn’t. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken to his father. Really spoken to him, not just relayed shouted orders. A storm had upended the
Free Hand
and Father had gone down with the rest. Thomas had been alone when he’d fetched up on shore. He’d also been half bled-out, half drowned. But Her Glorious Majesty had come to him across the empty sands. Thomas had taken the life she offered, and he hadn’t looked back. Why should he look anywhere at all when she gave him all he needed?