One Night With a Spy (25 page)

Julia wasn't in the wagon. Marcus smiled. Off to tend to her giant tufted infant, no doubt. Then his grin faded as a few tiny anomalies came to his attention.

One, Julia had not woken him when she came back from seeing to Petunia.

Two, there was a strange silence about the wagon, as if he sat alone in a wood, not in a busy encampment.

Three, his pistol was not where he'd left it.

In seconds he was dressed and at the door. He thrust it open and bent his head to pass through. When he straightened outside, it was to see the two wagons and only the two wagons where the night before there had been dozens.

John Wald sat on the steps of the other wagon, whittling listlessly at a piece of wood. He looked up at Marcus. "Morning, milord."

Marcus's jaw hardened. "She's gone, isn't she?"

John nodded. "Left in the night."

Marcus flicked his gaze about the littered clearing with its blackened fire rings. "With the others?"

John shook his head. "No, she left first. Happens like that sometimes. Fair folk can't help it, like a flock o' swallows. One flies off, the others fly, too, though they don't know why."

"But I heard Sebastian."

John scratched at his head with the tip of the knife. "The beasts left last. 'Bastian was just sayin' goodbye, like."

"Why did you stay?"

John shrugged. "Well, yer in me wagon. And Milady said t'give you a message."

Marcus waited. John blinked. "Well, now, first ye best listen to what I got to say to you. Ye won't like it, and Petunia says I'm oversteppin', but it needs sayin' just the same."

Marcus didn't think there was any way he was going to get Julia's message without listening, much as he wanted to wring if from John with his bare hands. He sank to sit on his own step and clasped his hands over one knee. "Go on then."

"You'd best watch yerself with her. Milady ain't like the rest of us. Never was. She used to act like it, and talk like it, but ye only had to look at her to know there was more. Sharp like a razor, that Jilly-girl. Rough as she might've been, she was fine underneath the dust—finer even than you."

"I'm aware that Julia has come a long way—"

John threw his abused stick to the ground. "Ye don't know nothin'!
Julia
." He spit. "That ain't even her name."

Marcus reached for patience. "I'm aware of that. Jilly—"

John snorted in disgust. " 'Jill' just means 'girl' among the fair folk. You think you got her all pinned down? You think you're the mighty lord lying with the travelin' girl after she cleaned up a bit?"

Although that was a crude but accurate summation, at least in terms of social status, Marcus narrowed his eyes. "You mentioned overstepping?"

John stood and shoved his knife back into his belt, obviously exasperated. "Petunia were right. Thick as a plank. You got to figure this one out by yerself."

John folded his arms over his wide chest. "Milady said for you to go t' Barrowby, that everything you need is there. She said to look under the lake. She said for you to be happy." John spit again. "Now get out of me wagon and be on yer way… milord."

Barrowby.
Everything you need is there
.

She'd left him. He could not blame her for tearing herself away, for it struck so deep to be the one left.

Be happy
. How could he be happy when "everything" did not include Julia?

Or ever would.

Once Julia reached London, she left her exhausted mount in the last affordable hostelry before entering the boundaries of Mayfair. Then she pulled the hood of her cloak up and ventured out. Her hood covered her face, and the foul weather made her concealment unsurprising.

She had known this moment might come since she'd received the drawing of the Chimera provided by the Liar's Club. She'd hoped she was mistaken, for he looked no older than she did now. So she'd convinced herself it was a chance resemblance, and prayed the reports of his death were true… and searched for him anyway, just in case.

Now she dared not let the matter rest any longer. If he wasn't dead, how could he have survived? How could he be so mystically forever young, forever powerful?

She had to know for certain so she was taking her evidence to the artist herself, the one who originated the sketch, someone who had seen and come into close contact with the valet named Denny.

There was no one to send in her stead, for she could not chance her friends being captured, and she must keep Marcus as far from this matter as possible… for now. She dreaded to see the inevitable revulsion in his eyes.

Her walk into Mayfair proved uneventful.

She bought a tatty covered basket from a scullery maid on an errand—one more than happy to take Julia's price.

That, along with a slump and a creaking voice, was the only disguise she needed.

She knocked at the front door of Etheridge House. A grizzled man with a military bearing opened the door. The Sergeant, of course. His eyes narrowed immediately. "State your business, madam."

Julia offered the basket. "Is this the lady's moggie, sir?" She made sure her quavering voice carried. "I found it in the street outside, hurt bad."

"Oh, what a pity," the Sergeant said without conviction. "But these things do happen." He moved to shut the door on Julia.

"Marmalade?" A woman's voice came from behind the butler and then a pretty face popped around him, brow wrinkled in concern. "Or is it one of the kittens? Oh, it doesn't matter—come in, come in!"

The small, dark stout Lady Etheridge pushed the butler aside with ease. "You won't get rid of my darlings that easily, Sergeant!" She dragged Julia into the closest parlor where a fire cheerily fought the chill outside. Taking the basket, the lady knelt at the hearth to open it.

Finding it full of nothing but a rag-wrapped rock, Lady Etheridge, once Clara Simpson, anonymous political cartoonist and now the bride of one of the most dangerous men in England, turned to find herself at the point of a pistol.

Clara's gaze immediately shot to the door. Julia shook her head quickly. "I locked it. The Sergeant didn't seem inclined to stay."

"He doesn't care for cats," Lady Etheridge said faintly. She rose slowly, her hands pressed protectively over her belly, her features gone ashen.

Julia felt sick. She ought to have remembered that Lady Etheridge was increasing. She felt doubly guilty for frightening the woman with her empty pistol. She lowered the firearm slightly. "I do not wish to harm you, my lady. I need information, that is all."

"I have no doubt you do." Clara raised her chin. "I will not aid the French, no matter what the cost."

Julia sighed. "Neither will I, my lady." She raised the hood and dropped it down her back. "Now please stop being stupidly valiant and listen to me. I need to know more about the Chimera."

Clara's eyes widened and her fingers twitched. "You are quite lovely. Have you ever had your portrait done?"

Julia snorted. "Only an artist would think a thing like that at a time like this."

Clara waved a hand. "In my experience, if you haven't shot me yet, you probably aren't going to." She pressed the other hand to the small of her back. "Do you mind if I sit?"

"If you are so accustomed to being at gunpoint, then go right ahead." Julia pocketed her useless pistol with amusement.

"Lady Barrowby—"

Julia flinched. Clara smiled slightly. "I saw a sketch of you, by one of my best students. You aren't going to kill anyone, Lady Barrowby, unless perhaps it's that idiot Liverpool." Clara's eyes brightened. "That isn't your plan, by any chance?"

Julia laughed shortly. It became a bit damp at the last. "I don't want anyone dead but the Chimera."

Clara nodded, subsiding. "Yes, of course, as do we all."

Julia shook her head. "My lady, you have no idea." She sat opposite Clara and leaned forward urgently. "The Chimera lived in your household for months, serving his lordship's nephew Collis Tremayne. I need to know everything, every insignificant thing you remember about his habits and his mannerisms."

Clara frowned slightly. "He was in his Denny persona," she said. "I'm sure he's dropped that disguise by now." She laced her hands over one knee. "Let's see…" Her gaze went vacant. "He disliked women of all classes, that was something he was not able to hide. Little Robbie Cunnington told me once that he heard Denny cursing in French, but I assumed Denny was only being pretentious."

That was not reassuring. Julia felt her carefully constructed doubt begin to crumble. "And what of his appearance? You are an artist. You notice things others do not."

"I always thought his hair was a bit thin for a fellow his supposed age, but that does happen to an unfortunate few; And life on the streets can age one's face. I thought little of the lines around his eyes and mouth."

Julia felt her stomach clench. "If you were to guess at his true age, according to your observations?"

"He could be as old as forty-five, as young as twenty, I suppose." Clara shrugged, frustrated with herself. "I saw so little of him, for he served Collis exclusively—" She frowned. "Then again, he always seemed to be about, didn't he? We all feel terribly stupid, you know."

Swept by new certainty, Julia shook her head. "He is entirely brilliant and deeply diabolical. You would not be the first person to be hoodwinked by him."

"You sound as if you know him personally."

Julia glanced away. "I—I know I have no right to ask it of you, my lady, but I must beg you for your help." She reached into her neckline and withdrew the locket. She opened it and regarded her mother's face for the last time. She doubted she would be allowed to keep the locket in prison. Her father's she did not let her eyes linger on. She handed it to Clara. "Is this the man you knew as Denny?"

Clara took it and held it to the light of the lamp on the side table. After a long moment, she looked up, her eyes sharp. "This is your mother. The resemblance is extraordinary, but she was softer in her features."

Julia smiled sadly. "She was but sixteen in that portrait, sold in a political marriage to my father, who was but twenty years of age himself."

Clara looked back down at the locket, shaking her head in amazement. "He is so unchanged, even now in his forties. It is positively unnatural—it almost makes one believe in magic. Yet it is most assuredly him."

Julia closed her eyes. "You have no idea how much I hoped your analysis would be the opposite."

A deep voice came from behind Julia. "I was rather hoping for that myself."

Julia whirled, fumbling for the unloaded pistol in her pocket. Lord Etheridge stepped from the shadows, pointing his own—and undoubtedly loaded!—pistol at her heart. Julia went very still.

From beside her, Clara smiled fondly at her husband. "My knight has arrived. Hello, darling. You were right, those secret doorways came in very handily."

Keeping the pistol aimed, Lord Etheridge rounded the settee and pulled his wife close with one arm. "Are you well?" He breathed the question into her hair.

Julia felt a twist in her heart at the desperate worry in his husky voice. "I would never have—"

He shot Julia a fatal glare without lifting his face from his lady's. "Lady Barrowby, I am a split second from ending your life. Do shut up."

Clara poked her husband in the chest with one finger. "Dalton, your manners. Her ladyship is here on important business."

"Then she ought to have come to the club. Coming here, tricking you, locking you in like this, locking the Sergeant out—I can only construe it as an attack." He looked a bit shamefaced. "I stole someone's horse to get back here faster. I pulled the poor bloke right off it."

Clara sighed. "Men." She looked at Julia. "He's right, you know. You should have gone to the club. Now he's going to be very unreasonable about all this."

"I had to be certain I would be heard. And I cherished the faint hope I might be able to bluff my way to escaping once more." Julia gazed at them both helplessly. "I needed
you
, Lady Etheridge, not Cunnington or Tremayne or—" She had a thought. "Or Elliot. He's the student you spoke of, isn't he? He's a Liar." She threw out her hands. "Dear God, is there a man in this world who
ever
tells the truth?"

Lord Etheridge pulled back the hammer of the pistol at her sudden motion. Lady Etheridge grabbed his cravat firmly in her fist to get his attention. "Don't you dare, Dalton Montmorency, or I vow I'll name the baby after Lord Reardon!"

Lord Etheridge winced. "Please, not that." He sighed and lowered the pistol slightly, carefully uncocking it. Julia could see that his lordship's first protective rage had faded. She doubted he would now be able to kill her in cold blood.

She hoped.

She held her open hands wide. "My lord, I did hold a pistol on your lady, but I swear to you that it is unloaded."

Clara's eyes narrowed. "Unloaded, is it? I should have hit you with the poker after all."

Julia sighed. "Don't worry, my lady. I'm sure I'll come to a very bad end anyway." She dragged a shaking hand over her frizzing hair. Her body ached from the brutal ride and at the moment her knees were like water. "I—"

"You need a cup of tea and one of the Sergeant's special teacakes," Clara said firmly. "Sit." She bustled to the door and unlocked it. "Sergeant, emergency rations, immediately," she barked into the hallway.

Julia sank back down on the settee, exhaustion and panic making her a bit giddy. "You make an excellent general, my lady."

Clara snorted and caressed her belly. "Too right. General Mummy. I intend to breed my own platoon."

"
Clara
," Lord Etheridge said with stern embarrassment.

Clara propped both hands on her hips. "
Dalton
," she imitated, glaring at him fondly.

They were so in love it shone from them like sunlight. Julia laughed, hiccupped, and abruptly began to cry. She held her breath and swiped angrily at her tears, but when Clara's concerned arms came about her, she couldn't hold it back any longer.

After far too long, she pushed back from Clara's embrace and drew a long, broken breath. She wiped her eyes with the handkerchief that had magically appeared in her hand and looked up to see a visibly uncomfortable Dalton and Sergeant gazing uneasily about the room, everywhere but at her.