Rogue Spy (20 page)

A man who does not take pains in small matters is careless in great ones.

A BALDONI SAYING

“You took it from me. You stole it. Everybody saw that. Theft. Outright theft.” That was the man whose cane she'd borrowed. He talked at her from one side, then tap-tapped around to the other side and said much the same thing there.

A very dead man lay in the road. Pax stood behind her, his arms wrapped around her. He was wonderfully solid and she let herself lean back against him just the smallest amount. She would rather have been with him somewhere they weren't looking at dead people.

Far down the street, some merciful souls had taken the horses to the street pump to wash them clean. The driver sat on the steps of a house a dozen yards away, his head in his hands. Every once in a while he'd get up and go into the alley to the side and empty his stomach.

She hoped Cousin Lucia had left. She didn't see the girl anywhere in the circle of avid faces. Lazarus's apprentice thieves were at the front, showing an intense, professional curiosity.

Pax's friend, the angry, dark-haired one, knelt and searched
the corpse from his hair to the soles of his boots, efficiently and with no sign of distaste. His findings—a handful of coins and two keys—were piled on the pavement at his side. The dead man hadn't carried a scrap of paper. There was no maker's mark in the hat that lay, brim upward, next to him.

“A careful man,” she said quietly. “He never put anything in his pockets.”

“Carry nothing when you're working,” Pax said, quoting the Tuteurs at the Coach House.

“My family has a similar motto. We say, ‘Everything in your pocket gossips about you.'”

“You have an interesting family.”

“Thank you. We pride ourselves on our collected wisdom.” She leaned more strongly against him. She shook in her muscles, fine little trembles that came and went. Just the tiniest shaking. It was from being shot at, she thought.

“I'll report you.” The man she'd deprived of the use of his cane, for a very few minutes, brandished it in her face. “I'll have you arrested. There's a Justice of the Peace here.”

At the edge of all great events, there will be some fool who has no idea what's going on. Who makes a nuisance of himself and gets in everyone's way. She kept her eyes on the grim, careful search of the body and said, “If you don't put that stick away, I'll ram it up your posterior till it comes out your nose.”

She continued to not look at him. After a minute, heels, interspersed by the tap of his cane, clicked away rapidly.

Pax hadn't released his arms from around her. She felt his amusement playing back and forth in his muscles.

“I'd better look at the body,” she said. “Your friend knows what he's doing with the dead, but I might see something.”

“The more eyes, the better.” He tucked her arm through his as if they were strolling across a park. Where they went, however, was to the corpse.

She knelt beside the limp bundle on the pavement, careful to keep her skirts out of the widening pool of blood. The man's eyes were open and staring. That was the worst part of those dead by violence. The eyes were always open and always empty.

“I suppose you can improve your sketch,” she said to Pax, “now that you have the model in front of you.”

“I can.”

She didn't really look at the body for a while, though her eyes were pointed in that direction. Her mind seemed stuck in place, like a wagon spinning its wheels in deep mud. Finally, stupidly, she said, “At least we killed the right man.”

“He needed it,” Pax said. “He worked for the Merchant. See anything?”

Only death. This sort of thing was what she escaped when she chose the quiet life of Brodemere. Pax's friend rolled the body to this side and that to unbutton clothing and methodically go through pockets.

She put out a hand. “Stop.”

He glared at her.

“On the trouser leg. There.” She pointed. “What is it?”

“Stable dirt.” He dismissed her.

She pinched some up. Smelled it. “Sawdust . . . wood shavings. Oak maybe. It needs an expert.”

Annoyance flickered in the young face and was gone, leaving a sort of dark amusement. “Maybe he visited a coffin maker. He'll need one.” Pax's friend plucked out a new handkerchief—he seemed to have several—spread it on his open hand, and brushed shavings and wood dust into it. “I would have come to that part of him in a bit. See anything else?”

She shook her head and stood up. “I'll look at the wagon.”

Someone had led the Frenchman's horse and cart out of the middle of the road, where he'd abandoned them. She ran her hand over the horse's back. This was a piebald horse, short legged and unlovely, matched with a sturdy, short cart. Everything utilitarian and well cared for, from the wheels to the hooves of the horses. This was a jobbing cart from a reliable yard. When she made a circuit of it she found, burned into the wood on the back right side, the words
McCarthy, Nibb Lane, Soho
.

“Six streets that way.” Pax indicated with a little jerk of his head.

“The Merchant is in Soho.”

“Or he wants to make us think he's here.”

“Then he's succeeded. I think he's in Soho.”

The little horse was of a placid, urbane disposition, calm in place and incurious. She went over the harness, which was wholly ordinary and recently cleaned. The horseshoes held the usual collection of city detritus. They'd been cleaned recently. “He hires a small cart, not a coach. He needs to shift something he won't carry in a coach. Something dirty. Something bulky. Secret. Stolen. Something that attracts attention.”

“A body,” Pax contributed.

Was Camille Besançon already murdered, and her body disposed of? “Or a prisoner, bound and gagged.”

Pax might have turned the pages in her mind and read them. “He has no reason to kill that woman before the meeting.” Pax squatted beside the front wheel and took out a two-inch magnifier. “He plans ahead. He leaves people alive while there's any possible use for them.”

They worked in tandem, silently, for a few minutes. She said, “There's nothing by the driver's seat. Not a speck. Not a crumb.”

She looked at every crevice of the frame and springs while he went over the four wheels. After a while, she said, “I haven't killed very many men. Those people in the Coach House were the first. And then, one man who came to Brodemere. And now the Frenchman.”

Pax said, “You didn't kill this man. Those horses did.”

“I've also never been shot at.” A tarp covered the surface of the little wagon. She took a corner and waited for Pax to take the other. “I don't think I like it.”

“Getting hit is worse.”

“Strangely, that is no comfort at all.” She nodded and they pulled the tarp back, uncovering the bed of the cart.

She knew the smell. Would have recognized it earlier if a whiff of it hadn't already been floating in the air.

Pax said, “Gunpowder.” He was not informing her. He confirmed what they'd both realized.

“Guns?” She shook her head slowly. “An attack on something? A riot?” Twenty years ago, the Gordon Riots had torn the town apart, threatened the rich and powerful.

“Not riot.” The dark-haired man, Pax's friend, came up behind her. “If the French were brewing civil insurrection, we'd have heard about it. We have well-paid informers. Informers on informers.” He asked Pax, “You want to see a collection of dull coinage? No? Can't say I blame you.” He tucked away a bulky handkerchief. “And that is the delicate odor of gunpowder.”

“We noticed,” Pax said dryly. “Cami, this is Hawker. Hawk, this is Cami.”

She ignored the introduction, as did Mr. Hawker. She'd heard of Hawker from the Fluffy Aunts' gossip. She could only hope he knew far less about her than she did about him.

The planking of the wagon was gray-brown, dry, and clean. She paced two steps sideways, watching the light on the wood's surface. She said, “Not guns.”

Pax was looking at the same thing. “No oil.”

Guns live in a light film of oil, or they rust. Everywhere they're stored, they leave smears of gun oil. Even wrapped in burlap, they'd leave the distinctive smell of the oil behind. None of that here.

She swept her fingers into the crevice between boards and came away with coarse black powder under her nails. She smelled it, rubbed it between her fingers, and confirmed what she did not want to know.

“Gunpowder,” Pax said. “A wagonload.”

The young man, Hawker, murmured, “We are in big trouble.”

This was suddenly no longer a spy game played with secrets and codes. The lives to be lost were no longer counted in twos or threes.

In the dust at the side of the wagon, she made out a curved mark, most of it already brushed away. Then another curve next to it. Wordlessly, she followed the lines with her fingers.

“Kegs,” Pax said.

“Kegs. Kegs and kegs of gunpowder.” She felt sick in the pit of her stomach. “They must have been lined up all the way down the cart. You could blow up Parliament with this much powder. Or a dozen ships in harbor. Or London Bridge.”
Or anything you wanted.
Who would die? Where? When? How many lives?

“Ten or twelve kegs. God help us,” Pax's friend said.

“Sixteen.” She counted out the places with her hand, showing him.

“You can't just buy this much.” Hawker peeled the last of the canvas back, careful not to disturb the dust, doing the same thing she had, studying the faint circles left behind and the thin trace of powder. “We have a traitor somewhere in military supplies.”

“It's naval stores or artillery.” She tested the texture between thumb and forefinger. “Not for guns. There's a different feel to this. Larger grit. This is for cannons.”

Hawker glared at her. “Of course you'd learn that, out in Brodemere, between studying Babylonian and German.”

She said, “I don't actually speak Babylonian. No one does. I learned the distinctions of gunpowder when I was eleven or so.”

“Cachés,” Hawker said in disgust. “Gunpowder and sawdust. Probably Babylonian, too. I'm going to Daisy's.”

Pax said, “We'll join you. I have to make sketches.” He waved two men out of the crowd and talked to them, fast, with gestures that said it was about moving the wagon somewhere.

Someday, there would come a point at which her life could become no more dangerous and complicated. She hadn't arrived there yet, apparently.

A man ruled by old hatreds is like a tree nourished upon stone.

A BALDONI SAYING

Pax said, “Have you ever been to a whorehouse?”

They'd come to a big, solid house that fronted on one of the narrow passageways in which Soho abounded. Hawker, who had stalked the whole way, ten paces ahead, ignoring them, trotted up the stairs, knocked, and was admitted. The maid who answered the door, a neat black woman of middle years, waited patiently for them to catch up.

Cami climbed the stairs beside Pax. “I find myself desperately wishing I could claim to have been a frequent visitor to brothels instead of bookshops and botanical gardens and bootmakers and that nice man in Terne Street who sells magical herbs. I'm perfectly certain female British Service agents spend more time in brothels than in hat shops.”

“I'll have to think about that.” As they entered, Pax got not only smiles from the black woman keeping the door but a kiss on the cheek and whispers of welcome that were not meant for Cami to hear. He was obviously much at home.

He said to the woman, “Give us a few minutes. We'll come upstairs.”

They were left alone in a long, luxurious hall scattered with Persian carpets. The sideboard held an explosion of expensive lilies, roses, and irises arranged in a red Chinese vase. On the landing above, a naked bronze nymph was caught in the act of covering breast and pubis from public view.

She'd do better to just put some clothes on.

Pax had bedded the women here. Some of them. All of them? She pictured him upstairs in some . . . would there be vulgar, red-velvet coverlets? She could almost see his large hands, sensitive, assessing, responsive, on a woman's white flesh.

It would be easier to chat with the Merchant than to face these smug women who knew the secrets of Pax's body. She would be very cool and—

“I don't use whores.” He interrupted her imaginary conversation with several dazzlingly beautiful courtesans. She was being polite to them. “Not the ones upstairs. Not the ones on the street.”

“They know you here.” Before she finished saying that, her brain had raced ahead to various logical conclusions and she knew. “You draw them. You go to brothels to sketch nude women.”

“Only because women don't walk around the streets nude in this climate.”

She considered whether she wanted to walk upstairs and meet the women Pax had studied in great detail, nude. Then she decided that, yes, after all, she would.

He untied the string that held her cloak and tossed it behind him, over the stair railing. “It's not that different from drawing flowers, Cami.” Her bonnet was held by a simple slipknot, easy to loose. He removed it and let it fall to the smooth wood of the table, beside a vase of flowers.

“You used to draw me, when we were in the Coach House. You drew my face all the time and then you burned the sketches, because the Tuteurs would have taken them.”

“You had an interesting face. You still do.” His hand was on her face, his thumb, blunt, rough skinned, and gentle, slid across her lips. “Why did you tell the Baldoni you'd go with me?”

“Because I'm a grown woman and they have no control
over where I will go or who I'll see. Because I want to be with you.”
The sands run out between my fingers. I have a day and a little more. Not quite two days. I am very afraid.
She said, “Could you hold me. Next to you, I mean. In your arms.”

“Just what I was going to suggest.”

She went toward him and folded herself into him as she would have pulled a large, warm blanket around her. His chest was the right height to lay her head upon. His shirt was soft. His coat, rough textured under her cheek. His sternum had no padding on it at all. When he put his arms around her, she felt straightforward bones and hard muscle. The knife sheath on his left forearm was bumpy and obvious. Had she ever embraced a man carrying weapons? She didn't think so. Her lovers had been comfortable country gentlemen. Unarmed.

Pax said, “For that four minutes when we were all discussing whether you were going to stay with the Baldoni or go off with me, I was wondering where to take you.”

“I know a good bookshop,” she said against his chest.

“I would have brought you to Daisy's. I don't have any better place to take you.”

“I like to try new things. Life is a vast banquet.”

“That's more of your family wisdom, isn't it? But I don't think they mean taking you to whorehouses.”

“They might. We lead adventurous lives.” The living presence of him, breathing and solid, was intensely real. He wore the simplest of cravats and the trailing ends of the tie hung down to press into her forehead.

Pax said, “Daisy's is a sanctuary of sorts. A neutral place. The Service hides people at Daisy's every once in a while. Lazarus does, too. The Foreign Office isn't above dropping some tricky Polish exile in here for a while. Nobody bothers anybody else. Dangerous men visit this house and they like it quiet.”

“An interesting establishment.”

“You'd be safe here if you don't want to go back to the Baldoni. Hawker owns part of the place. He calls himself a sleeping partner.”

He took a while and kissed into her hair, again and again, as if he planned to start there and kiss every inch of her body.
He was aroused. She felt that as a hard warm thrust against her belly. A demand. A promise of sorts. When they were naked together he would be unyielding and very strong. She very much wanted to carve out a time and place to be naked with him.

Her lovers, both of them, had been country gentry, strong from hunting and husbandry. Pax was strong from fighting for his life and surviving in dangerous places. It was the difference between the hound that lives in the manor and the lean wolf that prowls the woods.

One feels very safe in the arms of a wolf. Or at least, she did.

“Your relatives are right not to trust me,” he said. “I would have ignored every decency and brought you to a whorehouse. I'd have wanted to take you upstairs and make love with you.”

She would have agreed. She would have taken his hand and led him upstairs herself. “You're about to say that isn't going to happen. I can read that in your tone of voice. Or maybe it's the fact we're not racing upstairs at this minute.”

He said, “I won't sleep with you under a roof where women sell their bodies.”

“You have scruples.”

“I have none,” he said flatly. “Don't misjudge me. There's no crime I haven't committed. Your uncle was right about that.”

“We're graduates of the Coach House. We—”

“I was lost before I ever set foot in the place. Cami, my mother was a whore.”

She couldn't see his face. He held her, breathing down into her hair, tense as strung wires. “Tell me.”

“She didn't work in a brothel or get paid in coin.” He'd already decided what he'd say, she thought. Already prepared the words in his mind, the way a cook gathers her ingredients out on the table before she starts mixing and chopping. “The man she lived with gave her to his friends and to men he had a use for. He was . . . frightening when she didn't do what he wanted.”

“I'm sorry,” she said.

“Sometimes he hurt her. I think she wanted him to hurt her.” He'd become so still she couldn't feel his breath going in and out, only the iron control that locked every muscle. “He destroyed her, bit by bit. I watched him do it.”

“You were a child. What—ten? Twelve?”

“Younger than that.”

Pax, who'd been the strong one for all of them at the Coach House, had been a child who couldn't protect his mother. “Then you couldn't have changed anything.”

“He abandoned her in Paris, in the riots of the Revolution. I kept her in the house when I could, but she'd get out and go looking for him. After a while she just stopped, like a clock that isn't wound. Didn't sleep. Didn't eat. Didn't move. I sent a message to Denmark and her family came and took her away.”

“But not you?” She tried to say it neutrally.

“They had no place in their house for her bastard.” His arms closed tighter and tighter around her. She felt no part of him that wasn't stone. “I don't use whores. I don't care whether they've chosen the life or been forced into it or do it for money.”

She said, “Your father—”

“He's not my father!”

His anger cracked like a lightning strike. Scorched like fire.

Breathing hard, leaving not an inch between them, holding on to her as if he'd press her into his skin itself, Pax said, “He lived with my mother. He's nothing to me. I am no part of him.”

She was no trained artist, like Pax, but she could see the likeness of blood, the resemblance between Pax and her blackmailer. There was no escaping that bond. Even the vehement denial, the rage, told her that man was, indeed, Pax's father.

The blackmailer and Pax, bound together inextricably. “The man who lived with your mother is the Merchant.”

“That's one of his names.” Pax didn't let go. She heard his breath rasp in and out of his chest. “The Merchant of Shadows. For what he did to my mother, I'm going to kill him.”