Traitor and the Tunnel (14 page)

“Right. Then where’s that spare uniform you mentioned last night?”

Fourteen

Less than a quarter of an hour later, Mary was in the servants’ courtyard keeping an eye out for one of the people she most detested. She spotted him idling along, hands in pockets, hat tipped back at a disreputable angle. She took a deep breath. She’d not be bested this time.

“My dear Miss Quinn,” he tril ed, sweeping her an extravagant bow. “Such a pleasure to meet you like this, at this hour. And by appointment!” She opened her mouth to speak but he swept on. “I’ve so many questions for you, my dear girl. Stil digging away in the trenches of truth?”

“You know very wel I’m researching the lives of the working poor.”

“So you claimed the last time we met. Yet you’re not entirely devoid of sense: surely you’ve given up such a weary, stale, flat and unprofitable little notion.”

“I fear not, Mr Jones.” Especial y as she hoped to continue the ruse with James, too. “My investigations are coming along splendidly. But I’m not here to discuss that.”

“Tel me something delightful, then.”

She inclined her head very slightly. “I received your card.”

He feigned innocence. “I beg your pardon?”

“The very large and expensive Valentine you sent, signing yourself a ‘secret admirer’.”

signing yourself a ‘secret admirer’.”

“Did you? And if so, what makes you think it was I who sent it? I’m Miss Tranter’s beau, not yours.”

“You’re the only gentleman I know with the taste and budget for such a Valentine.”

His smile seemed to escape against his wil . “The truth wil out, it seems.”

“Sometimes it does,” she said, unsmiling. “I’ve something for you.” She pushed the bundle into his hands.

“My! A personal token of your affection? I’d no idea my little Valentine would be so effective…”

“From Amy. It’s a maid’s uniform in your size. At ten o’clock tonight, you’re to enter the servants’

courtyard in costume. I’l see you safely indoors.”

Jones’s reaction was wonderful to behold.

Surprise, comprehension, deep embarrassment, confusion – al paraded across his face in what Mary thought might be the only sincere response she’d ever seen from him. Completely at a loss, he final y looked at Mary. “Was this Amy’s idea?”

“Certainly,” snapped Mary. “Nothing else would induce me to play the bawd for the likes of you.”

“In which case, I’m honoured,” he said, trying for insouciance.

“See that you’re on time.” She made as if to leave, then paused. “And Jones.” He blinked at her, stil off balance. “If you do or say anything to jeopardize my research – anything that draws attention to me, like that piece of childish nonsense with the Valentine –

I’l tel al . Possibly while you’re stil wearing petticoats.” And with that, she stepped smartly round him and continued on her way.

The nearest post office was in Old Cavendish Street, roughly a mile away by the most direct route.

She’d thought hard about the risks of using it as her poste restante address. The General Post Office in the City was so much larger, and offered a real chance at anonymity. But today, she was glad of her choice: it was unreasonable to expect Amy to shield her absence for too long.

In this sleepy lul before teatime, there were few ladies and gentlemen in the streets. It was too late for a morning ride, a shade too early for afternoon cal s. And yet the streets hummed with butchers’ and bakers’ boys delivering their wares, ful y-laden dray-carts making deliveries. The town felt astoundingly open and anonymous after the constant confinement of Palace life. Mary walked on, a little giddy with her temporary

freedom.

Such

il usions

promptly

vanished as she crossed Oxford Street, its glass-and-brass-fronted shops gleaming valiantly through the fog. Just beyond this glamour lay yet another test of her identity, the very idea of which made her stomach churn.

Old Cavendish Street was quiet, a back-lane for the hectic shopping thoroughfare of Oxford Street.

She passed a gentleman in a fur-col ared overcoat who goggled at her unabashedly, despite her repressive frown. She was too wel dressed to be an ordinary working woman, who could strol about unaccompanied, yet she hadn’t a companion or a maid in tow. In the post office, though, her presence excited no comments or stares from either staff or customers, many of whom also looked like respectable domestic servants.

“Poste restante?” said the yawning clerk, when she reached the front of the queue. “What did you say the name was again?”

“Lawrence,” she said clearly. “Miss Mary Lawrence.” She’d chosen a false name that used the initials of her birth name, Mary Lang. Impossible, however, to hope that they held any significance for Lang Jin Hai. Not after al these years.

He swung down from his stool and ambled to a filing cabinet, taking his time rifling through the envelopes within, yawning al the while. Mary saw a future dependent upon this anonymous clerk’s alertness and intel igence, and despaired. At least his lips didn’t move as he read. At length, he returned to the wicket, empty-handed. “Nothing under that name, miss.”

“It’s very important,” she said, trying to control the tremor in her voice. “Please, could you look again?”

He scowled and looked at her – real y looked at her, for the first time. Something in her expression made him pause. After a moment, he sighed. “Al right. Not that it’l do any good.”

Privately, Mary agreed. Nevertheless, she watched him retreat to the filing cabinet with gratitude. This might be the one thing of which she could be certain. He performed the second search with exaggerated care, pul ing out the occasional envelope and squinting at it in a pantomime of reading. One. Two. After a tantalizing pause, a third.

Just as he was about to stuff it back into the drawer, however, the clerk paused. Frowned. Brought the envelope closer to his nose.

Mary shook her head, angered by this ridiculous bit of play-acting. Even as she scowled, however, the clerk returned to his stool with an expression of slight embarrassment mingled with avid curiosity. He stared at her. “Bit irregular, this one, but it might be yours, miss.”

Mary tried not to snatch the envelope from his grasp – the same envelope, she realized, that she’d posted the previous night. Her careful direction – “Mr J. H. Lang, care of HM Tower of London, Tower Hil , The City” – had been scratched out. On top, in crude letters, was written, “Miss M. Lawrence, Charing X

post office”. “Yes, that’s it,” she said in the calmest voice she could manage. “Thank you.”

“Irregular, that, miss,” said the clerk again. “The address isn’t as clear as it should be. It ought to say,

‘To be cal ed for’.”

She nodded, scarcely hearing his words. “I see.”

“I’l need to see some proof of your identity, miss.”

She fumbled in her handbag and pushed a forged letter across the wicket – a testimonial of character from Mrs J. G. F. Spencer of Muswel Hil , for her paid companion Mary Lawrence. “It’s al I’ve got,”

she explained humbly. “I’ve no passport, you see.”

The clerk skimmed the letter, and Mary hoped he noticed the elements she’d incorporated: the good but not lavish notepaper, the slightly cramped penmanship of an older, respectable lady, the wel -

worn creases of a much-produced “character”.

Eventual y, he nodded and gave it back to her.

“That’s al right, miss. That’s twopence, then, for the postage.”

She paid and fled.

The city streets were far too public for her to stop and examine her letter. That didn’t prevent her from turning it over and over in her mind, however, until she reached the parks. The fact that she’d received any sort of reply meant that Lang – or someone else

– had opened the letter and found her false name a nd poste restante address. Yet the omens were otherwise bad: the sloppy address, the re-use of her old envelope suggested not only that Lang was uninterested in outside help, but he wanted actively to repudiate it. If he were apathetic, he’d simply have made no reply – that was the result she’d expected.

But this pointed rejection complicated matters.

In the peace and relative quiet of St James’s Park, Mary stared at the fateful envelope. As a child, she’d often dreamt of being found by her father – a kind, affectionate man she’d elevated, over the years, into a model of wisdom and noble sacrifice.

She’d imagined his daring escape from a band of pirates, or heroic return from a secret mission for the Crown, after al hope was gone. Lang Jin Hai would leave no stone unturned searching for his beloved and only child. Their reunion would be the stuff of children’s fairy-tales, of serial novels, of dreams.

Her lips twisted. And so it was. If indeed this man was her father, he’d succeeded in undoing every fantasy she’d ever cherished: she’d first heard his name implicated in violence and scandal. She’d made the effort to seek him out. And now, he wanted nothing to do with her. A tear rol ed down her cheek and she dashed it away, suddenly furious. Why was she suddenly so passive, waiting for a paternal white knight to ride in and save her? Whether her father was a murderer or not, an opium addict or not, the one thing he’d bequeathed her was the habit of fending for herself. It was her only legacy.

She tore open the envelope. It was precisely as she’d thought, no worse: her original letter had been torn in half. It was the clearest possible message that her attention was unwanted. And that was fine.

She was interested not only in helping Lang Jin Hai, but in laying to rest questions from her own past.

And for that, she did not require this man’s blessing.

She would present herself to him, uninvited, and ascertain whether or not he was her father.

If he wasn’t, she could once more assume that her father was safely dead. If he was her father, she could ask what had become of him. And if he was hanged for murder, her father would again be safely dead. There was a lunatic logic at work there. Her eyes were dry as she tore the letter to shreds, and then into dozens of tiny pieces, and pushed them into her pocket.

As she did so, her fingers rediscovered her other mysterious letter – the one lurking beneath the Valentine at the dinner hour. She’d quite forgotten, but now drew it out hastily. It was about time she heard from the Agency. However, the handwriting on the envelope was neither Anne’s nor Felicity’s. Not even close. And yet it was familiar. Even as her eyes traced the first M, the flashing Q, she felt that painful double thump of her heart once more, a tangle of elation and caution. She traced her fingertip along the letter’s corners. Perhaps she’d mistaken the handwriting. Yet she knew that thought, too, was merely a rationalization. And such fear was foolish: after the way they’d last parted, what was another confirmation of James’s disdain? Nothing could be worse than how she now felt. She tore it open swiftly, without ceremony.

My dearest Mary,

Both my words and my conduct at our last meeting were ungentlemanly – born of haste and high emotion, rather than friendship and good judgement – and yet I cannot find it within me to apologize. I am glad I kissed you; glad to have revelled in your scent, your taste, the touch of your hands; glad, even, to have quarrelled with you because during those moments of anger, I was in your presence.

Mary, you are the most singular woman I know: intelligent, brave and honest, and I crave your friendship. I confess to only the haziest notion of what I ask, having never been friends with a woman before. My friendships are male and conventional; pleasant and without distinction. But a friendship with you would be a bright, new, rare thing – if you would do me the honour.

I expect that what I ask is impossible. But it is sweet to dream, Mary, and thus I tender one last, insolent, unapologetic request: write to me only if you can say yes.

Yours,

James

Mary read the letter three times, fingers shaking as she held the page. He revel ed, craved, dreamed –

words she’d never dare imagine in connection with James. Yet even as she floated in the sheer delight of being thus addressed, frustration seeped in.

Came to dominate.

It was a beautiful, maddening, flattering, insulting little epistle. No apology – utterly James-like. A vast request, airily phrased – ditto. And most importantly, no mention whatsoever of that damned girl in the blue dress. Even so, she couldn’t help melting, and that was perhaps the worst part. Was she so susceptible, so utterly without pride, that she’d go charging back to him whenever he crooked his finger? She could sit stil no longer. As she walked back towards the Palace, she forced herself to think about, rather than feel, her response.

She ought to tear up the letter and forget al about it.

Impossible.

She ought to send it back to him, as Lang Jin Hai had done with hers.

She’d broken the seal.

She could pretend she’d never received it…

But how would she let him know? If he heard nothing, James would assume that she was too hurt, too fragile, to contact him again. Damn and blast his apparently boundless egotism.

And yet – she’d thought just the previous night of contacting him. She needed his expertise, or at least his col ection of sewer maps. And for the first time since she’d left the Palace, something like a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. So she could. Just as she’d seen off Octavius Jones – just as she would resolve the question of her relation to Lang Jin Hai – she’d settle another overconfident male.