Traitor and the Tunnel (16 page)

Again, she forced herself to look him in the eyes.

“A map of the sewers. I can’t reasonably anticipate Mrs Dalrymple’s next move without knowing what the possibilities are.”

“I haven’t a map I can part with.”

She’d not be dismissed quite that easily. “Could you spare yours for half an hour? I’l make a copy.”

“Perhaps…”

Oh, at times like this she hated the man. Almost.

Folding her arms, she propped her feet with a thump on the facing seat. “Do let me know once you’ve given sufficient thought to such a complex question.”

James blinked at her boots, then seemed to repress a smile. “Ladies’ boots for a change.”

“I could hardly wear boys’ boots with female attire.”

“Do you miss wearing breeches?”

“Sometimes. They’re awful y convenient.”

“It’s very strange seeing you in a maid’s uniform.”

“You’re stal ing.”

“It’s a big decision.”

She let out a puff of disgust. “What utter balderdash! You’re the most appal ingly decisive person I know.”

He sighed dramatical y. “Stil rubbish at compliments. You know, Mary, the way round a man is to praise his unequal ed discernment, not insult his skil s.”

She blinked. He was supposed to be cold and brusque, not relaxed and teasing. But if he was coming round… “So if I compliment you—”

“Lavishly.”

“Right. If I flatter you to the skies, I can have a copy of the map?”

“Why don’t you try and see?”

“Now you’re just trying to irk me.” She rose and dusted off her skirts. “I hope the information I gave you is useful, James. Good night.”

She got as far as opening the carriage door before his hand closed over hers, pul ing it shut again. “Wait a moment,” he said, very quietly.

She froze, that treacherous blush heating her cheeks once more. Even through her gloves, she knew what his touch would feel like, skin to skin. “I’ve been waiting,” she said. Her words were meant to sound haughty, but instead came out with a tremor.

“I’m in your debt, now.”

“You’re not.” She couldn’t look at him.

“You proposed an exchange, but I’ve only taken.”

“I’l make a present of that information,” she said.

Again, she sounded breathless rather than careless.

“Let me go, James.”

He uncovered her hand.

She didn’t move.

“I don’t have the map with me.”

“That’s fine,” she said, rather desperate now.

“But I’l take you on a tour of the sewers.”

She looked at him then, stunned. But there was no mockery in his dark eyes, no censure. “W-when?”

“Right now, if you can spare the time.”

She couldn’t look away. Tried for levity, but couldn’t quite manage it. “You always did know how to charm a girl…”

“I even have special oilskin waders. Nobody ever says ‘no’ to those.”

Her mind spun uselessly, trying to find a reason she couldn’t spend more time in his company. She wanted a map, not a personal tour with al the freight it threatened.

“I thought you needed information.”

“I do. A map would suffice.”

“I’l give you more knowledge than any map.

Come, Mary – cowardice doesn’t become you.”

“It’s not cowardice; it’s good sense.”

He shrugged. “Wel , that’s my final offer: a sewer tour, tonight. Take it or leave it.”

She glared at him and gripped the door handle with renewed determination. “Why are you doing this? You can’t find my presence any more pleasant than I find yours.”

His gaze locked with hers. A lazy smile curled one corner of his mouth. “I don’t think ‘pleasant’ was ever the word.” He touched the back of her hand and she trembled, despite her best efforts. His smile turned wolfish. “I’l get the oilskins.”

“I’l wait outside.”

“Suit yourself.”

Sixteen

It must have been cold outside. It was always cold outside. But for once, she couldn’t feel it. As Mary paced up and down a smal patch of cobbled road, she ran through the reasons she ought to go. Flee.

And never look back.

“Here. They’re a bit large.”

She stared at the vast swathes of stiff oilcloth. “A bit?”

“Did you think they came in women’s sizes?”

“What about for boys?”

He shrugged. “I did my best, at short notice. Had you given me more notice…”

“You expected me to need a tour of the sewers?”

“Not specifical y. But when I received your note today, I did wonder.”

Perfect. She was a total y predictable secret agent. The best thing she could do now was keep her mouth shut. She took the bundle, climbed back into the carriage and closed the door behind her.

Thick canvas trousers with braces to keep them up.

A coat that would fal below her knees. Tal , waterproof boots. Al much too large. Nevertheless, they were her only choice. She began with the trousers, knotting the braces until they would stay up.

The coat was ridiculous but with the sleeves rol ed up three times, she at least had the use of her hands. And the boots seemed impossible until she pushed her already booted feet inside and found that they would stay on that way. While they were much too tal and loose, she folded them down and cinched them tight until she had a serviceable – if cumbersome – pair of thigh-high oiled boots.

When she swung open the carriage door again, James was pul ing on his own hip waders. For a moment, Mary watched, startled. It was a remarkable moment of false intimacy that felt parodic, yet meaningful – at least until he glanced up and caught her peeping. A smug grin crossed his face. “Here’s the finishing touch.” He handed her a deep hat with wide strips of cloth hanging from its back – the sort of fan-tailed hat worn by dustmen –

and a pair of oversized thick leather gloves.

“Regulation wear for sewer flushers,” he explained.

“Your choice, of course – but it protects the back of your neck from, er, anything that might drip down from overhead.”

She promptly donned the hat. “Let’s go.”

He refused her help in levering open the manhole cover. “It’s al right – it wants more skil than brute force.”

Watching him careful y manoeuvring the huge cast-iron disc, Mary was struck once more by how healthy James looked. Seven months ago, he’d been a gaunt, shivering, feverish mess. Today, while stil thin, he looked strong and capable and very convincingly recovered. Yet what she knew of malarial fever suggested that he ought to continue to be careful: one major relapse meant that he might be susceptible to more. Perhaps that latent fragility was part of what made it so difficult to tear her eyes from him. He glanced up and caught her gaze, and she felt her colour rise again. Or perhaps she was just hopeless. She cleared her throat. “I’m surprised the cover isn’t guarded.”

“It’s just an ordinary manhole cover; putting a guard on it would signal that something was up.”

She nodded. “But … even from a distance? I’d post a concealed one, if I were in charge of the royal family’s security.”

He shrugged. “Entirely possible. I suppose we’l find out.”

It was a practical – if uncomfortable – stance to take. If confronted, James could easily prove his presence was legitimate. Mary had no such hope.

With a shivering, grinding sound, the manhole cover slid to one side and James flexed his hands with relief. Clearly, moving it had required strength as wel as skil . He lit a pair of dark lanterns – lamps with metal shutters, to contain the light when it was unnecessary – and handed one to Mary. “Shal we?”

There was a ladder fixed to the wal of the manhole, slick with a thin, accumulated layer of moisture which Mary preferred not to analyse too closely. With her lamp closed for safety, she began her careful descent. Reaching the bottom rung, she was suddenly enveloped – not by the smel , but by the intense warmth of the sewer. It was a different atmosphere entirely: thick and cloying, compared with the biting cold damp above, much like in the tunnel Honoria Dalrymple had discovered. Even the dank, almost salty smel was a more intense version of that which pervaded the Palace tunnel.

The instant her feet touched solid ground, Mary opened the lantern just enough to create a smal , concentrated beam of light, and shone it about. The sewer was a brick tube, its floor only slightly damp.

At its highest point, it was perhaps seven feet high –

more than ample for even a very tal man to stand upright, as long as he remained in the centre of the tube. This was surprising: Mary had expected a low, slimy series of caverns, noxious to smel and dangerous to navigate. And while it was true that they had a distinctly sulphurous odour, they were far from repugnant. The roads above ground were far muddier and litter-strewn.

James jumped the last couple of rungs, landing beside her with a quiet thud.

“You’re feeling lively.”

“Just trying to make you envious of my wel -fitting waders.” He opened his dark lantern al the way, bathing them in a sphere of warm, yel ow light.

She blinked, dazzled – by his playfulness as much as by the lantern. When had they become friends again? It was a dangerous idea, given their previous relations. Not to mention the risk of that meticulously banked ardour’s reigniting itself.

They set off at a moderate pace through the sewer, James in the lead. He walked careful y, surprisingly light-footed in his protective boots, and clearly familiar with this subterranean road. As they went, he noted points and objects of interest, composing for her a sort of potted history of the sewers.

What she’d first thought to be a smal private tunnel beneath Buckingham Palace was, in fact, one of London’s primary sewers, which started in Hampstead and ran eastwards along the course of the ancient underground River Tyburn. It was a startling realization: that anyone working in the sewer

– the “flushers” – had unguarded access to the Queen’s private residence.

When she said so, James nodded. “That’s why this job’s been so secretive.”

“Wel , that’s perfectly obvious. But I can’t believe that no one thought precautions necessary before now!” Did the Agency know of this? She ought to have been told.

“It’s not an open sewer,” he reminded her.

“There’s a locked gate at the bottom, where it empties into the river. You’d have to know your tide tables, pick the lock, navigate part of the sewer by boat…”

“Al right, so it’s not something you’d try on the spur of the moment. But it’s stil awful y vulnerable for a palace.”

He glanced back at her, just for a moment. “We know. That wil change, once this job’s done.”

She thought of Honoria Dalrymple. “Who’s ‘we’?”

“‘We’ is Easton Engineering, advising the Chief Commissioner of Public Works.”

“The same one you worked with on St Stephen’s Tower?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Yes. That’s why I was offered this contract.”

They walked on in silence for a few seconds. Then she asked, “And how’s business in general?”

James glanced back. “Are you actual y curious, or just making smal talk?”

“Genuine interest. Does it matter?”

He shrugged. “Business is fine. I’d never say no to more work, but after the Indian disaster, I’m happy just to be busy.”

“And your brother?”

He snorted. “Now I know you’re only being polite.”

“Just because your brother disapproves of me doesn’t mean I dislike him,” she said primly.

“Hmph. Very high-minded of you.” James paused, as though wondering how to answer such an apparently simple question. “George is quite wel .

He’s engaged to be married, so visiting his fiancée takes up much of his time these days.”

Mary’s thoughts flew instantly to the lovely girl with red-gold hair. And there was something ambivalent about James’s tone… “Do you approve of his fiancée?” God help the would-be bride if he didn’t.

James was very protective of his genial, blustering elder brother – and the family reputation. She’d learned the lengths to which he’d go on her first case, when he’d broken into a merchant’s study seeking proof of corruption on the part of George’s intended father-in-law.

James shrugged – a slight hitch of one shoulder that lacked his usual conviction. “She’s acceptable.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “Not a very generous statement.”

“No,” he agreed, with a smile in his voice. “But an accurate one. She’s not very bright, and inclined to triviality. But she doesn’t seem unkind or deceitful.

Of course,” he added, “I’ve met her only a handful of times.”

“Is her family important?”

“What – social y? Oh, no. Nothing to speak of.”

“But useful to you?”

He spun about suddenly, so that she almost walked into him. “You’ve a very low opinion of me, haven’t you?”

She ground to a most inelegant halt, just managing to avoid bouncing off his chest. “Of course not. I’ve just fol owed you into a sewer.”

His smile was sardonic. “You know what I mean: you think I’d only value George’s fiancée if she had a substantial dowry and came from a wel -connected family that could help Easton Engineering.”

“Wel , that is what you claimed when we first met.”

His brow creased. “It is?”

Oh, how she enjoyed having the upper hand in conversations with James. “Of course it is. You told me, with perfect conviction, that marriage was a business matter to be negotiated with the head, not the heart. You were very scornful of your brother’s affection for Angelica Thorold.”