Traitor and the Tunnel (35 page)

“Open your eyes and see, first.” A pause. “Go on.

I’d dump it in your lap, only you’d take my head off for such a liberty.”

She lifted her heavy eyelids and blinked at a paper-wrapped lump. A smal patch of grease darkened one side of the paper, and suddenly she could smel it: smoke, salt, fat, wheat, yeast. Her mouth flooded so quickly it was al she could do to keep from drooling.

Jones grinned. “You’re welcome.”

She eyed it, trying her best to show suspicion.

“Why are you walking around with a bacon sandwich in your pocket?”

“My breakfast. But I think you need it more.”

She peeked inside the paper, releasing a puff of fragrant steam into the wintry morning. The bun was golden, the bacon curling slightly at the edges. “If you ever need to poison someone,” she said, unwrapping the sandwich al the way, “do it with a bacon sandwich.”

He winked. “My sentiments exactly.”

It was worth the risk. Mary devoured it in two minutes, heedless of the grease staining her gloves, Jones’s close scrutiny, the colossal impropriety of a lady eating in public – in a park, no less! When she’d swal owed the last bite and dusted the flour from her fingers, she felt half-way human again. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure. Now, how about tel ing me why you left the Queen’s house in your Sunday best, looking half-starved to death?”

“I’d rather not,” she said, calm now. The urge to strangle Jones had vanished with the appearance of warm food, but she’d not lost her bearings entirely.

“I’ve fulfil ed my end of the bargain. That’s that.”

“What about the leads I gave you? The Hacken tarts.”

She smirked. “Hackens are for hacks.”

“It came to nothing?” His dismay seemed entirely genuine, but of course that was his professional amour propre speaking.

Mary thought of what the Prince of Wales’s confessions had wrought. “I wouldn’t say ‘nothing’.

But it wasn’t anything like you expected.” She smirked again. “No grist for your sleazy mil .”

“Damn.” He drooped for a moment, then cheered up. “Wel , I got the best of you, then. Amy Tranter’s off my back, al for the price of some useless gossip and a bacon bap.”

“You seem intent on forgetting that five guineas.”

“Bah.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Cheap, even at that price.”

“Off you go, then. There must be scandals to invent.”

And yet he lingered beside her. “Care for a drink?

I know a good little public house not far from here.”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Off home, are you? I’l see you there.”

Home. She’d no idea what that might mean.

“Thank you, no.”

He frowned. “Sure you’re al right?”

She stifled a yawn. “Of course.”

“That’s not very convincing.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Jones, leave me alone.”

He stood then, entirely unperturbed. “That’s better.

Wel , then, Miss Quinn – by the by, is that your real name?”

Another question she couldn’t real y answer, even to herself. “It’s good enough for you.”

“Right then, my friendly darling. Until next time.”

“There won’t be one,” she said automatical y.

He re-settled his hat. “Of course there wil . I’m already looking forward to it.”

She sat on the bench until a park warden, concerned by her lone presence, asked her to move on. She rose amiably enough – her feet were frozen anyway – and walked a few paces until realizing she didn’t know where she was going. Despite her fatigue, she wasn’t ready to return to Acacia Road.

That would mean more discussions, more questions, more uncertainty. She was marooned in London, homeless once more.

There was, however, one more task to perform.

One more conversation to have before she could deem this assignment complete. And reluctant as she was to face James Easton once more, there could be no new existence – whatever form that might take – until she’d laid this present one to rest.

Thirty-six

Friday morning

46 Gordon Square

As before, the moment the cab rol ed away, leaving her at Gordon Square, she panicked. It was stil late morning – utterly inappropriate for a social cal – and James was probably at the office. She vacil ated before the glossy front door for a minute before remembering that Russel Square was quiet and nearby. She could sit there for half an hour quite decently, if she could bear the cold. She turned on her heel – just as the front door clicked open.

“Mary?”

Caught in the act, and an act of cowardice, besides. She turned with as much dignity as she could muster. “James. Hel o.”

A smal smile hovered about his lips. “Aren’t you coming in?”

“You must be on your way to work.” He was wearing an overcoat and hat.

“I was coming to try to find you.”

“Oh.” The boldness of his confession made her shyer than ever and she receded a step.

“Come in.”

“I can’t stay long…”

He grinned, took three long strides over, seized her about the waist and hauled her over the threshold. “Coward.” Kicking the door shut behind him, he wrapped his arms about her and kissed her soundly. “You’l run through explosive-fil ed sewers and stare down the Queen of England, but you’re too frightened to cal on me.” He kissed her again, toppling her hat to the floor.

“That’s different,” she said, thoroughly breathless.

“Etiquette, and al that.”

He laughed. “Come on, then. Upstairs.”

Pure panic, shot through with excitement. “What?”

“To the drawing room, of course. We’ve a great deal to discuss.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.”

He gave her a look. “Although we could start elsewhere…”

She blushed furiously. “The drawing room is perfectly adequate, thank you.”

James instal ed her on a sofa by the fire, rang for tea, fanned the flames until the fire snapped and roared. Mary loved watching him. His hands were long and beautiful, and he moved with swift deftness

– no wasted actions or over-large gestures. He grinned at Mrs Lemmon’s surprise at the unexpected guest, but said nothing to explain Mary’s presence. When they were final y alone – door closed, fire blazing, tea poured – he final y sat down beside her and said, “I’m glad you came today.”

Mary fidgeted with her teacup. His knee nearly touched hers. “You must be anxious to know what happened to Wintermarch and Honoria Dalrymple.”

“Not particularly, no.”

She stared at him, arrested. “You’re not?”

“I’m mildly curious, I confess. But that’s not what I’ve been thinking about.”

“Oh.”

“What were you about to say to me?” he asked.

“Down in the sewers.”

She felt the heat creeping up her neck, flowing over her cheeks to her ears. “N-nothing. I don’t real y remember.” If she looked at him, she would be lost.

“Right after you kissed me. It began with ‘I’.”

“I – I’m afraid I don’t recal . Anyway, people say al kinds of things at moments of pressure.”

“Coward,” he said again.

A faint rattling sound began. It took her a moment to realize it was her cup in its saucer and she put it down, blushing even more deeply. “But there’s something else I must tel you,” she said, although it was a struggle to keep her voice steady.

“Oh? I can’t wait.”

Her laugh was pure shaky nerves. “You won’t say that when I’m done.” She was mad to plunge into this so soon. But it wasn’t fair to James to do anything else. She could at least spare them both the prolonged delusion of intimacy.

James went stil . “Seems to me I’ve heard this before.” He didn’t draw back but the smile had vanished from his voice.

“I’ve already told you a little about my past.”

“Your conviction for housebreaking, yes. And I don’t care about that, Mary; I was a self-righteous prig ever to think that it mattered. You are—”

“Don’t.” She put a finger to his lips before he could say anything irrevocable; something he’d regret after this was done. “Please. Just listen.” He always did, when she asked. It was one of his best traits. “I use the name ‘Quinn’ partly because of my conviction. It was my mother’s name, and I love it, and I’m glad to be able to use it. But there’s another reason I don’t use my father’s surname, and I want to tel you what it is.” She drew a deep breath. “I was born Mary Lang.

I am half-Chinese.”

His head snapped up, eyes wide, gaze intent. He scanned her features, searched her face anew. He was putting things together – the dark hair, so nearly black; the tilt of her eyelids. She sat there and bore his scrutiny in silence, letting him look his fil . A long, long minute later, he let out the faintest of breaths.

“I’d never have guessed on my own.”

“No?” Her smile was slightly crooked. “My father was a Lascar.”

He looked at her again, and something in his eyes changed. He stopped studying her features and simply looked at her again – at Mary, his rival, col aborator, friend. “That’s fascinating. I want to learn more about your childhood and upbringing. But

… al this ominous build-up, for this news?”

That stung. Al her careful preparation, al her anxiety… “You don’t care to know?”

“Of course I want to know. But it doesn’t change how I feel about you.” He seized her arms and pul ed her close, so their foreheads nearly touched.

“Mary, I love you. No, no – hear me out. I am madly, ridiculously, passionately in love with you. I don’t care about your past. Your race does nothing to change my feelings. I love you, you stubborn little fool. Is that clear enough for you?”

She could scarcely breathe, caught in the fierce brightness of his gaze. This was heaven. This was more than she’d ever dreamed possible. It was also hel – a merciless tragicomedy sweeping her along in its brutal torrent. “James, there’s more.”

“Then tel me. I dare you to put me off.” He was so sure of himself, his grip on her arms firm and confident.

“I – my father – vanished in 1847 or 1848. He was reported lost at sea, presumed dead.”

“Yes.”

“But he came back.” There was no delicate way to announce a disaster. “James, my father is the opium addict who kil ed Ralph Beaulieu-Buckworth.”

He’d not expected that, despite his chal enge to her. He sat back, his fingers slackening. Swal owed hard. Stared for a long moment. “Dear God.”

She felt her composure begin to crack, like a sheet of ice on a pond. “The kil ing was not planned.

He began in self-defence. But the fact remains that my father was a kil er and an opium-smoker.”

“Was?” he echoed.

“He died last night.” And now the tears came, hot and shameful and unwanted. “He was al but pardoned – offered imprisonment for life, instead of the death penalty. But he’s gone.” Her shoulders crumpled. Began to shake. Tears splashed down into her lap. What did it mean that she would tel James about her father, but couldn’t reveal the same to Anne and Felicity? The result would be the same: horror. Condemnation. Ostracization.

“Oh, Mary.”

She felt James’s arms come round her and she shoved him away. “Weren’t you listening to what I said? About my father?”

“I listened.” Those arms encircled her again, pul ing her tight. “And, Mary, I don’t care. D’you hear me? I don’t care about any of that. My only concern is you.”

She resisted for a moment longer, her weary mind unable to comprehend just what he meant. And then she col apsed. Lost track of time. Gave herself up to the grief within her and the arms that held her together. When she was final y sobbed out, her breath coming in jagged hiccups, her eyes salt-sore, he released her.

“You never have a handkerchief, do you?” he asked, offering his own.

She half-sniffled, half-laughed. “No.”

“I’m concerned; it’s a bit of a failing.”

“Like having a kil er in the family?”

“Nothing at al . Your father’s actions are his own; you’re not answerable for them.”

She twisted the damp handkerchief round her fingers. “I can’t believe you were more disturbed by my housebreaking days than by my father and the fact that I’m a half-caste.”

He grimaced. “Wil I never live that down? The difference, in my mind, is this: there’s nothing you can do about who your father was. His choices, his race – you’re unable to control them, and it’s unreasonable to hold them against you.

“As for the thefts … my first response was too rigid. I thought you’d made a choice that reflected weaknesses in your character. But when I thought more about it, I realized that as a child, you real y had no choice; that it had been a question of pure survival. I’d have done the same thing, in those circumstances.” He laced his fingers through hers. “I suppose I got ahead of myself, just now. I should have asked you first, can you forgive me for being self-righteous and judgemental?”

Mary felt the room start to whirl about her, this time not because of exhaustion, starvation and general confusion. Rather, it was a very specific sort of disbelief and elation – and, yes, a burgeoning sense of something else that terrified her more than high explosives and the Queen of England combined. “I might,” she said. “But I’ve a few questions first.”

James blinked, amused. “I should have known better than to expect instantaneous, unreserved absolution. Go on.”

“You say you don’t care about my heritage. Or the fact that my father died in disgrace.”

“That’s right.”

“But earlier, you said – you suggested that – you love me.”