A Spy's Devotion

  Now she was smiling. The only problem was, he could hardly watch where he was going for noticing the way her smile transformed her countenance and made the sunlight, what little there was on this overcast day, sparkle in her eyes.

  “Please excuse me,” Miss Mayson said, “but I noticed a broken lace on my half boot when we were in the carriage, and I need to step into this shoe repair shop, just here, so that I might have it repaired.”

  “Of course. If I may be of assistance . . .”

  “Oh no, I shall be able to take care of it. You and Miss Grey can keep each other company. I shall return in a few moments.”

  “Of course.” Nicholas and Miss Grey were left alone on the street in front of the shoe shop.

  He was about to try to start a conversation about the weather or the state of the roads, the usual safe topics, when he spotted little Henry Lee coming out of an alley, fixing his gaze on Miss Grey. The poor urchin was as dirty and ragged as usual, and Nicholas held his breath to see if she would react as most well-bred ladies would, with a screech of horror and then an order for the offensive child to get away from her. But as Henry approached, Miss Grey actually turned to him.

  “Henry! How is your sister? Is she better?” She reached into her reticule and pulled out some coins before Henry could even ask and pressed them into his hand, obviously unconcerned about soiling her white glove.

  “Aye, miss. She’s much better now. No fever for at least a week.”

  Nicholas tried to catch the boy’s eye from over Miss Grey’s shoulder. He shook his head and winked at the boy.

  “Well, if it ain’t Mr. Lan—”

  Nicholas shook his head again, frowning.

  “Ah, I mean, who’s the bloke with the shiny top hat, Miss Grey? Looks like a fine dandy gentleman if ever I saw one.” Henry winked at Nicholas when Julia turned to glance his way.

  She turned back to the boy. “Henry, do you know—”

  “We should go, Miss Grey,” Nicholas said, holding her elbow and urging her forward. “You never know when more of these little street urchins will be lurking, waiting to steal your reticule.”

  “That’s true, Miss Grey,” Henry added eagerly—too eagerly. “The bloke knows what he’s talking about. You shouldn’t trust street people like me. G’day, Miss Grey. Thankee for the shilling.” Then Henry winked slyly at Nicholas. He was sure Miss Grey must have seen it.

  “All done,” Miss Mayson called out as she left the shop and joined them.

  Nicholas hurried them both along until they had left the child behind.

  “Do you know that boy, Mr. Langdon?” Miss Grey glanced up at him with suspicious eyes.

  “Me? How would I know him? Now where did you say your Monsieur Bartholdy lives?”

  “I didn’t say, but it’s just ahead, in the taller building there. That child knows you. But how?”

  “Do you give that cheeky little blighter money every time you come here?”

  “He knows I come this way every Tuesday. And don’t call him a cheeky blighter. He’s a dear little boy. He quite breaks my heart. He takes care of a little sister, and his mother too, and he’s only eight years old himself. He’s very brave,” Miss Grey ended stoutly.

  In addition to being a maestro on the pianoforte and having a voice like heaven itself, she also took pity on street urchins no other respectable lady would look at twice. He was almost afraid he was in danger of losing his heart.

  Except for one thing: her uncle might be a traitor to England. He doubted Wilhern’s niece, also his ward who owed so much to him, could possibly be as noble as she seemed. If given a choice between her uncle and her country, which would she choose? On the other hand, she might be useful in helping lead Nicholas to the other traitors who were helping her uncle.

  “I thought young ladies’ nursery maids warned them not to give money to beggars on the street.” He tried to sound friendly and half teasing.

  “They do. But not all ladies listen to their nursery maids.” Miss Grey and Miss Mayson stopped in front of their destination. “Thank you, Mr. Langdon, for your escort.”

  “Shall I walk with you back to your carriage when you’re done?”

  “That won’t be necessary. Good d—”

  “I insist. I shall meet you back here in half an hour?”

  “I suppose . . .”

  “Half an hour, then.”

  The Bartholdys’ maid led Julia and Felicity to the drawing room. Monsieur Bartholdy sat in his usual armchair with a shawl spread over his knees. Madame Bartholdy smiled and held out her hands. “Welcome, my dears,” she said in her lilting foreign accent.

  Julia didn’t know much about where they had come from—it was even rumored that “Bartholdy” was not their real name—but she knew that Monsieur Bartholdy had been all over the world, playing for kings and potentates in places Julia had barely heard of. He had many souvenirs—a Russian samovar, silks from the Orient, tea sets from France, and beautiful works of art of every description. But the couple’s furnishings were simple and well worn, as was their clothing, and Julia often worried about them having enough food.

  Julia and Felicity clasped hands with Madame Bartholdy, and they kissed each other’s cheeks. Then she went to Monsieur Bartholdy, and he held out his violently shaking hand. Julia squeezed it gently, stilling the shaking. His head shook as well. His eyes, though a bit faded, still looked at her with great intelligence.

  “My dear”—his voice also shook—“have you two come to the ‘Bartholdy Infirmary’ to cheer up an old man and his wife? You both are prettier than ever. What have you been doing since last we saw you? Dancing and singing and breaking men’s hearts?”

  “Of course not.”

  Felicity and Madame Bartholdy had already begun their own conversation, so Julia answered Monsieur Bartholdy and smiled, knowing he was only teasing her. “I have been attending a lot of balls and parties this Season.”

  “And impressing everyone with your musical talent. Come, child. Play something for us. Play that piece you played for me last time, the one you wrote yourself.”

  “Do you truly want to hear that?” Julia felt pleased that he wanted to hear her own composition. She had wondered if it were any good. She was usually too shy to play her own songs for anyone but Phoebe and the Bartholdys, but if Monsieur Bartholdy thought it was good, then perhaps it was.

  Julia sat down at Monsieur’s pianoforte, which was always perfectly in tune. She felt her spirits rise as her fingers touched the keys. She allowed herself to feel the emotions of every measure, playing with feeling, as Monsieur Bartholdy had taught her.

  When she finished, Monsieur Bartholdy was smiling, his eyes closed. Madame Bartholdy sighed dramatically. “Wonderful, ma chère fille.”

  Monsieur Bartholdy fixed Julia with a fond gaze. “You are a great talent, Julia.”

  Now seemed like a good time to speak with him about what she’d been wanting to ask for months. “Monsieur Bartholdy, do you remember how you once said that if I were a man, I could play for kings?” She paused and took a deep breath. “Do you think it will ever be possible for me . . . to perform?”

  Monsieur Bartholdy’s smile faded. He sighed, frowned, and shook his head. “In England, I believe it is impossible. But in France, in Italy, Austria, and Germany . . . perhaps. Perhaps.”

  “I only need a chaperone.” Julia swallowed. “Would it be possible for you two to accompany me, for you to take me to Europe?”

  He looked at her sadly. “My traveling days are finished, unfortunately.” He seemed to be thinking. “Perhaps if your uncle and aunt understood and supported your ambitions, were willing to promote you, perhaps they could take you to the Continent. I could write some letters for you, and some doors might open.” He gazed at her with pity in his eyes. “I’m afraid I cannot think of any other way for it to work out for you, chérie.”

  She suddenly wished she had not asked him, could take the words back. She was angry at herself for wanting something that
could never be. It wasn’t as though her dearest wish was to perform, but if she were never to marry, performing would be a more preferable way to support herself than becoming a governess.

  Monsieur had once broached the subject with Mr. and Mrs. Wilhern, when Julia was thirteen years old, and asked if they would be willing to take her, or allow Monsieur Bartholdy to take her, on a performance tour of major European cities as a young prodigy. They had refused, as though the very idea was insulting. Julia had developed the impression from them that a young lady performing was disgraceful. But why should it be so?

  “It isn’t fair,” Madame Bartholdy said, getting up and walking over to Julia. She laid her hand on Julia’s shoulder. “But one never knows what the future holds.”

  “If I weren’t . . . as I am,” Monsieur Bartholdy said, “I would risk it. We would take you, Madame Bartholdy and I. You are of age now.”

  “It is no matter,” Julia hurried to say. “As Madame Bartholdy says, we don’t know the future. God may have plans we know not of.”

  Monsieur nodded. He had indicated more than once that he was not a strong believer in God. But Julia had always professed to be, and at times like this, wasn’t a Christian supposed to have faith? God could do anything, after all.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Julia had been very surprised to see Mr. Langdon in this part of London. Amongst the poorer people walking the streets, he was anything but out of fashion with his buff-colored breeches, white shirt and cravat, and rich brown waistcoat and jacket that matched his eyes.

  And when he appeared in front of Mr. Bartholdy’s house as she and Felicity were departing, she could not help but smile, even though smiling at him seemed somehow disloyal to Phoebe.

  “Mr. Langdon,” she acknowledged.

  “We meet again, Miss Grey, Miss Mayson. May I?” He stood between them and offered an arm to each.

  She placed her gloved hand on his arm, and Felicity took his other arm, and they continued on their way together.

  “Mr. Langdon, please pardon me for saying so, but it seems extraordinary to find you walking here in this part of town. You must admit, this is nowhere near your home in Mayfair.”

  He gave her a sidelong glance, raising his eyebrows at her. “Like you, Miss Grey, I have friends in unexpected places.”

  “I see.”

  He obviously wanted to be mysterious, and it vexed her that he was building her curiosity. Perhaps she could trick him into giving her more information.

  “How did you meet Henry?”

  His mouth twisted as he smiled wryly. “Henry who?”

  Julia eyed him from lowered lids. She was as convinced as ever that he knew exactly who Henry was. “Henry’s mother must be a terrible drunkard to let her children run wild that way. Probably has no morals at all. Poor children, having to suffer for their parents’ sins.”

  Mr. Langdon was scowling now and avoiding her gaze. She almost laughed out loud but held her breath instead, waiting to see if he would reveal something.

  “Not all poor people are poor due to their own excesses and sins, Miss Grey. ’Tis a misconception all too common amongst those of the upper class.”

  “Oh?” she baited him.

  “Yes, and—” He looked at her and stopped. She hastily wiped the expectant look from her face, but it was too late.

  Mr. Langdon stopped short and turned to face her, forcing Julia and Felicity to stop too, which was quite impolite of him.

  “What do you know of Henry’s mother?” he demanded.

  “I could ask you the same question. Really, Mr. Langdon, your manner is quite discourteous. Your sister, Leorah, would be shocked at your ungentlemanly manners, no doubt, just as Felicity and I are.”

  “Leorah is never shocked by my impolite manners, when I am indeed impolite.”

  “Again, I ask you,” Julia insisted, “what do you know of Henry’s mother?”

  Mr. Langdon stared into Julia’s eyes. She couldn’t understand it, but the longer she looked at him, the harder it was to breathe. His features, his look, his manner, everything together was affecting her strangely. Her throat constricted, and she blushed.

  How good it was that Phoebe could not see them, and that Felicity was here to make it a bit less awkward.

  “I cannot lie to you, Miss Grey.” His voice was low and deep. Did he always talk like this? “Truly, I know all about Henry and his mother. As I suspect you do as well.” He frowned at her, as though in rebuke of the way she had tried to trick him.

  “Yes.” Julia swallowed, unable to form a coherent enough thought to say more.

  Mr. Langdon took her hand and placed it on his arm again, turned, and began walking down the street as though they had never stopped. “Henry’s mother, as you probably know very well, was ill for several months, and while ill, she lost her home. Being a poor widow, she was forced to move in with her sister, whose small living quarters were hardly large enough for herself and her own children. Henry and his sister are accustomed to taking care of themselves as well as their sick mother, as she is still unwell. You were right, you know,” Mr. Langdon said quietly, looking straight ahead. “Henry is a very brave boy.”

  Julia stared up at him, not watching where she was going, holding on to Mr. Langdon’s arm. What was she to think of the man now?

  “How do you know so much about Henry?” Julia asked.

  “I met Henry through a friend.” The self-assured smile was back. “As I said before, both of us have friends in unexpected places.”

  She felt a stab of guilt for being the recipient of Mr. Langdon’s smiles. Phoebe would give anything to have him smiling at her like this. But of course, Mr. Langdon could have no interest in Julia. He needed to marry well. If he married Phoebe, he would be marrying well.

  Julia must never let his friendly smiles and beguiling brown eyes make her lose her head—or her heart, as Phoebe and many others had.

  “Where is Henry? He usually meets me on my walk home. You didn’t send him away, did you?”

  “Henry is well. I gave him a little errand to perform.”

  She wanted to ask Mr. Langdon what kind of errand he’d sent Henry on. Men could be so thoughtless. Perhaps he’d sent Henry somewhere dangerous. After all, these streets were not safe for children. She’d heard of young boys getting captured by ill-intentioned scoundrels set on making thieves out of them for their own gain or forcing them to do dangerous jobs, like searching the bottom of the Thames for valuables or trolling for coins in their bare feet amidst broken glass and all manner of hazardous objects. Sometimes unsupervised children were run over by carriages and maimed or killed. Ladies weren’t supposed to know of such things, but anyone who didn’t deliberately turn a deaf ear could not help but hear of them. The stories twisted Julia’s heart. She didn’t like to think of any child suffering, especially Henry.

  “You won’t have sent him far away, will you? You know the dangers for young children—”

  “Of course, Miss Grey. I was careful not to send him on any dangerous intrigues down dark alleys.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “Forgive me for teasing you, Miss Grey.” Mr. Langdon turned his most disarming smile toward her. “I sent the boy with some money to buy a goose and some bread for his mother.”

  “Oh.” She wanted to calmly tell him, “That is very kind of you,” or “So good of you, sir,” but her throat closed, and she found herself blinking rapidly as she thought of the proud look on Henry’s face, and the joy and gratitude on his sister and mother’s faces, when he brought home a goose.

  Why would Mr. Langdon be concerned about Henry? She’d never known a gentleman who cared a whit for the poor children running around the streets. The sight of them evoked either embarrassment or anger from the upper classes, and Julia had never once seen anyone show them any charity. The general consensus seemed to be that they were of a baser sort of humanity, that the poor didn’t deserve any better because their situation was the result of immoral
choices and “bad blood,” an inborn evil. But Julia couldn’t feel this way, especially not about the children. Perhaps it was because she was an orphan herself. She didn’t believe children were to blame for their situation in life, and they deserved the compassion of those who were able to help them.

  She could not recall their rector ever encouraging compassion for the poor, and she had seen her uncle shake his fist at a small boy who had walked up to him once on the street and asked for money to buy bread. Her uncle had yelled, “Get away, little beggar, before I call the constable!”

  And yet her uncle had taken Julia in as an orphan. Certainly the charity of polite society was highly selective.

  So why would Mr. Langdon be any different? He was a charming young man who dressed well and was fond of dancing. He’d never wanted for anything in his life, his future had never been in doubt, and his every need had been anticipated and provided for by his wealthy family and by a house full of servants. Why would he care about Henry and his poor family?

  Julia eyed him silently.

  “Your cousin Miss Wilhern told me your uncle has interests in France.” He made the statement without looking at her.

  “Yes, I believe he does have claims to a large property owned by some of his mother’s family.”

  “His mother was French?”

  Felicity was looking straight ahead during all of their conversing, but Julia knew she was listening to every word.

  “Yes. But I do not believe the French government will ever release the property to my uncle. They are not disposed to turn anything over to an Englishman.”

  “No, I don’t suppose they are. So you believe he will never be able to gain control of this family property?”

  Why was Mr. Langdon questioning her so about such a thing? “I do not—that is, I am not very familiar with the business.”

  “No, of course not.”

  She glanced up at him. He suddenly turned to Felicity and began asking after her brothers, two of whom were near Mr. Langdon’s age.

  “Tom is still at Eton, is he not?”

  They spoke of her brothers and their plans for the future.