The Glass Ocean

  No matter how much it cost Tess.

  “Oi, there,” said Tess, stepping out of the shadows, catching Robert’s arm as he made to pass.

  He yanked away fast, sending her staggering back. It took him only a moment to recognize her, letting out a brief exhalation of annoyance. “What in the devil are you doing here?”

  Tess straightened her jacket, wishing her hands weren’t shaking so. “I need to speak with you.”

  Robert ran his fingers through his hair. “I seem to be in high demand this evening. Can it wait?”

  “No, it can’t,” said Tess, and placed all of her five feet four inches in front of him. She looked up into his eyes and said, as quickly as she could, “I know that you’re a spy. I know that you have plans the Germans want. And I know who their agent on the ship is.”

  Robert stared down at her, his face like granite. After a moment, he said, “I didn’t know they served absinthe on this ship. Have a cup of tea and sleep it off.”

  “And wake up to the same? There’s nothing to sleep off. I know, Robert. I know all of it. I’ll tell you everything, but only if you’ll promise amnesty.” Tess gripped his lapels, her knuckles white against the dark fabric of his coat. The words tore out of her, each one an aching wound. “I—the agent is my sister. Ginny. She’s been working with someone on the ship. I think it might be those Germans in the hold.”

  She expected incredulity, anger, even. But this was something beyond anger. There was something in Robert’s face Tess had never seen before and it chilled her to the bone. He made no move to detach her fingers. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because she’s in over her head. I’m afraid for her. I’m afraid for us.” It was true. It just wasn’t the whole truth. Held by that unflinching gaze, Tess blurted out, “She wanted me to steal the plans for her. I’m not really from Devon. But you knew that already, didn’t you? My real name is Tennessee Schaff. Tess, for short.”

  “German?”

  “No! My parents were—but that was long before I was born. I can sing you a bit of a German lullaby, if you like, but I can’t tell you what the words mean. Just the sound of them when someone sings them.”

  “Or so you claim.”

  “I’m as German as—as your royal family! I’ve never been to Germany. I was born in Tennessee, but we didn’t stay there long. We traveled a lot. Kansas, Nebraska, Wyoming . . . Wherever we could find a town with a saloon and a susceptible population.” Now that she’d started, she couldn’t seem to stop. The words kept tumbling out, like water through a broken dam. “We were swindlers, petty con men. My father brewed up patent remedies. My talent is forgery. I can do you a nice da Vinci, if you like.”

  “I’ll remember that the next time I need to redecorate the family estate,” drawled Robert, and the disdain in his voice hurt worse than any number of rebukes.

  Tess flushed. “It was all fairly harmless stuff. Well, not harmless. But no one got hurt. Not even from Pa’s potions. Just . . .”

  “Conned? Fleeced? Gammoned?”

  “All of those. I can’t defend what I did—what I’ve done. But it was—well, it wasn’t like this.”

  Robert cut right to the point. “You say your sister wanted you to copy the plans. What plans?”

  “She didn’t tell me.” Somehow, they had stopped being Tess and Robert. This was an interrogation now, and she was in the witness stand. “Not then, at any event. She told me that a collector wanted the Strauss waltz and would take a good copy. I was supposed to copy it out and bring it back to her. Whoever it was she was working with, they thought there was something coded into the manuscript.”

  “And did you? Copy it?” Tess had never imagined that Robert’s voice could be so clipped, or his eyes so cold.

  “No!” This had gone all wrong somehow. “At least, not the bit that looked wrong. I told you. This isn’t my sort of con. And I’m getting out. I’m going straight. That’s why I’m here—to start all over. Ginny knew that. I didn’t think this was anything different from usual. Just a copy for a collector. One last time, that was all.”

  She was floundering, helpless before that unwavering gaze. This must be how a fish felt on the hook. For the first time, Tess felt sorry for the fish. And she’d swum right at it herself.

  Fool, she could hear Ginny say.

  Ginny was right; she couldn’t be trusted to look out for herself. She should have made him promise amnesty first. But she’d liked him, trusted him.

  Loved him.

  Robert took a step back, folded his arms across his chest. “So our chance encounters weren’t so chance. Did you drop that shoe on purpose, Cinderella?”

  “It wasn’t you I was following—not at first. I was following Mrs. Hochstetter. I just needed to copy that waltz, that was all. But you were always there.” Tess’s voice was growing hoarse. She licked her dry lips, wishing she could find a way to make him understand. “I had no idea you were involved in any of this. Until—”

  “Until?”

  “You asked me what I would do if someone I loved was doing something I knew was wrong. I thought you meant Ginny. I thought you knew. Or”—she barreled on—“that you were talking about yourself.”

  Someone she loved.

  There was a horrible silence as the full impact of her words exploded between them. Tess’s hands curled into fists at her sides. She felt naked, exposed. But she wasn’t going to take the words back.

  Slowly, Robert said, “You believed I was working for the Germans.”

  Tess didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved. Her throat dry, she said, “I believed Ginny might be blackmailing you into helping her. What was I supposed to think? You said it yourself! All of that about treason—and your father in the government—and not knowing the truth about you—and the lady or the tiger—what would you have thought?” Her voice cracked with stress and frustration.

  “I don’t know,” Robert admitted, and the anger was gone from his voice. Instead he sounded tired, deathly tired. “Any more than I know what to make of you.”

  Tess wanted nothing more than to bury her face in his waistcoat and weep. But why? Because he loved another woman? Because she had just betrayed her only kin?

  There was no going back, no showing weakness, so she straightened her shoulders, meeting his eyes defiantly. “That’s the truth, all of it. I just want this to be over, that’s all.” She dug her teeth into her lower lip, trying to keep her voice level. “And I want my sister safe.”

  Robert’s face softened. Or maybe it was only the uncertain light, lending the illusion of sympathy.

  Not sympathy. Pity. Tess stiffened. “I’m not the only one with problems close to home. Didn’t you hear Mr. Hochstetter? The only way someone would think the code was in the manuscript is if someone on your side betrayed you.”

  There was an expression on Robert’s face that cut her to the core. He’d gone all bones and angles, the skull showing through the skin. When he spoke, his voice chilled her to the bone. “That detail had not escaped me.”

  Tess backed away. “Well, then. That’s about the long and short of it. So I’ll leave you to it, then, shall I?” She couldn’t quite resist adding, “If you hurry, you might be able to hear Mrs. Hochstetter play.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t.” Robert snagged her arm. “This sister of yours. How do I find her?”

  Tess stayed stubbornly where she was. “I’m not giving her up until I have some promises from you.”

  “You’re not in a position to make demands, Miss Schaff.”

  “And you’re not in a position to be particular!” Tess glared up at him. “You’re missing the point. Didn’t you hear me? You’ve one of your own to look for.”

  Robert appeared as though it were taking every ounce of self-control not to shake her. She could feel it in the flex of his fingers. But he was a gentleman, when all was said and done. At least she hoped so. “And who is most likely to be able to tell me who that person is? Where—do—I—f
ind—your—sister?”

  “What do you plan to do with her?”

  “Hang her by her toes until she talks,” said Robert acerbically. “Don’t look like that, blast it. I’m fresh out of thumbscrews. I’ll serve her tea and politely enjoin her to share her information.”

  She believed that just about as much as the other. “You might try looking for someone who looks like me.”

  “You’re going to need to do better than that.”

  “I—Ginny is ten years older than I am.” She could give him this much. And then she’d find Ginny and tell her the game was up. No harm done. They could disappear into the sunset together. Canada, Australia, somewhere people spoke English. Let Robert track down the malefactors, clear the way for their escape. Tess cleared her throat, trying to think of details that wouldn’t be details at all. “She’s a few inches taller. Everyone always said we had the same nose, though. And we have the same color eyes.”

  “Brilliant,” said Robert, in a clipped voice. “I can go passenger to passenger inspecting noses.”

  Tess shrugged. “What did you expect? A distinctive birthmark? We’re neither of us anything special, Ginny and I.”

  “What you are,” gritted Robert, propelling her forward, “is a thorn in my side. Come along. You’re coming with me.”

  Tess tugged back. “What do you mean I’m coming with you? I’ve told you everything I know. This isn’t my racket. I’m only in this by the way.”

  “Or so you say.” Robert kept moving, his longer stride forcing her to scramble to keep up. “Do you have any idea what you’ve been playing at? Do you know how ruthless these people can be?”

  “Which is why you need to let me go!” She had to find Ginny, warn her. She tried to yank her arm away, but he had her fast. “Where are you taking me?”

  He glanced briefly down at her. His face was in shadow; all she could see was the bright flash of his eyes. “To my cabin.”

  Tess stumbled, her legs tangling in surprise. “Well, now. That’s rather forward of you, isn’t it?”

  “Call it prudent,” said Robert tightly. “Did you really think I would just let you go after that?”

  “Why not? There isn’t anywhere I can go.”

  “Isn’t there?” Robert’s grip tightened, keeping her locked against his side like a lover. Or a prisoner. “Oh, no, Miss Schaff. I’m keeping you close—until I figure out what to do with you.”

  Chapter 22

  Sarah

  Five Miles West of Stonehenge

  May 2013

  As the gray English miles flew beneath the tires of the Range Rover, I couldn’t quite shake a feeling of imprisonment. Maybe it was the drizzle, which had begun to drum the windows shortly after we crossed the river Dart and never let up, creating an atmosphere of damp, leather-scented enclosure; or maybe it was the fog of gloom that surrounded Rupert.

  Or maybe—just speculating, here—maybe it was John’s absence. When I’d tiptoed into the folly that morning at eight o’clock, I hadn’t had the heart to wake him. He lay sprawled on his stomach on the sofa, one arm curled around the pillow and one arm dangling to the floor, and even though a crack of brilliant sunlight fell on the side of his face, his expression was so slack and relaxed, so utterly void, I could have mistaken him for a college kid sleeping off a hangover. I’d smiled and thought, Some hangover.

  Oh, he’d been a gentleman, all right. I mean, what else could you expect from John Langford at two o’clock in the morning? Instead of deepening that last kiss, instead of swooping me into his arms and hauling me up the stairs like Rhett Butler—cue orchestra—he’d pulled away. He’d rubbed my cheek with his thumb, very gently, and said, Good night, Sarah. Said it in the kind of husky, intimate baritone that makes a girl’s blood simmer in her sleepy veins, I confess, but “Good night” means “Good night” in any tone of voice.

  And as I stared down at him on that sofa, at his long limbs boneless with exhaustion, I’d forgiven him. Walnut sat on the rug next to John’s dangling arm, wagging his tail in quiet, protective welcome. I’d rubbed his ears and told him to take care of his master for me, and I’d gone to the desk and scribbled a note.

  Dear John (hmm—always wanted to write a Dear John),

  Played Trumpet Voluntary but you wouldn’t wake up, so I’m headed to Kew with Rupert. Rest up and have a look at what I discovered on the code front (hint—it’s right underneath this page).

  Be back tonight.

  S.

  PS Took your car—Rupert said you wouldn’t mind

  PPS All right, his actual words were “better to ask forgiveness than permission”

  I made no mention of kisses. Not even a casual xo before the S. I mean, what did you say to John Langford the morning after kissing him for the first time? Possibly the only time, given the fact that I had only two days left in the same country with him. I turned over several phrases in my head and didn’t write any of them down, because if I wrote what I wanted to write—if I wrote what I actually thought, God forbid, what I actually felt—he would probably change all the locks. To wit:

  PPPS I think I may be falling in love with you

  Yes, perfect. Wonderful. Just what he needed to hear right now. Just what he needed in his life at this particular moment, a fantasizing American stalker.

  I turned to Rupert, who was hunched over the wheel, his gray hair now tamed by some kind of old-fashioned pomade that made the car smell faintly of medicine. “This friend of yours at the National Archives,” I said. “Does he know we’re coming?”

  “She. Yes. I rang her up this morning.” He fiddled with the windshield wipers, making them speed up briefly to monsoon strength and back down again. “Used to work in the Admiralty, so she ought to know where to find old Peregrine’s remains. She’s pulling everything out for us right now. Terribly efficient, Priscilla, sort of a modern Miss Moneypenny. I knew him, you know.”

  “Peregrine?”

  “Good heavens, no. Not that old, am I? I mean Robert. I must have been about seven or eight when he died. And Grandmama. Oh, she was a laugh. Always knew how to bring him out of his funks. They adored each other. She only lasted another year or so. Smashed her heart to bits when he went.”

  “John told me they fell in love on board the ship.”

  “Yes. I gathered it was some sort of scandal, actually. They never talked about it, for one thing, and a void of information—as you must know, being experienced at research—only ever means skullduggery. For another thing, nobody ever knew where she came from to begin with.”

  “Your grandmother, you mean? She was American, I thought.”

  “Yes, American, but from where? What family? Never heard a word about her childhood, about her past. As if she came into being on the ocean itself.”

  “Or maybe she just didn’t want anyone to find her. Shipwrecks are convenient that way. You can escape your past. Your family, your marriage. You can start your life all over again, if you want to.” I glanced down at my iPhone, thinking I’d felt a vibration. But the screen was black. Nothing. No message of any kind.

  “Any word from John?” asked Rupert.

  “Nope.”

  “Ah, I expect he’s still asleep. Poor lad. Been through an awful ringer.”

  I looked out the window, where the hills rolled by, wet and silent. “Yes. It makes me mad, when I think about it. He doesn’t deserve any of it.”

  “Oh, but it’s never a question of what we deserve, Sarah. It’s a question of what we can bear. And John, I’m afraid, happens to be one of those chaps who can bear a great deal. So he does. My God, he bore Callie all those years, until she broke him at last.”

  “He doesn’t like to talk about it.”

  “No, of course not. He still protects her, it’s absurd. Oh, she’s not a bad sort, not at heart. But all the women in that family require a great deal of attention, a great and constant amount of fuss and admiration—”

  “High-maintenance?”

  “Is that the
current term? Well, Callie needed it more than all of them. Instead of going to university, she went up to London and started modeling and—oh, what’s the word—‘hostessing,’ I think they call it. A pleasant little word; I’m not entirely sure what it actually means. But you understand me. Then she discovered cocaine and that was it, I’m afraid. There was nothing he could do for her. He’d had a stint in the army after university, you know, and when he came back from Afghanistan, she simply latched on to him, the way the weak latch on to the strong. He was a bit of a hero, some sort of medal—”

  “It wasn’t some sort of medal,” I said. “It was the MC.”

  “The MC, then.” Rupert waved his hand. “Whatever it was, it was catnip to Callie. They were married straightaway—he’s that sort of chap—and for a short while all was well. She helped him win his seat—she’s got a knack for publicity, I’ll say that—but once he settled into Parliament, devoted himself to politics, she got bored again. Took up her old friends, her old habits, except this time even worse than before.”

  “What about kids?” I said. “Didn’t they want to start a family?”

  “Oh, I expect John wants children. I don’t know about Callie. One doesn’t inquire. In any event, it’s just as well they didn’t. Something happened, I don’t know what, and he moved out. Started proceedings, on the hush. The next thing you know, she’s photographed with that Russian blackguard at One Hyde Park—”

  “And throws John under the bus.”

  “More or less. It will all blow over, however. The inquiry’s in a month or two, and once it’s established that they were living apart, separate lives, divorce proceedings already begun, no reasonable conflict of interest, he’ll be back in good graces.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  Rupert nodded vigorously. “Haven’t you been reading the papers? His constituents are outraged. He’s a popular fellow, you know. Oh, he’ll be back. He’s a Langford, after all.”

  “Yes, he’s a Langford.” My phone vibrated, this time for certain, and my pulse jumped in response. I looked down.