Anne’s smile was tight. “You make an excellent point, Mary. That’s precisely what we ought to have done, had we been aware of the magnitude of Mrs. Frame’s change of heart. I, for one, am ashamed of and disappointed in the way matters have played out.”
Felicity’s scowl was fleeting, almost immediately replaced by a look of regret. “My darling girl, fractures are just that: sudden and irreversible. Unavoidable, even. But you’re quite correct, in that all you agents are autonomous and free to choose. And that’s what I want to explain to you now.
“I shall be leaving the Agency to establish my own intelligence organization. It will, as I’m sure Anne has mentioned to you, take a different approach to intelligence work — one that does not exclude men but treats them as allies; also one that seeks to expand its current field of expertise.
“As a fully trained agent, you are free to choose whether you wish to stay with the Agency, which will continue under Anne’s direction, or to follow me. You needn’t choose immediately, of course. But as our philosophical differences are quite clear, we hope this parting of ways will be swift, if not painless.”
It seemed so simple, so very tidy, in Felicity’s words. And yet what she was proposing was nothing less than an undoing — an undermining of the Agency’s founding principles. If this reflected Felicity’s real interests, the truly astounding fact was that she’d remained at the Agency for so long.
“We understand, of course, that you’ll have questions,” said Anne. She seemed more settled now that the news was out. Perhaps she was even buoyed by Felicity’s clear, callous explanation, which said much more about its author than it did about this new, shadowy rival to the Agency.
Mary had plenty of questions — but not the sort Anne imagined. Now that the initial shock was fading, she realized she had already seen the hairline fractures in Anne and Felicity’s united front. The disputes had begun during the case at St. Stephen’s Tower, as Anne had said. Sending Mary onto a building site disguised as a twelve-year-old boy had been a large step sideways for the Agency, and Anne had deplored it. And when Anne had assigned Mary to the Buckingham Palace case, Felicity had grumbled at its pettiness, its insignificance, while Anne had defended it as classic Agency casework.
But despite her anger and disappointment in Anne and Felicity, their split made her path clear. She’d spent her whole life longing for family. Had found one here, at the Academy. A second, even more exciting one in the Agency. And now it was breaking up. Even had she doubted the decision to ally herself with Lang, her choices were slowly, inexorably being removed.
“What are you thinking?” asked Felicity.
Mary sat up straight. Organized her thoughts. “I ought to report on the assignment.” She gave the briefest of summaries; it hadn’t, after all, been a complex or convoluted case.
Anne and Felicity listened attentively enough. “So the thefts stopped not because of gossip or excess caution but because the prince was back at Oxford for a spell.” Anne shook her head. “Sometimes the simplest explanations are the most difficult to credit.”
Mary nodded. “Yes. I spent so much time thinking about palace politics and trying to work out the servants’ schedules, when all the time it was just a spoiled child who wanted a bit more pocket money.”
“Bit of a waste of time and resources, don’t you think?” said Felicity, her voice a lazy drawl.
Mary spoke quickly, before Anne could become defensive. “Seen narrowly, perhaps. But my presence there — combined with James Easton’s — helped to avert a major disaster.” As she briefly narrated the story of the Earl of Wintermarch, Honoria Dalrymple, and the crates of guncotton, she watched her soon-to-be-former managers. Felicity listened with a quizzical smile that spoke of great satisfaction. Anne, more circumspect, listened with a neutral expression, head tilted at a thoughtful angle.
When Mary finished, there was perfect silence for several seconds. Then Anne said, “We were remiss in not conveying to you the background information you requested. However, I’ve now gathered some details that may help to explain such a bizarre series of occurrences.”
Mary shifted in her chair. There wasn’t time for this. She wanted only to return to the Tower, her father, her future. Yet failing to show interest now might sabotage her sudden disappearance. No, everything had to seem entirely normal if her escape plan was to work. “An explanation of Wintermarch’s actions?”
“Nothing so clear-cut as an explanation; more a possible interpretation,” said Felicity.
Anne bridled at such a dismissal. “The earl, as you know, has a reputation as an extremely conservative man; his voting record in the House of Lords corroborates this. I’ve learned that in his own circle, and in private letters, he expresses open dissatisfaction with the idea of a female monarch. He’s also strongly prejudiced against Germans and has, again, written to his intimates denigrating the royal family because of their origins. He believes them insufficiently English to reign and even questions their loyalty to the country.
“However, Wintermarch lived abroad until roughly ten years ago, when his elder brother died. He was then forced to give up his military commission to assume the title. Most of these remarks were made before he became earl and thus were, I suspect, discounted by most. It’s also notable that his scurrilous remarks were never accompanied by action. It seems that only when he retired and returned to England did he have time to become bored and thus dangerous.”
Mary frowned. She’d not wanted to listen, but her training was sound and she absorbed the information without conscious effort. “Are you suggesting that Queen Victoria’s advisers knew of the earl’s remarks but simply didn’t take them seriously?”
Anne tilted her head. “Or hadn’t sufficient grounds to pursue them. After all, she must be well accustomed to aristocratic tittle-tattle and backbiting.”
“But his intent has changed dramatically over the past decade. His actions were those of a zealot or a lunatic rather than a disciplined military man.”
Anne nodded. “That is the most troubling thing about today’s events, now that the danger has been averted: there’s simply no rational explanation for his actions. I can understand his attempting regicide. I could also imagine a frightening sort of prank, designed to expose Her Majesty’s vulnerability. But to construct what was truly a suicide mission goes beyond any sort of logic.”
“Except,” said Mary, “for the logic of the mad. Just before the queen appeared, he faltered. He didn’t seem to know what to do next, although he’d been very efficient up to that point.”
Anne nodded. “It certainly sounds it. A portion of the plan was carried out with logic, but amid utter chaos. And frankly, history shows that those who plot against a monarch are typically unbalanced — if not unhinged, then blinded by ideological fervor. Certainly the young men who shot a pistol at Her Majesty’s carriage two decades ago were declared insane.” She paused. “However, we’ll never know for certain. The person best positioned to know is Mrs. Dalrymple.”
This wasn’t nearly as dissatisfying as it ought to have been, realized Mary with a glimmer of dark amusement. She would have enjoyed a thorough and rational explanation for Wintermarch’s actions, but ultimately it mattered not.
“As for Honoria Dalrymple,” said Anne, “hers seems to be a simple case of blind hero worship. She adores her stepfather, would do anything to please him. She married her husband purely to do so, and that marriage was a misery. After Dalrymple died, she had time to devote to the earl once more. I doubt she’s still a danger now that he’s dead.”
“Executed,” murmured Mary.
Anne’s brow wrinkled. “Yes. Well, in the circumstances one could hardly be surprised. If ever a man met his just deserts . . .”
Mary fidgeted. She disliked this new feeling of pity that now crept in when she thought of Honoria Dalrymple. To distract herself, she asked, “But the question of proximity — knowing what she did, why would the queen elevate Mrs. Dalrymple to lady-in-wait
ing?”
“There’s an old adage,” struck in Felicity, smiling slightly. “‘Wise men keep their friends close but their enemies closer.’ Perhaps Her Majesty found it applicable to wise women, too.”
Mary wondered if she herself might ever be wise. Right now, she felt completely adrift and unable to discern even who her friends and enemies might be. She said the next thing that came to mind, quite at random. “Why does the secret tunnel even exist?”
“You are familiar with rumors concerning the private life of George IV,” said Anne.
Mary nodded. Who was not? The queen’s uncle had been a notorious bon vivant, in every sense of the expression. An immoderate love of food and wine, a turbulent and acrimonious marriage, numerous affairs and the illegitimate children to show for them . . . It was the stuff of private amusement and public outrage.
“I believe he caused the tunnel to be built in order to facilitate meetings with his mistress, Mrs. Fitzherbert. Although he did not live at the palace, he was on good terms with Queen Charlotte, his mother, and regularly visited her there. It is believed that Mrs. Fitzherbert was conducted into the palace via the river and up the sewer.”
Mary frowned. “Was such subterfuge truly necessary?”
Anne shrugged. “In the lax society of the day, likely not; I should imagine there was an element of enjoyment in the game. But Mrs. Fitzherbert was a Roman Catholic. They were rumored to have entered into a secret marriage. There may have been a desire to evade public scrutiny — or perhaps even George’s wife’s attention — from time to time. Anything else, Mary?”
Mary’s thoughts were an undisciplined whirl. Secret tunnels, clandestine relationships, disreputable family members . . . There was no family in the world without its secrets. “No.”
“Then what of the Beaulieu-Buckworth case?” asked Anne. “Have you managed to uncover anything useful?”
“Ah, yes,” said Felicity. “The Lascar.”
Mary refused to squirm. They might suspect her more-than-general interest in Lang Jin Hai, but they would receive no confirmation from her. “Yes. The Prince of Wales now recalls enough of the night of Beaulieu-Buckworth’s death to be able to state, with certainty, that Beaulieu-Buckworth was the aggressor.” She was loath to mention the Lascar’s surname. After all, it was also hers — something that both women knew.
“Very satisfying,” said Anne. “Did you assist him in remembering?”
“I did nothing that compromised my identity as a parlor maid,” said Mary. “It was a quite unexpected return of memory.”
“Well. I’m pleased to know this case has resolved itself so favorably,” said Felicity. “I must go soon — I’ve an appointment to keep — but you’ve now had a short while to think about your choice, Mary. Although we do not wish to hurry you, we should like to know of your decision as soon as possible.”
Despite Felicity’s words, it was quite clear that she expected an instantaneous response. Anne, also, seemed to think this an obvious matter. And to a certain extent, this was true: their philosophies were now so different — opposed, even — that choosing one manager over another had become the equivalent of declaring a creed.
Mary disliked this, too. She’d had no intention of questioning them — after all, it signified nothing to her — but pique, combined with the need to behave normally, made her ask, “What of my present connections? You’re both aware that I’m once more in contact with James Easton. What would each of you have me do about that?” She regretted the question even before it was fully spoken. She didn’t want to think about James. If she succeeded in helping her father escape, she would never see him again. If she failed, the same would be true.
The question startled neither manager. They glanced at each other, and after a brief pause, Anne spoke. “My dear, the coincidences that have brought you and Mr. Easton into proximity are startlingly frequent. I would propose creating an adequate and realistic explanation — the journalistic ruse you used was good for the time being, but insufficient in the long run — before once more severing this tie. I realize this might be awkward, but it’s essential to the preservation of your cover. I might even recommend some internal work for a short time, until we can properly assess the threat Mr. Easton represents to your work.”
A smile hovered about Felicity’s lips. She looked like a chess master about to checkmate her opponent. “And I, my dear, believe that, handled properly, Mr. Easton represents nothing like a threat — either to you or to my organization. Quite the reverse: if you follow me to this new agency, my dear, I should be most grateful for your assistance in recruiting Mr. Easton to our ranks. I believe he has the right aptitude for work such as ours. It would be a pleasure to invite him to join us.”
The choices couldn’t have been more divergent. Both women waited, their serene attitudes and expressions belied by the tension in the room, so thick it felt like a change in air pressure. At last, Mary said, “Thank you. I’ll inform you of my decision once it’s made.” She paused. Then, to further the fiction of her dilemma, she asked, “Miss Treleaven, may I continue to occupy my room here at the Academy until further notice?”
Anne nodded, perhaps deflated by Mary’s delay. “You are welcome to your room, Mary, for as long as you continue to be a member of the Agency.”
Ah — and if she chose Felicity, she’d be at Felicity’s mercy for lodgings, as well? Suddenly, Mary couldn’t leave the office fast enough.
Felicity, however, was quicker. “Take my card,” she said to Mary. “You may contact me at any time by leaving a message at this address.”
“Thank you,” said Mary automatically. She slipped the card into her reticule without a glance.
“Oh!” Anne leaped up. “I nearly forgot.”
Mary stared with fascination as Anne rummaged through the heaps of papers on her desk. She’d never before seen Anne scrabble. It was rather like hearing a vicar curse.
“Here.” Anne passed her a square envelope. “It arrived just before I found you.” She paused and added, “By special messenger.”
Mary could see that much: there was no stamp on the envelope. It felt stiff between her fingers, the creamy paper thick and expensive. She could see Felicity tilting her head for a better view of the seal on the back. Mary had no desire to share this with anybody. “Thank you,” she said once again, and inclined her head in an ambiguous farewell gesture. “Good day.” It was a meaningless commonplace — until now. As the words left her lips, they sounded like both a mockery and a lie.
Both felt entirely appropriate.
She had an idea of what the envelope contained: the seal depicted a crown with the letter R, for Regina, across it. But she feared that the delay had already been too long. If she could evade Anne’s and Felicity’s probing, she could certainly let this envelope wait, too. And so she stuffed it into her reticule and made haste to Limehouse, where she had certain arrangements in mind. After some preliminary exploration, she took lodgings in a quiet house, paying a week’s rent in advance and giving her name as Ellen Tan, a clerical worker soon to be joined by her invalid father.
The landlady accepted her explanation without question, her attention riveted by the three black-haired children playing by the fire. It was a decent place to go underground, thought Mary: meals included, a landlady sorely in need of income while her husband was at sea, perhaps a shade of solidarity from a woman married to a Lascar. The woman’s lack of curiosity lent hope, as did her sharp-nosed interest in Mary’s money. Mary might have to guard her purse while they stayed here, but such avarice would be to their advantage: even if their landlady heard of the inevitable manhunt, they stood a good chance of paying her off. While far from safe, it was as good as anything Mary had imagined.
There was little else to prepare just now. Much would depend on what Lang said to her today and on when a guard of negotiable morals would be on duty. There was no point in delaying further, and yet Mary found herself much more nervous returning to the Tower than she had been
leaving the Agency and organizing a safe house by the docks. She took more time than necessary in procuring her little vials of laudanum, debating how many to buy and when might be best to start weaning Lang from the drug. Eventually, however, there was nothing else to do — and time was critical. It was getting toward dusk, after which point she’d never gain access to Lang.
A different guard manned the entrance, and he questioned her closely and inspected her reticule with care. Mary was glad she’d taken the time to distribute that sheaf of pound notes — not to mention the laudanum — in the lining of her bag and about her person. Finally, however, she found herself circling up to the top of Cradle Tower. She now understood her trepidation — and wondered at her own stupidity. It wasn’t just about Lang’s fate — whether he chose hope or fatalism, life or death — but about her own, too. Such an irony to think that her fate would be decided here, by a near stranger, rather than by herself. It made everything both easier and more difficult.
Up here, it was the same guard. She would have to work out their schedules if Lang was to escape. As she appeared in the doorway, the turnkey unlocked the cell door, rather as though this were part of a routine. In a sense, it was — she’d come three times in two days. He even left her a tallow candle to light the way. He then retreated to the window by the staircase, where, Mary now observed, he took advantage of the opportunity for an illicit pipe. A useful thing to know.
She entered the room, candle in hand, nervous but prepared. “Good evening. How are you feeling?”
No response from the lump beneath the blanket — only a faint crackling sound.
“Mr. Lang?”
That sparse clattering again, and then a faint whimper.
“Hello?” She peeled back the blanket with caution.
What she saw caused her to gasp, her stomach to turn over. That rattling sound was Lang Jin Hai trying to breathe, each pained gasp making the fluid rattle in his chest. His hair was soaked with sweat, clinging to his skull in streaks. His skin, even by candlelight, had a gray-green pallor. And his eyes rolled in their sockets, ghastly and unseeing.