The Traitor in the Tunnel

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

  “I — I’m afraid I don’t recall. Anyway, people say all kinds of things at moments of pressure.”

  “Coward,” he said again.

  A faint rattling sound began. It took her a moment to realize that it was her cup in its saucer, and she put it down, blushing even more deeply. “But there’s something else I must tell 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 still. “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 tell 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 fill. 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 — at Mary, his rival, collaborator, friend. “That’s fascinating. I want to learn more about your childhood and upbringing. But . . . all this ominous buildup, for this news?”

  That stung. All her careful preparation, all 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 pulled 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 hell — a merciless tragicomedy sweeping her along in its brutal torrent. “James, there’s more.”

  “Then tell 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 1848 or 1849. 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 killed Ralph Beaulieu-Buckworth.”

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

  She felt her composure begin to crack, like a sheet of ice on a pond. “The killing was not planned. He began in self-defense. But the fact remains that my father was a killer and an opium smoker.”

  “Was?” he echoed.

  “He died last night.” And now the tears came, hot and shameful and unwanted. “He was all 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 tell 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, pulling 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 collapsed. Lost track of time. Gave herself up to the grief within her and the arms that held her together. When she was finally 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 killer in the family?”

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

  She twisted the damp handkerchief around 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. “Will 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 really 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 judgmental?”

  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 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.”

  His lips twitched. “I thought I’d been quite clear about that, actually. And the bit I didn’t get round to is that one day, I want to marry you. I’m not in a position to marry now. I haven’t enough money, and the terms of my father’s will . . . it’s complicated. But you must understand that I want you, and you only.”

  “Marriage makes even less sense! You were so vigilant about your brother’s choice of wife, and even the Thorolds weren’t good enough for you because of some distant rumours of shady business dealings. How could you possibly marry a woman on the run, living under a false name, with a father who died in Cradle Tower after killing a toff?”

  “Not forgetting your racial mixture.”

  She glared at him. “I’m glad to see you certainly haven’t.”

  “How could I? It’s part of you.”

  “But you’ve not answered my question.”

  “I suppose the simplest explanation is that you’ve changed me, Mary. I care more for you than I do for the superficial standards I’d previously set up as being necessary to a marriage. I made those arbitrary decisions because I didn’t understand the first thing about love.”

  “But what sort of marriage do you think we could have? Your brother would never approve.
And I’d bring nothing to it — no illustrious ancestors, no business contacts.” She kept silent on the subject of money.

  He smiled. “I suppose I thought we’d have a madly impractical, terrifyingly modern sort of marriage. One based on love. Not to mention dangerous undertakings and hair’s-breadth escapes from burning buildings, high ledges, and exploding sewers.”

  “And bickering.”

  “Always that, yes.”

  “Assuming I want to marry at all.”

  “True: I know of no good way of forcing you to do anything.”

  “And you’re mad enough to think it could work — one day?”

  He cupped her face in his hands. His smile was so brilliant, it seemed to illuminate the room. “I think it would be heaven.”

  She trembled then. “You have a very strange idea of heaven.”

  “Kiss me and see.”

  In a peculiarly long and dreamlike morning, these were among the strangest few minutes. Mary had never seriously considered marrying anybody, had always assumed it impossible. And while she’d long felt James’s attraction to her, these repeated, matter-of-fact declarations of love were like blinding bursts of light in a dark room.

  Slowly, she stretched, her spine lengthening, chin tilting up as she reached for him. Met his treacle-dark eyes, and half smiled in anticipation. They’d never started gently or slowly, she realized. All their previous kisses had been born of impulse, momentum, long-repressed desire. And yet she felt no self-consciousness, no hesitation. This was right and true. As her lips brushed his, ever so lightly, she shivered and wondered how she’d resisted for so long.

  He sighed very gently, lifted her closer, and she was lost, sinking into his delicious warmth. Dizzy once more, but without fear or reserve. When they were like this, she doubted the need for anything else — air, water, sustenance. Together, they were a world entire, and instead of being terrified, she found the thought exhilarating. And yet there was one more thing. . . .

  “James.”

  He drew back a fraction. “There’s more to discuss?”

  She kissed him again. “I love you.”

  “You’re a cruel woman, forcing me to wait so long to hear it,” he murmured, burying his face in her neck.

  “I started saying it in the sewers.”

  “That’s what I’d hoped.”

  “I was afraid.”

  “I know.”

  She laughed and twined her arms about his neck. “Arrogance.”

  “Yet somehow you find that attractive.” He picked out her hairpins with swift precision, and her hair tumbled down. “Come here.”

  She was on fire. All fatigue, all doubt incinerated by the heat of James’s body, the power of his declarations. She lost herself in a haze of textures, of flesh against flesh, of silk on skin, of breath caressing lips and lashes. Only when James went still beneath her — his hands suddenly motionless against her back, her thigh — did she pause.

  “I can only hope,” said a stiff, half-strangled voice, “that this is a nightmare.”

  Mary’s limbs turned leaden. Her skin suddenly prickled with shame, not desire.

  James cleared his throat. Smiled reassuringly at Mary. And turned to face his brother. “Hello, George. Thought you were out.”

  “I just. Came. Back.” George glared from James to Mary and then back again. “Is there any point in my informing you of how unseemly this behavior is?”

  “None whatsoever,” said James easily.

  George charged on, unheeding. “Such — carryings-on are utterly inappropriate. And this female”— he pointed a quivering finger at Mary —“is no lady.”

  James stood suddenly, all amusement vanished. “Miss Quinn is the woman I love,” he said in quiet tones, “and you’ll speak to her with respect.”

  George’s face turned an interesting shade of purple. “You what?”

  “You heard me. I love Miss Quinn and require you to treat her with courtesy.”

  George seemed to struggle mightily against an apoplectic fit. Eventually, however, he said in shaking tones, “That Alleyn chit you met in India was bad enough, but this — this — James, you go too far. I absolutely forbid you to have anything to do with this baggage.”

  Alleyn — was that the name of the girl in the blue dress? Mary wondered, and found within herself only the slightest pinprick of jealousy. Miss Alleyn might be rich and beautiful and have traveled to India, but she wasn’t here now with James Easton.

  James moved swiftly toward the drawing-room door. “George, your behavior is the most unseemly thing in this room. Go upstairs before you say something even more regrettable.”

  “Not while she’s in the house!”

  James sighed. “George, I realize this is sudden. I’ll talk to you about it later. But right now, you’ll be civil to Miss Quinn or you’ll leave us alone.”

  “You’ve gone mad!”

  “Choose.” James’s tone was that of an adult admonishing an obstreperous child.

  “But Jamie —”

  James’s patience snapped. Or perhaps it was the use of his detested childhood nickname. “Go. Out.” He bundled George out of the room with more haste than tact and returned a few minutes later, smiling apologetically. “He’ll come round.”

  Mary laughed. She’d repaired her hair and was attempting to smooth her very crushed skirts. “Do you think so?”

  “Well, maybe not all the way round. But he’ll learn some manners around you.” He took her hand and tried to lead her back to the sofa. “I’m sorry you had to see and hear all that.”

  “Well, I am exceedingly sheltered and delicate.”

  “Precisely.” He kissed her again, deeply.

  It was extraordinary how quickly her legs seemed to melt at moments like these. But after a minute, Mary found the strength to push back gently. “James.”

  “Yes?”

  “You should talk to your brother.”

  “Later. Let him cool off a bit.”

  “And I ought to go back to the Academy. Make some arrangements.”

  He frowned. “You’re still lodging at the school?”

  “Not for long.” She hesitated. A new scheme — a bold, foolhardy stroke of genius — had sprung up in her mind a minute before. It was either the best or the worst idea she’d ever had.

  “Tell me.” His eyes gleamed with anticipation.

  “How busy are you at Easton Engineering?”

  “I suppose you have the right to know now. Not very, I’m afraid — it’s one of the reasons our marriage will have to wait. Assuming you want to marry me, of course. Anyway, one of the consequences of my going to Calcutta was that we didn’t win any new domestic contracts. And George ran into a bit of difficulty with a long-term client. . . . It’s going to take a while for me to rebuild things.” He frowned. “Are you worried about money? I suppose I ought to lay it all out. You’ve a right to know what you’re getting into.”

  Mary shook her head. “I wasn’t thinking of your money.”

  “You should be.”

  “Just listen for half a minute.” She laughed. “I was thinking about a joint venture. How would you like to join me in detective work?” At his look of surprise, she elaborated. “You did a little, on your own initiative, with the Thorolds. And we worked together on the clock tower case.”

  He looked at her strangely. “I suppose I do have a bit of experience there.”

  “Easton Engineering would be an effective cover. No one would wonder at clients meeting you there.”

  “How long have you been doing this on your own?”

  “A little under two years. It all began at the Thorolds’.” She hated this part: lying to James, even by omission. But if she could manage this one last time, she needn’t do it again. They could start anew. Together.

  He looked at her, a peculiar expression on his face. At first, she thought it was suspicion of her too-tidy history, and a little current of panic made her heart lurch strangely. “It seems so logical.
. . .” he murmured.

  After a moment, she realized the look was something she’d never seen before in James: indecision. “What’s holding you back?”

  “I trust you. I think we’d be a good team. It’s a clever scheme. I think I’d enjoy it. But each time I see you in danger, I nearly go mad with terror. I don’t know whether I could manage that sort of fear on a daily basis.”

  “It mightn’t be daily,” she said in a consoling tone. “Almost certainly not.”

  “I need more reassurance than that.”

  She folded her hands together neatly. Now that the scheme was hatched, she saw what she had to do. Perhaps she’d known it, at some level, all along. There was no going back to the Agency now, no following Felicity in her bold new scheme. “James, this will sound terribly like a threat, or blackmail, or something childish. It’s not intended as such. But I don’t intend to give up detective work. I should love it if you’d join me. But I shall continue with it, regardless.”

  He swallowed hard and looked at her. “You’re certain.”

  She nodded. As certain as she’d ever be about anything, except him.

  He buried his face in his hands for a minute. Then, looking up, he offered her a crooked half smile. “Well, then, Mary Quinn. Before I accept your outrageous proposal, have you any other skeletons lurking in your closet?”

  “I’m a reformed housebreaker and fugitive from justice with a notorious Chinese killer for a father. Is that not sufficient?” Her tone was light, although he could surely see her pulse hammering in her throat.

  “I thought maybe you were an exiled princess of the Ming dynasty.”

  “That would make me over two hundred years old.”

  He snorted. “My history’s disgraceful.”

  She smiled softly at that. “And so is mine.”

  Their gazes locked. Warmed. When he spoke again, after several moments, his voice was husky. “It’s apt, don’t you think, that you proposed to me before I did to you?”

  “We always were competitive.”

  He nodded. “Domineering.”

  “We squabble an awful lot.”

  “We both hate being in the wrong.”

  “True.” She paused. “Is this your way of declining?”