The Traitor in the Tunnel

  James’s words to her, in their last conversation, still echoed in her mind: You’re still wanted. If you were caught now, they’d hang you. . . . But much worse than the words had been his expression. Bafflement. Disapproval. Even, perhaps, a little repulsion. James was a purist when it came to telling the truth and the whole truth. And she couldn’t afford his high morals, even if she wanted to. It was a damned good thing, then, that there was nothing left between them. She could never explain this new and damning twist to him if they were lovers.

  She looked a while longer at the pens, the ink, the paper. Then she closed the desktop with a decisive click. Writing to ask James for a formal interview would only prolong the agony. It would also give him a chance to refuse. Much better simply to confront him and see what happened. She’d know from the look in his eyes whether or not she could trust him to keep her secret one last time.

  Mary walked to the door — it was only five steps — and then paused. Returning to the wardrobe, she selected a reticule from within. She dug into it, fingertips tingling now, and brought out a bundle the size of a walnut. Then she unfolded the square of linen to reveal a small pendant, green like a gooseberry and shaped like a tiny pear. This was all she had left of her father. The rest of his legacy — a letter, a sheaf of documents — was lost, burned in a house fire just days after she’d discovered its existence. But she had the jade pendant.

  Mary clasped the chain about her neck and tucked it securely inside her collar so that no trace of it was visible. It was dangerous, wearing personal keepsakes on the job. She’d never done so before. But today, it seemed somehow essential. If her past was going to collide with her present, she would at least be ready in this small, perhaps vital way.

  Thus armed, she closed the wardrobe, resisting the impulse to glance in a mirror — it would only confirm what a bedraggled mess she looked. Then she walked out onto Acacia Road and hailed a cab.

  “Where to, miss?”

  “Gordon Square.”

  The Easton home was one of a recently built row of townhouses, elegant in its proportions without being fashionable. It was nothing, in short, to make a caller quake — except for the knowledge of what lay within. Mary turned away from the cab, which lingered invitingly at the curb, and knocked on the door. She did it quickly so that she’d not have the option of fleeing — although the housekeeper’s expression as she opened the door suggested that it would have been her best course of action.

  “Miss Quinn.”

  Mary drew a deep breath and stepped into the hall. There was no retreat now. “Mrs. Vine. Is Mr. James Easton at home?”

  With her lips pressed together, the housekeeper showed Mary to the breakfast room, where the fire had gone out and the lamps were unlit, and shut the door with a decisive click. Mary was certain that there were other, more comfortable rooms where a welcome caller might have waited, but this was fine. She’d not been turned away at the door, and that was a start. She stared out of the window into the garden square and tried to compose herself.

  Perhaps a minute later, the door clicked open again and an all-too-familiar voice said, “Is that you, Mary? What are you doing, skulking there in the dark and cold?”

  She couldn’t speak; the sound lodged highest in her throat was a sob, and she certainly couldn’t let that out. The best she could manage was a feeble shrug.

  He looked . . . wonderful. Partly because he was James Easton, clever, sardonic, intense, and far and away the most interesting man she’d ever met. But even more because he looked healthy once more. The malaria-racked skeleton of their last encounter was transformed. He’d gained some much-needed weight; the edges of his cheeks and chin were thin, but not gaunt. And even in this half-light, he looked astonishingly handsome. No — better than handsome.

  She cleared her throat. “Thank you for agreeing to see me,” she said in her primmest voice.

  “I can’t actually see you, though. Come into the study. I can’t imagine why Mrs. Vine put you in here in the first place.”

  Mary could. But she found that she couldn’t meet James’s gaze, or control the hot flush that sprang to her cheeks when she brushed past him on the way to the study. Here, the fire crackled cheerfully and the gaslight made the cherrywood desktop gleam. She shivered, nevertheless.

  “Are you cold?” Before she could reply, he was feeding the fire, angling a pair of logs over the bright flames.

  “Thank you.”

  He brushed off his hands and looked at her, his dark eyes searching her face. “You’ve already said that.”

  She tried to smile. “A little politeness never hurt.”

  His own smile barely touched his lips. “It’s new for us, at least.”

  Us. She’d no idea how to interpret that. “You look very well,” she said, then cringed inside: she sounded like somebody’s busybody mother.

  “As do you.”

  Liar. She could well picture her winter-chalk complexion, dark shadows beneath her eyes, and the several locks of hair that always escaped her tightly wound bun. “Er —” She didn’t dare thank him again, but she could hardly plunge straight into her request.

  He stared at her for a moment longer, then let out a whoosh of air. “Mary, aren’t we rather beyond small talk?”

  Startled, she met his gaze. “You’re right.”

  “Not to mention you’re rather bad at it.”

  “Only with you.”

  He smiled, then, his features lighting up with pure happiness. “It is a pleasure to see you, though.”

  She caught her breath. “And you.” Pleasure was the right word: just looking at him made her dizzy. His dark hair, normally cropped short, was long enough now to hint at unruliness. His locks looked as though they might actually be wavy, and she longed to explore them with her fingers. The lines of his jaw, too: he was still clean shaven, unfashionably so, and looking at him, she couldn’t imagine why men might ever want to grow beards.

  God only knew how long she’d been staring at him with undisguised hunger when the door opened quite suddenly and Mrs. Vine reappeared. “Do you require refreshment, sir?”

  James glanced at Mary, as if to say that the decision was hers to make. She shook her head. Refreshments would mean a long visit. “Thank you, no.”

  “Very good, sir.” Mrs. Vine shut the door with great care, and Mary resisted the urge to pull a face at the closed door. That whole loyal-retainer act was a little excessive. She turned back to James, disciplining her thoughts, drawing breath to explain her errand — only to find herself suddenly, blissfully, enfolded in his arms.

  “Let’s start again,” he murmured, tilting her head back and covering her mouth with his. She gasped, and then felt his smile against her lips. “No small talk, remember?”

  Her arms locked round his neck — she couldn’t help it. She clung to him, the fixed point in a giddy, tilting universe, and reveled in the taste, the feel, the scent of him. He was the only man she’d ever kissed, the only one she could imagine igniting this trembling hunger, this need, within her. He stroked the length of her back, and she wanted to purr like a cat. Shedding her gloves with clumsy haste, she raked her fingers through his hair and was rewarded by a sharp hiss. He caught one hand and, pressing a fierce kiss into her palm, guided it beneath his jacket so she could feel the heat of him, the mad hammering of his heart against her bare skin. She stroked his chest, the linen warming to fever temperature beneath her hands, and tilted her head back to reach his lips again.

  “Mary.” His voice was hoarse, the word slurred. “Oh God, I’ve missed you. I thought I’d never see you again.”

  His words froze her. Pierced her. Made her exult and then long to weep. After a long moment of stillness, she began to disentangle herself — unwound his arm from her waist, turned her face from his. “James, stop.” She became shamefully conscious of her loosened hair, a tangled mass of unmoored pins and stray locks. “James. Please.” Where on earth was her hat? And how had she ended up in such an unladylik
e position, on a desk? “Listen to me.”

  He blinked, his eyes gradually clearing. “What’s wrong?”

  She couldn’t meet his gaze. “I’m sorry — I should never have let you kiss me like that.”

  A long, tense pause. Then a dull red flush appeared high on his cheekbones. “You mustn’t apologize — I all but attacked you. I did attack you.”

  “It’s not that.” Honesty compelled her to say as much. “I enjoyed your . . . attentions.”

  A pause. “If that’s so, I don’t understand what the problem is.”

  “I didn’t come here for that.”

  “Not even a little bit of ‘that’? I mean, it’s more than merely physical between us, but animal passion has its place.”

  She almost smiled at his hopeful tone. “I came here to speak to you about something important.”

  He frowned. “You’re still angry with me — and I can’t blame you! I behaved inexcusably that last time, after the incident at the clock tower. I was a self-righteous prig, and I —” He faltered at her expression. “And I’m attacking you again, with words. I’m sorry; I’ll just listen, for a bit.”

  He looked and sounded more vulnerable than she’d ever seen him. Normally, he seemed much older than twenty-one. Too assured. Too responsible. Too world weary. Now, he was almost boyish. Eager. And for both their sakes, she had to end this madness.

  She slid off the desk and smoothed her skirts. Retrieved her hat from the corner of the room to which it had inexplicably rolled. Smoothed her crumpled gloves. When she finally dared meet James’s eyes, she could see the resolve, the disciplined patience, shining out at her. They were two of the qualities she most admired in him — and which most terrified her now.

  “I didn’t come here to revive our — friendship.” Friendship was such an inadequate word to describe her feelings for James; a cowardly word, even. But then, she’d never been brave where feelings were concerned. “I never meant to suggest otherwise. By my actions, I mean.” Her cheeks flamed at the memory. Had James not said those words, where might things have ended? They might still be locked in an embrace on his desk.

  He frowned at her, clearly struggling to understand. “I’m listening.”

  She started. Stopped. Tried again. “I came to ask for a professional courtesy. I believe you’re soon to begin repairing some of the ancient sewers at Buckingham Palace.”

  He let out a puff of laughter. “It’s only a top-secret project that concerns the safety of the royal family. Naturally, you know all about it.”

  She smiled faintly. “Congratulations; you must be very proud.”

  “We are; thank you.” Those dark eyes were still puzzled, but genuinely curious, too.

  And now the trickiest bit. “For the past few weeks, I’ve been working as a housemaid at the palace. I expect to be there for at least another week. Possibly more.”

  He nodded, comprehension dawning.

  “I thought it possible that we might accidentally cross paths at the palace. It’s unlikely, given the secrecy of your work, but still possible. And I wanted to ask you . . .” Her voice wobbled here, unexpectedly. This was far from the largest or maddest request she’d ever asked of James. And yet it was the most difficult to make. “I wanted to ask if you would help preserve my secret. Not actively, of course; I shall be working alone. But I need to be sure that you’d not . . .”

  “Not betray you?” His voice was acerbic. Clearly, he’d been expecting a different sort of request.

  “I’d not have chosen that word.”

  “But that’s what you meant. You were afraid that either through incompetence or through the spite of the rejected suitor, I’d somehow spoil your game at the palace.”

  His anger startled her, roused her own latent indignation. “If we’re speaking of rejection, it was rather the other way round,” she retorted. “I wasn’t pure enough to suit your high moral principles . . . although you seem to have lowered your standards a little — but I suppose that was mere animal passion.” She regretted the words even as they left her mouth.

  James’s eyes turned black, a sure sign of anger. “Don’t pretend to be stupid. It’s more than mere physical passion for me, and you know that.”

  Mary tamped down her anger. She couldn’t afford to let it divert her. “So you say,” she said with icy courtesy. “But I don’t require protestations of devotion or apologies just now.”

  “I see.”

  “Will you be able to pretend that you do not recognize me at the palace?”

  A tiny muscle twitched in his jaw. “Of course. I wouldn’t dream of obstructing your path.”

  “Thank you. I’m very grateful.” She buttoned her coat — not that she remembered having unbuttoned it — and reseated her hat, careless of how it might look.

  In an exquisitely polite tone, he then said, “May I offer you the use of my carriage? It’s a most unpleasant day for a walk.”

  Oh, how she hated the high moral ground when it was occupied by others. “It’s very kind of you, but I shall find a hansom without difficulty.” And such social niceties made her heartsick. Better never to speak to James at all than talk to him in this way.

  “As you wish.” He avoided her eyes as he held the study door — a gentleman to the last. “Good day, Miss Quinn.”

  The wintry sleet came as a rude shock after the warmth of James’s study. Mary stalked southward, trying not to shiver as a swift wind picked up, driving the rain against her skin with stinging force. Naturally, there was no hansom cab in sight. And in her anger, she’d left her umbrella in James’s front hall. Perhaps it was the cold, but the idiocy of their parting suddenly shocked her. She and James had always been passionate — both in rivalry and in partnership. But they needn’t have left things so raw. They would never be casual friends, but she could, at the very least, retract her angry accusation. She stopped, halfway down Torrington Place, and retraced her steps, summoning her courage once more.

  Mary knocked again and ignored Mrs. Vine’s raised eyebrows. “Is he in the drawing room?”

  “Yes, but —”

  “No need to show me up.” Mary whisked inside and was halfway up the stairs before Mrs. Vine could finish her sentence. She rapped twice on the drawing-room door and barged in. “James, I owe you an apology. I was —”

  The words died in her mouth as she registered the scene before her: an extremely lovely young lady of about twenty, with shining red-gold curls, wearing a satin dress that must have cost more than Mary’s entire wardrobe. The beauty was sitting in an extremely casual posture on the floor, teasing a kitten with a feather. A second gentleman, with the same reddish-blond hair as the lady, sprawled in an armchair. And James lounged on the floor beside the girl, his back to the door. All three were genuinely startled by the intrusion.

  After a long, awkward moment, the two men scrambled to their feet. James’s expression was unreadable, the other man’s quizzical. The young lady, however, remained where she was, openly staring at Mary.

  “I — I beg your pardon,” muttered Mary. All her courage, her sensible intentions, dissolved instantly in the beam of the young lady’s startled blue gaze. “My mistake.” She shut the drawing-room door and plunged down the stairs. She ignored Mrs. Vine’s smug expression. Ignored, too, James’s voice calling after her down the stairs. She clattered out the door and into the square, forgetting her umbrella once again. Luck was with her, at long last: an unengaged hansom clipped by.

  A moment later, she was palace-bound. Ten minutes to cry in peace.

  And then she would never cry over James Easton again.

  Amy Tranter took so long over her morning toilette that she was late for prayers — a grave offense under Mrs. Shaw’s regime. For punishment, she was sent outside to beat rugs with Mary. In Mary’s view, performing this task was a boon — even if the air was far from fresh, it was pleasant to be out of doors and away from the constant domestic clatter. But Amy’s round, pretty face was creased and sulky even whil
e she fetched her pattens — wooden blocks strapped to her boots to raise her clear of the mud. It wasn’t until they were in the courtyard, however, with a large Persian rug draped over a washing line, that Mary learned why.

  “Is any of my hair showing?” demanded Amy, patting at her three inches of exposed face. The rest of her head was shrouded in a huge cap she’d pulled down to cover her ears and eyebrows.

  “Only your eyelashes.”

  “What about my dress?” This, too, was entirely swathed in a dust wrapper that went from her neck to her ankles. The combination of the cap, jacket, and pattens made Amy look like a hot-air balloon about to take flight.

  “Can’t see any of it,” said Mary.

  Amy remained unappeased. “The usual work’s dirty enough, but this is horrible. I’ll be gray with dust in two minutes.”

  “We’ll be done by dinnertime, and then you can have a wash.” Something about Amy’s expression made Mary pause. “Unless . . . you have other plans?”

  Amy flushed and beckoned Mary to her side of the carpet. “I can trust you, can’t I?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m expecting . . . somebody . . . a caller.”

  “Here?” Domestic discipline was strict, and while letters and parcels were unrationed, staff were certainly not allowed to entertain guests.

  “It ain’t certain, mind.”

  Aha. “Mr. Jones?”

  Amy flushed and squirmed. “Maybe.”

  “Oh, come on,” teased Mary. “He’s all you talk about.”

  “That ain’t true!” squealed Amy, but she looked pleased despite her words. “Did I show you what he give me?”

  “You know you didn’t.”

  Amy glanced about in a conspiratorial fashion — totally unnecessary, as they were quite alone in the service courtyard. Opening her dust wrapper, she plunged a hand into her dress and drew out a long silver chain. On it dangled a heart-shaped locket, from which protruded a few wisps of mousy hair. “Ain’t it beautiful?” she whispered reverently.