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‘Agents, not spies,’ Anderson corrected absently as he withdrew his bishop. ‘And I was thinking along the lines of an actress available for the odd job and so were you. What the devil will we do with a female criminal?’
‘The same thing we do with the male criminals. Train her and use her.’
‘They are not all criminals!’ Anderson protested. ‘And...hell, between setting up the Glasgow office and taking care of that business in Birmingham we’re too busy and shorthanded to deal with new recruits anyway. And now we find out from the Foreign Office that two Austrian mercenaries are apparently on their way to London. You yourself said that finding out what they plan to do here is a top priority.’
‘Any more information from the Foreign Office or from the ports?’ Michael glanced up from his inspection of the intricately carved wooden pieces.
‘None. Stimpson assured me he has his best Austrian contacts on alert for information, but all we know is that they are being sent on behalf of one of Metternich’s closest friends and that they are to receive their orders from someone in London. And he said it was the merest chance they found out even that much. Apparently someone is being very careful.’
‘I don’t like it. Junger and Frey are the best, or the worst, of their lot. We need to find out why Metternich is sending particularly vicious mercenaries onto English soil and who they are working with here. I came across Junger’s work in France once and it wasn’t pretty. The thought that they might even now be in London... We need to find out what they are here for. And who on our side of the channel is paying their shot.’
‘Well, you see why we can’t be distracted just now,’ Anderson said, almost imploringly.
‘Well, with any luck, she won’t show up,’ Michael said reassuringly and drained his port. ‘Come, it is no fun winning when your mind isn’t on the game. We need to leave anyway or we’ll be late for our meeting with Castlereagh.’
Anderson stood up swiftly, clearly happy to dismiss the thought of being saddled with a female highway robber.
* * *
Sari would have been happy to dismiss the idea as well, but the throbbing of the bullet graze to her arm was a constant reminder. George, too, had become uncharacteristically obdurate. He had placed the lord’s card prominently on the single table in the seedy rooms they could barely afford at the poorer edge of Islington and for two days she had done little but stare at the stark black letters proclaiming ‘Michael Julian D’Alency Alistair, Viscount Northbrook, Earl of Crayle, of Grosvenor Square, London’. The name had begun to take on a singsong quality in her mind. It was madness, she told herself. They would probably find it was a hoax at best, a trap at worst.
George had disagreed. Two evenings after their failed escapade, he had come home from his job at the hostelry and had sat with her and his wife, Mina, at the table as they mended their well-worn clothes to the accompanying noise from the tavern next door.
‘I’ve done some asking, miss, and he’s solid. I know it’s not what your ma would have liked, but she never thought we’d find ourselves in such a tangle, neither.’
Sari felt the familiar mix of guilt and panic rise up in her again like a sickness. She let her throbbing arm rest for a moment before picking up another shirt from the pile.
‘If only Papa had lived, we might still have been able to earn enough to get by.’
‘Aye, and I’m sorry Mr Trevor’s gone, but he never was the same after your ma passed. I’ve as much reason as anyone to be grateful to him and your ma for taking me in all those years ago, but I call a spade a spade and he had no business leaving the work and the worry to you all those years while he drank himself and his money under every night. He should have at least seen you married and then you might have had a husband’s helping hand with Charlie.’
She smiled somewhat crookedly.
‘To be fair, he did try when we returned to England after Mama died. We have it on excellent authority that I’m not marriage material.’
Mina snipped a thread and reached for another pair of socks from the pile before her.
‘Mrs Ruscombe and her kind are no authority you should be listening to, Miss Sari,’ she said in her soft voice. ‘Now put that down and let your arm have a rest, do.’
Sari shrugged and laid down her sewing thankfully. ‘Everyone else listened. Hector certainly did.’
‘Moresby was a weak young fool,’ George said roughly. ‘And your father was an even greater fool for not taking him to account for shying off instead of having at you for not being more ladylike like your ma.’
She flinched. Even four years later, the memory of that confrontation still hurt.
‘It wasn’t completely his fault. He was...still upset about Mama.’
Mina, usually taciturn, surprised her by looking up with unaccustomed fire in her brown eyes.
‘Don’t wrap it in clean linen, Miss Sari. He was dead drunk most days and nights and feeling sorry for himself. If anyone had the right to feel sorry for themselves over your ma’s passing, it was you, miss. I’m as grateful as any for what your pa did for my George, but it was the outside of enough watching him neglect his duties and you having to do all them translations when it should have been him all along. You are more a lady than that snooty Mrs Ruscombe ever was, even when you was in breeches and going on about politics and the like with your pa’s cronies in the desert. Your ma knew that well enough. No one knows better than me she wanted back to her life in England, but I know she was prouder of you and Master Charlie than of anything on this sainted earth and never regretted a moment of what she had with you two. And if that Mr Moresby was fool enough to have his mind made up for him by the likes of Mrs Ruscombe, well, good riddance, I say. So!’ she finished, plunging her needle into the pincushion with alarming violence.
George grinned appreciatively at his beloved’s outburst.
‘That’s right, love. You have at them.’
Sari wiped away the tears that had welled up. She hated crying, but she was just so tired. She knew George was right—she had to do something. George’s meagre pay as an ostler was barely enough to cover their living expenses and certainly not enough to continue to fund Charlie’s schooling. Whatever his commitment to her and Charlie, Sari knew it was not fair to expect George to support her and her brother indefinitely. The headmaster of Charlie’s school had agreed to give her more time to cover his fees ‘in consideration of Charles’s significant intellectual promise and personal integrity’. But he had made it clear there was a limit to his generosity and they were fast approaching it. There would be no choice now but to default. Charlie was old enough to work, but Sari felt sick at the thought of him having to give up his dreams. She knew he would never blame her, but she couldn’t stand failing him like this. She wanted so much for him.
It was not that she herself had not tried to find employment, but no one was willing to trust a mere woman with the translations her father had undertaken. Her claims that it had been she and not he who had actually done the work had been greeted with amused incredulity. And the employment agencies had been quick to point out that she had none of the skills required to be a governess—she could not sketch, or embroider, or play the harp or pianoforte. It appeared they shared Mrs Ruscombe’s doubts as to her suitability as a lady of quality.
It had been desperation bordering on lunacy that had made her suggest highway robbery as a means of survival. More proof that Mrs Ruscombe and her friends had probably been right about her—no matter if her parents had once been, she wasn’t quality. Certainly no young woman of quality would contemplate such an offer as the one made by this peculiar Lord Crayle. But twenty pounds a month seemed like a fortune to her after these lean years; it was more than most servants could make in an entire year and much, much more than she could ever dream of making as a governess. It would mean Charlie could stay at school and she could even afford to help Mina and George...
‘All right, George. You’re right. We’ll go to London tomorrow and hope our luck takes a turn for the better.’
George smiled.
‘It will, miss. I feel it in my bones.’
Chapter Three
Lord Crayle had just sifted through his morning mail when his butler knocked gently at the library door.
‘Two...ah, individuals to see you, my lord,’ he announced calmly, staring at a point beyond Michael’s left shoulder, a clear indication that these visitors were slightly out of the ordinary, but that he was well accustomed to his lordship’s sometimes peculiar choice of guests.
Michael nodded absently.
‘Show them in, Pottle.’
At first Michael just stared at the couple that walked in, perplexed. If not for their relative sizes he might not have made the connection with his Hampstead Heath assailants. Michael was above average in height and breadth, but the man who stood crumpling his cloth hat nervously easily outstripped him.
Despite the giant’s size, it was the woman who captured his attention. At the moment she looked like a slightly dishevelled schoolmistress. Her pelisse was ridiculously outmoded and, contrary to convention, she had removed her simple straw bonnet and held it dangling by its ribbons. She might at one point have been wearing her hair in a bun, but the golden-brown hair appeared to have rebelled and unwound, and was now held back tenuously with a ribbon. It looked surprisingly lush against the drab grey pelisse and it framed an unusual, heart-shaped face with a determined chin. But her eyes were her most arresting feature. They were gently slanted beneath arched brows and a strange mixture of blue and green. Right now they were narrowed as she seemed to be caught between apprehension and nervous amusement.
Michael realised his guests were becoming increasingly uneasy at his silence and he waved them to the two chairs that faced his desk.
‘Please sit down. I trust your arm has healed?’ He turned to the woman, one brow cocked.
Something flashed in her eyes, but she smiled politely and took the seat he indicated.
‘Perfectly. I thank you for your concern.’
He ignored the slight sarcasm in her tones and focused on the voice. His memory had not deceived him. It was deep and cultured. Without the asperity it could be seductive. It was hard to reconcile her obviously high-bred tones and perfect posture with the highway robber who had placed a bullet a whisper away from his temple. But it was most definitely she and she was turning out to be better than he had expected.
‘Good. I am glad you decided to accept my offer. I admit I was not certain you would.’
‘We have accepted nothing yet, my lord. You were rather sketchy about the details...’
He almost smiled at her haughty tones.
‘I can see this may be as arduous as it was back on the Heath. I apologise if I am being difficult,’ he said with mild amusement.
To his surprise, instead of raising her hackles further, she appeared to relax.
‘Surely, my lord, you can appreciate this is a rather...uncomfortable situation for us? Perhaps if you told us what you want, we could all proceed more quickly?’
Very good, he approved silently. Perfection, down to the faintly coaxing smile that tilted up one corner of a rather pleasing mouth. Not a bad little actress at all.
‘Very well. My offer is simple.’ He continued, ‘I am part of a government agency and we need a woman in the ranks. I think, given your skills, you might be suitable.’
‘What precisely would I be required to do?’
‘You would take part in certain official operations aimed at protecting crown and country. We will obviously train you and develop the necessary skills, but most importantly, you would be expected to follow whatever directives your superiors give you. If you accept, I will provide more details. Until then I am afraid you will have to take my offer at least partly unseen, as I am accepting you rather on the same terms. Which reminds me, I would like to know your names. Your real names.’
He saw the hesitation in her eyes.
‘My word on it that I have no intention of handing you over to the authorities.’
He met her probing gaze evenly, watching as doubt changed to resolution in the peculiar green-blue depths. But as she still hesitated, the giant leaned forward and spoke for the first time since they had entered.
‘My name is George Durney, my lord, and this is Miss Sarah Serena Trevor, but we have only ever called her Miss Sari.’
Michael smiled at the annoyed look the young woman shot her companion. Obviously she would go by nothing as commonplace as merely Sarah and Serena was as inappropriate a name as he could imagine for such a mercurial creature.
‘What if I agree, but you then decide I’m not suitable for this...agency?’ she asked abruptly.
‘If we decide at any time during your initial training period that you are not suitable, we will give you three months’ salary and part ways.’
‘And the pay?’
‘As I mentioned before, twenty pounds a month to start, including whatever costs you incur as part of the job. You should find accommodation close to the Institute...’
He paused, wondering if they might be lovers. He didn’t know why that possibility had not occurred to him before. The man was older, but probably no more than forty. It was possible.
‘Is it just the two of you?’ he asked brusquely.
‘Also my wife, sir, and miss’s younger brother, but he’s away at school,’ George stated.
Michael ignored his faint relief at the giant’s response. He noted the woman’s change in expression, her shoulders pulling downwards, as if the weight of responsibility was physical. Her lips parted slightly, but she said nothing and he noticed for the first time the soft fullness of her lower lip. He shifted slightly in his seat, annoyed by the sudden tension in his body. He was assessing her as agent material, not as a potential mistress.
‘Very well, the pay should be enough for all of you. If...’ he deferred to her with a faintly sardonic bow ‘...you decide to accept our offer.’
* * *
Sari forced herself to straighten in her chair, inspecting the man facing her. In the dark, with her nerves singing with fear and pain, he had appeared to be a giant and a devil. His size was still formidable, but in daylight his threat was more refined.
Firstly, he was too handsome...no, perhaps handsome was not the right word. In the dark the shadows had painted his face in harsh angular lines. The full light of morning streaming through the windows only softened those lines a small degree. His eyes were deep-set and glinted with a strange grey she found hard to identify. His mouth was tightly held, the tension apparent in the grooves that bracketed it. He had a perfectly sculpted nose and cheekbones, the only features that she could actively label handsome. The rest of him was far too forbidding, too challenging.
His black hair was cut short and simply, unlike the artfully curled fashions that were now common, and his clothes were equally subdued and tasteful. There was no ostentation about him or about the room in which they were seated. It was blatantly his space. The walls were lined with books, but there was none of the haphazard air that had characterised her father’s studies. Apparently he controlled his environment with as much rigidity as he held himself. A sudden twinge of pain throbbed in her arm. Seeing him in the light of day made her all the more aware that he could have killed her that night.
‘Had I not been a woman, would you have taken that second shot?’ she asked suddenly.
‘Yes,’ he replied, his mocking air disappearing instantly, his eyes unequivocally telling her the same. Their colour was not as dark as she had thought. A rim of slate grey held in a paler ice. The combination was disconcerting, almost feral.
Sari shifted back slightly in her chair, removing herself from the intensity of his gaze. She rather thought it was not the smartest thing to do, putting her fate in his hands. He would use her thoroughly for his own purposes with little thought to the consequences. He was a man with an agenda and she was merely a small means to his ends.
Still, what option did she have?
‘Very well.’
He lifted one eyebrow at her laconic response. Then he half-smiled and pulled a sheet of paper from his desk.
‘Good. I will give you an address. Arrive on Monday morning and ask for a Mr Anderson. He is responsible for the new recruits. Meanwhile, here is a draft on my bank for twenty pounds.’
It was Sari’s turn to raise an eyebrow—she was surprised he trusted them not to simply disappear with his money. Then she saw the faintly disdainful look in his eyes, as if he knew precisely what she was thinking. Her sense of helplessness and fear shifted into a surge of anger at this cold, unyielding man who dangled salvation with little concern whether she took it or took herself to perdition.
A perverse, rebellious demon took hold of her and she stood up and strode briskly to the desk. Even as she saw his disdain turn to wariness, she extended her hand, the abruptness of her gesture making a mockery of its polite antecedents.
‘A pleasure doing business with you, my lord,’ she said.
Michael stood up, unhurriedly, inch by towering inch, making her hand look very small indeed. Just as she thought she would have to withdraw it, he reached out and grasped it in his. A rush of heat rose up her arm and she was peculiarly aware of the texture of the large hand that held hers; it was firm and warm and calloused and it seemed to engulf more than her hand. She was swamped by the same mixture of fear and anticipation that had rushed through her on the Heath. She tried pulling away, but he did not immediately let go. Finally, he released her hand slowly, and she felt each finger as it grazed her palm.
Despite the fact that she stood closer to him now than she had ever been, his voice sounded distant.
‘As you said: a pleasure.’
Sari breathed in deeply, picked up the address and draft and strode out without another word, followed by George.
* * *
Michael remained standing after the door closed behind them. He flexed his right hand. That had been a mistake. He had merely been responding to her aggravating bravado, but the moment he had grasped her hand every nerve-end had gone on alert. He had felt for a moment just as he had before a battle, every sense and instinct ready, focused on danger and survival. It was a ridiculous response to a mere handclasp.
He had a premonition that perhaps this was not his best idea. She was too independent for their purposes. They needed someone who could follow orders. Then he remembered her stone-cold focus as she had aimed the pistol at his head, even as blood dripped down her arm. He had to face the fact that she was as good as they were going to find. The fact that she brought out the worst in him and that she clearly disliked him was beside the point. After all it was Anderson who was primarily responsible for new recruits, not he. Hopefully, by the time she went through her training she would have learned some discipline. He turned back to his correspondence. He would keep an eye on this experiment. Just enough to make sure she didn’t turn the whole Institute on its head.
Chapter Four
That evening he found Anderson at Brooks’s Gentlemen’s Club, lounging behind a newspaper in his favourite chair in a quiet corner by the tall windows overlooking St James’s Street.
‘My highway robber paid me a visit today, Sinjun,’ Michael said casually as he sat down next to him.
‘You sent her away, of course,’ Anderson said hopefully, folding his newspaper.
‘Not at all. We are to expect a visit this Monday morning. Unless she absconds with my twenty pounds.’
‘Michael, you cannot be serious. What on earth are we going to do with her? I thought we agreed it wasn’t suitable.’
‘We agreed to no such thing. I merely said that with any luck she would not show up. It seems your luck is out. Don’t be so negative, Sinjun. She might prove useful.’
Anderson leaned his forearms on his knees morosely, and Michael tried not to smile. Unlike Michael, Anderson had no sisters and he had always been diffident around women. Though he had frequently professed to being in love with some pretty girl or other in his youth, he conducted his liaisons the same way most men dealt with the nursery—he enjoyed himself once he was there, but usually found an excuse to postpone his next visit.
‘Then you take responsibility for her,’ Anderson said finally. ‘You always seem to know what to do with women...and stop grinning, that’s not what I meant. I mean they’re always comfortable around you and you just don’t seem to care.’
Michael’s grin widened.
‘But I care a great deal, Sinjun. That’s why they are comfortable with me. And I don’t know why you say you don’t know what to do with them. I seem to remember you falling in and out of love with some fair maiden or another every term whilst we were up at Oxford.’
It was Anderson’s turn to grin.
‘Everyone was falling in love then. Except you—I remember how offended I was when you told me to stop making a fool of myself and just go and get the job done.’
Michael laughed.
‘Well, it was damn exhausting, listening to you go on about Jane, or Sophia, or Anthea or whomever. I was trying to study and you’d be reading your maudlin poetry out loud. You were lucky you were too timid to ask any of them to marry you, otherwise you’d probably have at least ten children by now.’
‘Anthea! I’d forgotten her. Lucky is right. She’d have made my life a living hell. But I still want to get married. Do you really not want to?’
‘Thankfully, I don’t need to, now that Chris has two healthy sons. He’s much better suited to managing Crayle Hall anyway. He lives and breathes estate management. If the estate and title weren’t entailed I’d hand them over without a qualm, except that he’s too proper to consider such a flouting of convention.’
‘For heaven’s sake, one doesn’t marry just to produce an heir. I mean, there’s love, and companionship...and I don’t mean the kind of companionship provided by someone from the muslin company,’ he added with asperity.
Michael smiled affectionately at his friend.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about when you talk about love. And frankly neither do you. I would wager you can’t even remember the names of all the women you’ve been in love with. It’s just a fancy name for unrequited lust.’ The smile faded. ‘And when it’s something more than that it’s usually destructive. My father was in love with my mother and look where that got them. All I can remember was his jealousy and her misery. You saw what it was like when they came to the Hall. Sometimes I think you had the best of it with your parents being away in India for all those years. You only had to see them once a year.’
‘If that. I much preferred spending the school holidays with you lot, though I do admit your parents did put a damper on our fun when they would come down from London. I never understood why your father always was so jealous. She was far too sweet and timid to ever stray.’
‘They were both fools,’ Michael said dismissively. ‘Thankfully they rarely stayed for long.’
Anderson laughed suddenly. ‘I just remembered how he used to line you and Chris up the first day they arrived and quiz you about your achievements at school like a drill sergeant. No wonder you always excelled. I was always terrified he would put me in the line, too.’
‘If we’d had any courage we would have told him to go to hell,’ Michael said with a self-deprecating smile.
‘Well, you did eventually, I suppose. Enlisting in the army amounted to the same thing. It definitely wasn’t what he planned for you. But that’s not the point. Not every marriage is like your parents’. And even if you don’t believe in love, then what about children? Isn’t that a good enough reason to marry?’