Lord Crayle's Secret World

Chapter Seven

Stepping out of Deakins’s class on the fourth day of her training, Sari was forced to admit the earl had been right about her and Deakins. He was her favourite instructor thus far, only after Antonelli. She loved his lab of chemicals, lock picks and trunks of disguises. There must be more of the lawbreaker in her than she cared to admit. She headed towards the clerk’s office, wondering what other training had been assigned for her that day.

Penrose glanced up as she entered his small room by the main door.

‘Ah, miss, follow me, if you please,’ he said pleasantly.

Sari followed. She knew part of her role in the Institute included not asking where she was being taken or what she was expected to do, but as Penrose led her through a door and down a set of winding stairs, she began to feel slightly uneasy. They descended farther and farther, and she had the slightly hysterical thought that perhaps they were going to dispose of her in some underground dungeon.

‘Almost there, miss,’ Penrose said as the stairs ended and they proceeded along a narrow corridor. Rather than echoing, his voice became peculiarly muted. Finally, they reached a broad door and he motioned her ahead of him.

She entered and her mouth opened in awe as she realised she was in an underground shooting gallery. Three long lanes stretched some thirty yards up to a well-lit wall where life-size dummies were propped up on posts.

‘Thank you, Penrose; you can return upstairs now.’

She whirled around in surprise. She hadn’t noticed before, but at the back of the room there were several tall cabinets, and Lord Crayle stood beside one, pulling a wooden case from one of the shelves.

Alone with the earl, Sari stood waiting uncertainly. He didn’t address her, just placed the case he held on a long table by the wall and opened it. Inside was small elegant pistol in dark wood and brass.

‘This was designed for the Cavalry, so it is light, easy to reload and not likely to go off if it’s jarred. Here, it’s loaded and cocked. Just try not to shoot at me this time,’ he added with a sardonic half smile as he handed it to her.

She took the pistol gingerly. She felt unusually nervous holding it. Perhaps it was because she had never been to a shooting gallery before. With Cavalcatti they had always practised outdoors. More likely it was because she suddenly felt painfully nervous around the earl without someone’s mediating presence. Their light-hearted interchange in the salle seemed very far away, almost as if it had taken place with someone else, and now here again was the same man who had faced her across the desk in his study. Hard and watchful and knowing.

She tried to ignore his presence at her back and concentrated on the pistol. It was light and smooth and the brass moulding on the handle was cold. She raised it and sighted the dummy at the end of the lane where she stood. Then she took a deep breath and let it out slowly as she aimed, just milking the trigger the way Cavalcatti had taught her. She took her shot. There was a muted explosion and the dummy jerked with a disconcertingly lifelike movement.

‘I thought it would be louder,’ she said, lowering the pistol.

The earl was looking towards the dummy with a slight smile.

‘Deakins designed special walls to absorb the noise. Right in the chest. Not bad for a new gun. So you did miss me on purpose that night; I was wondering.’

‘That was the first time I actually shot at someone,’ she said.

‘Lucky you. I hope you never have to do so again,’ he said lightly, but there was something in his voice that made her look up sharply.

‘Shall I clean and reload it?’ she asked to break the silence.

He nodded and watched as she skilfully cleaned and reloaded the pistol. Her next practice was speed-shooting at a target marked with various coloured circles. After each reload he stated a colour and she took her shot as quickly as possible. Lord Crayle watched without comment. Then, after five circles he took the pistol from her and handed her a different one.

‘Here, try this on the dummy. This is one of Joe Manton’s finest. It’s weighted at the tip so there is less recoil.’

‘Is this a duelling pistol?’ she asked, forgetting her nervousness slightly. He smiled, amused by her patent awe.

‘Similar. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but there aren’t many duels nowadays. Mostly it is just shooting at wafers.’

‘I’m not disappointed,’ she replied, returning his smile. She took the pistol from him. The barrel was longer and she could tell it was built for accuracy. ‘I never understood why men would consider honour worth risking their lives for. Shooting at wafers makes much more sense.’

She aimed at the centre of the dummy’s head and took her shot.

‘I like this one better,’ she said as she lowered the pistol.

‘It obviously likes you just as much,’ he responded, his eyes narrowing as he took in the damage to the dummy’s head. ‘I was intrigued to see just how good you were after your performance on the Heath.’

‘And...?’ she asked, raising her chin slightly. At least in this arena she knew her worth.

‘Passable.’ He shrugged.

‘Passable!’ she exclaimed, offended and annoyed, and he laughed, his face lightening.

‘You’re an excellent shot and you know it. You don’t need me to tell you that.’

She flushed in pleasure at the compliment.

‘May I try another?’ she asked diffidently. She did not want this particular session to end quite yet.

He hesitated, then shrugged.

‘Fine. But we need to correct your stance. You may not approve of duelling, but whoever taught you clearly did; that’s a duelling stance. Standing sideways makes you a smaller target, but it’s not always as effective for aiming, especially for long-distance shooting. Here, take this and come over here.’

Sari took the pistol he handed her and followed him to the second lane.

‘Now aim as usual.’

She raised the pistol and waited, trying to stay calm. She felt the warmth of his body behind her and flinched slightly when his hands grasped her shoulders, moving her so that her body faced more squarely down the lane.

‘I know this will feel strange to you,’ he said calmly. He was so close she could feel his breath warm against her nape. His hand moved to her upper arm, closing on it gently, urging it back.

‘Move your right foot forward just a bit and lean your shoulder back. Your arm should be at an angle to your body, like this.’

She obeyed, but she could feel her arm starting to shake, and she took a deep breath, trying to focus on nothing but the pistol.

‘Relax.’ His voice was soft and low, soothing. ‘Remember, this is easy for you.’ His hand moved down her arm slightly, steadying it. His hand felt warm through the thin fabric of her dress. He was mere inches behind her now and the contrast between the coolness of the underground cavern and the warmth radiating from his body was disorienting.

‘Breathe and take your shot.’

She closed her eyes briefly, trying to clear her mind. Then she sighted and shot. She wasn’t used to the stance and didn’t hold her ground as well as usual when the recoil propelled her back. She came up hard against the earl’s body and he steadied her, one hand on her waist and the other on her outstretched arm.

‘He only lost some hair,’ he said with a low laugh that flowed over her, mixing with her thudding pulse. ‘It will be easier next time. You need more weight on your lead foot.’

Sari didn’t respond and didn’t move. She knew she should say something. Or step away. Anything. She wet her lips and waited.

The silence stretched on for a moment, then his hand slid down her arm, brushing over her hand as he grasped the pistol and pulled it away. Then he stood back and turned away.

‘That should be enough for today. Do you remember how to get back upstairs?’

She nodded.

‘Thank you,’ she forced herself to say.

‘There is no need to thank me. Practise that stance until it feels natural.’

She nodded again and turned, heading for the stairs. She needed air.

* * *

Michael took out the gun-cleaning kit absently and began cleaning the pistols with the ease of many years of practice. At least he now had an answer of sorts to Antonelli’s questions. Training women was distinctly different to training men.

If he had needed any further proof of her lack of experience, he had found it in the unconscious way she had accepted his touch. A more experienced female would either have made a show of modestly demurring or made the most of the situation. He almost wished she had done one or the other.

In some respects, training her had been easier than he would have thought. As she had been with Antonelli, she had been attentive and immediately responsive to his corrections. It wasn’t until the recoil had knocked her back against him that he had realised he had been far too comfortable touching her.

With his hand on the warm curve of her waist there had been a moment when it had seemed natural to pull her back against him, lean in and follow the faint, exotic scent of jasmine he could detect beneath the acrid smell of gunpowder. It had only been for a moment, but long enough to convince him he had been right—she was trouble. The fact that she was innocent trouble only made it worse.

Chapter Eight

Towards the end of Sari’s second week at the Institute her muscles were protesting after the unaccustomed exercise of daily fencing practice and her mind was crammed with assorted chemical formulas, social dictums and political doctrines. But she didn’t regret a second of it. For the first time in her life she felt a real sense of purpose. She told herself it was ridiculous to feel as if she truly belonged in this strange environment after little more than a week, but she just did.

She could hardly believe that a few weeks ago she had been drowning in fear and poverty and now her life had taken on a whole new glow of hope and purpose. Every evening she, Mina and George would sit in the small parlour of their new lodgings off Wilton Street in Pimlico, revelling in its cosy warmth. She had even allowed herself to buy two new books. She loved seeing the pleasure Mina derived from her new sewing basket and the relaxed smile on George’s face as he watched his wife stitching, his newspaper in hand. She only wished Charlie could be there with them, but at least when the school holidays arrived they would have a safe, warm home waiting for him. Every now and again the amazed realisation would bubble up in her—for now her family was safe and cosy and content. She was so happy it was almost suspect.

The only faint cloud on her sunny horizon was one she would hardly allow herself to consider. Every day as she entered the Institute and reported to Penrose for her daily schedule, she indulged in the guilty hope of another summons to the shooting gallery. When none came she told herself firmly that it was better that way. She needed to be focused and confident, and as much as she enjoyed the shooting range, there was something about the earl that left her raw.

Other than that, she was increasingly comfortable with her instructors and their strange whims, but Antonelli and Deakins were still her clear favourites. Between her other assignments she spent every moment she could in the salle or in Deakins’s lab. Therefore in the break between her classes that Thursday she entered the salle as usual to see what Antonelli was doing. She almost withdrew when she realised Lord Crayle was fencing with O’Brien, one of the senior agents, while Antonelli and another agent, Morton, watched. The two men fencing didn’t notice her as she entered, but Antonelli smiled and motioned her to silence as she leaned back against the wall to watch.

They were both skilled, but Crayle was clearly a fencer of a higher order. His moves were economical but powerful and within the first few minutes it was clear O’Brien would lose the encounter. Antonelli kept well back, not making his usual comments.

Sari was enthralled by the grace of the game. It was obvious Crayle could end it when he wished, but he withdrew from each potential hit, allowing O’Brien to recover. His skill matched even Antonelli’s, who had been fencing for over thirty years. And yet there was something more dangerous in his swordplay, a contained force that threatened to break through with each riposte, all the more formidable for being held in check.

Their shirtsleeves were rolled up and Sari could clearly see the muscles of the earl’s forearm tense and flex with each strike and parry. From watching the foil she found herself drawn to the dance of shadows along his arm. It glistened with perspiration, its firm lines cording as he drove his opponent back. It was as if she had never seen a man’s arm before, had never realised it must have a unique texture with the unyielding muscle, the smooth glide of warm skin and silky dark hair.

A peculiar heat rose in her, just skimming the inside of her skin and leaving her strangely cold outside. Her gaze was glued to the fluid, brutal moves as O’Brien was consistently destroyed, stroke by methodical stroke. She held her breath as Lord Crayle pushed O’Brien back almost to the edge of the strip. Then suddenly, with a slight flick of the earl’s wrist, O’Brien’s foil went flying and landed with a clatter at Antonelli’s feet.

O’Brien leaned over, resting his hands on his knees as he drew breath.

‘Damn you for a pitiless bastard, Major.’ He chuckled breathlessly as he straightened, pushing back a damp lock of hair from his forehead.

‘You asked for the meet, O’Brien,’ the earl pointed out with a smile, leaning the tip of his foil on the strip and flexing it.

‘So I did. Never did have an ounce of sense in this Irish brain of mine,’ O’Brien returned good-humouredly as he bent to pick up his foil. ‘Here, Jack, care to try your luck?’

‘No, thank you,’ Morton answered with a slow smile. ‘I’d rather go and swim in a peat bog.’

The two men had turned to Morton and noticed Sari.

‘What are you doing here?’ the earl asked, clearly surprised by her unexpected appearance, and Sari pushed herself away from the wall nervously.

‘Nothing. Just watching.’

‘Shouldn’t you be in some lesson or another?’ he asked, slipping his foil back into the rack.

‘I am between lessons, my lord,’ she answered, somewhat offended by his indifferent tones. ‘I am not playing truant if that is what concerns you.’

‘I see no harm in the signorina observing, Michael,’ Antonelli interjected mildly.

‘There is harm in her wandering around the Institute at will,’ Michael replied, a hint of impatience entering his voice. Sari felt strangely hurt.

‘I was not wandering around,’ she replied. ‘Signor Antonelli said I could watch the other men fence if I wished. There is nothing wrong with that.’

He didn’t even turn to acknowledge her comment, but continued to address Antonelli. ‘You shouldn’t encourage her to come in here at any time other than for her lessons. For her own protection.’

Sari felt a humiliated blush wash over her and tried to salvage some dignity.

‘If you have issue with anything I do, you may direct it to me, my lord.’

Michael turned to survey her.

‘May I, now?’ he asked with deceptive smoothness. ‘Very well, Miss Trevor. I have issue with you entering the salle at any time other than for your lessons. Or frankly going anywhere in the Institute except where you are expressly directed to go.’

Sari knew she should not react. The three other men were watching the exchange with interest and her sensible side told her the best thing to do would be to accept his rebuke and leave. But the gap between his behaviour towards her in the shooting gallery the previous week and his current dismissal hurt more than she could understand. Perversely, a wave of angry resentment bubbled up inside her.

‘I hadn’t realised I posed such a threat to the Institute’s well-being. Should I be flattered?’

She almost quailed under the sudden blast of anger that appeared in his eyes as he moved towards her but she stood her ground. As he drew closer she could see how his damp shirt adhered to the muscles of his broad shoulders. The same peculiar feeling licked at the edges of her stomach again. She really was not comfortable with him being this close.

‘I am not sure you quite understand the terms of your employment here, Miss Trevor,’ he said silkily as he stopped a mere couple of feet from her, forcing her to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. ‘I distinctly remember saying that you are here to follow whatever directives your superiors give you. That means when you are told to decamp, you decamp. Is that sufficiently clear?’

Sari squared her shoulders.

‘Quite clear, my lord. However, you did not tell me to decamp.’

‘Did I not? I would have thought the sentiment expressed with sufficient force. However, since you seem to require it made explicit, I am telling you to do so now.’

Sari raised her hand in mock salute.

‘Right, Major. One decampment coming up.’

She turned on her heel and made sure she closed the door very quietly behind her, despite the urge to slam it.

Michael turned back to the room and the three other men pulled back their grins.

‘You were trifle harsh on the signorina, Michael,’ Antonelli expostulated.

‘She can take it,’ Michael replied.

‘Sure and she can.’ O’Brien chuckled. ‘There must be some Irish blood in the lass. She gives as good as she gets, that one.’

‘You must be more forgiving with her, Michael. It takes time to adjust to this place,’ Antonelli said.

‘I make no demands on her above what any one of us would make for any other recruit,’ Michael retorted curtly, pulling another foil from the rack. ‘Antonelli?’

The old master shrugged and took his place on the strip opposite him.

‘As I understand it, the purpose of the Institute is to train our agents to be as effective as possible. I do not personally believe the best way of achieving that is browbeating a young woman into obedience.’

Michael flicked his foil through the air angrily. She had them all wrapped around her little finger. And in a mere couple of weeks. Why the hell was he the only one who realised this was a problem?

‘She is miles away from obedience, Antonelli. And without a more serious measure of it she will be of no use to us at all. En garde.’

Fencing with Antonelli always required all his attention and the session helped to clear Michael’s mind and focus it back on the most important matter facing the Institute at the moment. Their contacts at the ports had reported that both Frey and Junger had been sighted arriving in London, but discussions with the Foreign Office had yielded no more intelligence about the reason for the presence of the two Austrian mercenaries on English soil. There was some conjecture that they had been hired to protect the personal interests of an Austrian banker based in London, but Michael was unconvinced. He knew they had to intensify their efforts to find out what the two were doing in the city.

* * *

After the fencing match he went in search of Anderson and tracked him down outside Deakins’s office.

‘I want to update you on our two Austrians. Is Deakins in there?’

‘I... Uh, no... I just saw him upstairs with Morton. Why?’

‘Inside.’

Anderson followed him inside Deakins’s office and closed the door, his brows raised.

‘I met with Castlereagh and Wellington last night to discuss the business we just concluded up in Birmingham and we touched on Junger and Frey. They aren’t convinced the two are here for political purposes, but they agreed we should investigate them in case Metternich is using that Austrian bank business as a cover. I asked O’Brien to investigate and he tracked Frey to lodgings above the Black Dog in Southwark last night, but he couldn’t find Junger. I have put Morton on to tail Frey tonight while O’Brien goes down to the docks to dig for Junger. We need to know where he is and what he’s doing.’

Anderson nodded. ‘Fine. Let’s hope they’re right and this isn’t political. From what you told me about Paris, I’d rather their business isn’t ours.’

* * *

Sari stood silently by the closed door of Deakins’s laboratory. After her encounter with the earl she had retreated to her other safe haven at the Institute, well ahead of her lesson with Deakins. She had not meant to eavesdrop on their conversation, but once she had recognised their voices on the other side of the laboratory door, she hadn’t had the nerve to call attention to herself.

In fact, within minutes of her defiant retreat from the salle she had been swamped by a familiar rise of panic. The Institute was becoming more than a means to an end, a source of the salary that kept Charlie in school and might even allow George and Mina to start the family she knew they wanted. This was something she wanted for herself. She had never felt such a sense of...rightness in her life. She knew the earl had his doubts about her and her behaviour back in Antonelli’s salle had probably only added to his reservations. She had to prove herself, and quickly, or they might decide she was more trouble than she was worth.

Perhaps if she could help find this Junger, they might keep her, she thought. Whatever the case, she had best do something soon. She moved to inspect Deakins’s closets of disguises. She would need to be inconspicuous and she would need to protect herself. She pulled out the street-boy’s coat Deakins had shown her, with its cleverly concealed pockets hiding lock picks and a thin, deadly dagger. It was so much easier being a boy...

Chapter Nine

That evening Sari did not head back to Pimlico. She gave a coin to a link boy to take a note to George and Mina telling them that she must stay late at the Institute and they were not to worry. They would, of course, but she knew George trusted her enough to calm Mina’s worst fears. Then she headed out to Westminster Bridge, calculating that Morton would most likely cross there on his way to Southwark. Dressed as a street boy, with a wool cap pulled low over her face, she was as invisible as the moon on this overcast night. It was a tedious wait, but at around eight o’clock she saw the slight, unremarkable figure of the agent heading south over the other side of the bridge.

She followed at a distance as Morton headed into the alleyways off Lambeth Road. He finally stopped and settled onto a bench next to a couple of sailors playing backgammon outside the Black Dog. Sari crept by and slipped into the recessed basement entrance of a cobbler’s store and waited. It was cold and damp and she pulled her coat more tightly around her, comforted by the firm line of the dagger in her pocket.