Second chance...

With the scoundrel spy!

A Debutantes in Paris story. Running her father’s mercantile empire and campaigning for women’s rights means unconventional Emily Fortescue has no time for romance. But when her politics land her in trouble, old friend Christopher Blakely comes to her rescue. They grew up arguing, sparring...even kissing, until he withdrew into his mysterious work. Now she’s torn between safeguarding her bruised heart, and the lure of their spark reigniting...

AMANDA MCCABE wrote her first romance at the age of sixteen—a vast epic, starring all her friends as the characters, written secretly during algebra class. She’s never since used algebra, but her books have been nominated for many awards, including the RITA®, the Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Award, the Booksellers’ Best, the National Readers’ Choice Award and the Holt Medallion. She lives in Oklahoma with her husband, one dog and one cat.

Also by Amanda McCabe

Betrayed by His Kiss

The Demure Miss Manning

The Queen’s Christmas Summons

Bancrofts of Barton Park miniseries

The Runaway Countess

Running from Scandal

Running into Temptation

The Wallflower’s Mistletoe Wedding

Debutantes in Paris miniseries

Secrets of a Wallflower

The Governess’s Convenient Marriage

Miss Fortescue’s Protector in Paris

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Miss Fortescue’s Protector in Paris

Amanda McCabe

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08898-5

MISS FORTESCUE’S PROTECTOR IN PARIS

© 2019 Amanda McCabe

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Author Note

Extract

About the Publisher

Prologue
Miss Grantley’s School for Young Ladies—1888

It seemed like an ordinary day. Not completely ordinary, of course—it was the day families came to visit at Miss Grantley’s School for Young Ladies. Lessons were suspended and games of tennis and croquet were played on the wide green lawns, tea served in shady groves, while teachers were dispatched to answer parents’ anxious questions about their daughters’ progress.

The red-brick Georgian mansion that housed the school gleamed in the bright spring sunshine, as if the weather was specially ordered for the day, and girls streamed in and out in their fluttering white dresses. Laughter was light and musical on the warm breeze.

Emily Fortescue twirled her tennis racket as she took in the whole pretty scene. It was her last spring at Miss Grantley’s. In only a few weeks, she and her friends would graduate and scatter out into the world to find their destinies. She knew what surely awaited her best chums, Lady Alexandra Mannerly and Diana Martin—marriage to a suitable gentleman, a place in society. For Alex, the daughter of a duke and the goddaughter of the Princess of Wales herself, a high place indeed was expected, despite her shy reservations. She was beautiful and connected. Diana, too, came from a respectable family, with her father retired from the India station, and could be expected to find someone of similar stature, a life helping her husband in his career, even though she truly wanted to be a writer.

But what lay ahead for Emily?

She held up her hand to shade her eyes from the sun. She studied the families who were gathered around the tea tables, who strolled the garden paths, mothers arm in arm with daughters, fathers peppering the teachers with questions. But her own father, her only family, was not there. He seldom was.

Not that she blamed him, she thought with a sigh. Albert Fortescue had a business to run, a business that grew larger and more complex every year. Ever since Emily’s mother died when Emily was only a toddler, her father had been determined to give his only daughter a good life. He had expanded a small wine distribution and import-export company into a very lucrative concern, with many different departments and accounts all over Europe.

His hard work had given them a large house on Cadogan Square, Emily’s education at Miss Grantley’s, travels abroad and lovely clothes. And she had far more freedom than most of her friends. She was not hemmed in by chaperons, except for those dictated by the school, and had few expectations heaped upon her beyond doing well in her studies. Her father talked of her helping him in the company and that would surely suit her well. Being a delicate, retiring fine lady would be suffocating.

But, just once in a while, she wished her father could just—be with her. Come to a families’ day at Miss Grantley’s, look at her schoolwork, sit with her in the shade. Or, even more achingly, she wished her mother could be there, elegant in a fashionable feathered hat and pearls, comfortingly rose-scented like the other mothers, taking Emily’s arm as they strolled through the gardens. Smiling, giving her advice, listening to Emily’s doubts about the future.

But then again—her mother might not have been like the sweet, understanding, light-hearted being Emily held in her imagination. She might have been more like the Duchess of Waverton.

Emily watched as Alex’s mother gave her one more lecture before climbing into the glossy black carriage with its ducal crest on the door and finally leaving Miss Grantley’s. Alex looked pale against her sky-blue dress, her hands twisting in her skirt as she nodded at whatever the Duchess was saying. It was no doubt a stern list of proper behaviour for a duke’s daughter.

Yes, Emily thought. Maybe she was lucky after all. Her future was an open question, whatever she wanted to make of it. Alex’s was set.

‘Poor Alex,’ she heard a voice say behind her, low and slightly rough, a hint of suppressed laughter hidden in its depths. ‘I always thank my lucky stars the Duchess is my aunt, and not my mother.’

Emily smiled. Christopher Blakely. Alex’s cousin always livened up the school when he came to visit. Handsome, funny, light-hearted, always up for a game of tennis or a quick quarrel about whatever issues of the day happened to strike like a match between them. Yes, they always argued, but Emily had to admit it was fun.

She turned to look at him and was almost knocked over by her dazzlement. He really was ridiculously good looking; it was no wonder all the girls at the school were in love with him. Tall, slim, golden-haired like an Apollo, with vivid blue eyes and a perfect blade of a nose, sharp cheekbones, always moving with a quick, loose grace that matched the careless, yet somehow always elegant, way he dressed. She had heard such gossip about the trouble he got into in town and she quite believed it all.

‘Do you escape the famous Waverton lectures, then?’ she asked.

‘Of course not. Anyone in my aunt’s orbit is fair game for lectures on the proper way to live and I have much to correct,’ he said with a grin, a flash of white teeth and sunshine that made her smile, too. ‘She and my mother are like two peas in a pod. Organising lives is their reason for being.’

‘And what do they tell you that you should do?’ She thought of the whispered tales, of his trouble at Oxford, how he was almost sent down; the gambling and late nights in London.

‘The usual things. Find useful work, get married. But not too soon. And only to the most suitable girl. Cease my rackety ways and finish my degree.’

Emily laughed. It was hard to picture Chris married to a ‘suitable’ pale, aristocratic girl, going to an office every day in a grey suit. He seemed to have been born too late. He should have been an Elizabethan explorer, not a Victorian aristocrat. ‘And do they tell your brother that, too?’

Chris glanced at his brother William who was talking to Emily’s friend Diana near the house. Will looked so different from Chris, dark and solemn, always so perfect. ‘Of course not. Will is always serious and responsible. It’s hard to live up to his good name at Oxford, I can tell you. He knows what he wants out of life. He does what he should do.’

Emily was suddenly caught by something in Chris’s tone, something strangely wistful and sad. She had never heard that from him before. ‘And you don’t know what you want to do?’

‘Certainly not. What normal young man of my age does? Will is unnaturally solemn. It will get him into trouble some day. I intend to take my time deciding on things. Exploring the world.’

Emily sighed. ‘At least you have the time. I feel like mine is running out.’

Chris tilted his head back, his eyes narrowed as he studied her. He looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean? You’re still in school.’

‘But ladies can’t try things, can’t take their time to decide who they are. We have to find someone to marry immediately and then our lives are set. No more exploring. No more—deciding.’

‘Oh, Emily. You’re so pretty, you’ll have no worries there. You’ll find a very good husband and have a very good sort of life.’

He thought her pretty? Emily studied him carefully, feeling a little flustered, a little pleased and a little exasperated that he had missed her point. She almost laughed. She saw he was trying to help, to be kind, but he didn’t understand. Perhaps he couldn’t. Perhaps no man could. ‘What if being married isn’t what I want to do? Not the only thing, anyway.’

He frowned. ‘What else would you want?’

Emily felt a jolt of exasperation flash through her. ‘Oh—I don’t know!’ she cried, frustrated. She thought of Diana and how she wanted to write; Alex, and her sweetness and kindness to others. They all had so much to offer the world and no one seemed to want it. They only seemed to want women to set up nurseries and go over menus.

She remembered when she was younger and her father would take her to the office with him. When he worked, she would sit at a desk in the corner and look at the ledgers. She liked seeing how the accounts lined up, liked seeing the list of imported goods and imagining where they would go. She liked the way it all made sense.

‘Maybe I want to run a business, like my father,’ she said. ‘Or travel the world! Or invent things or raise terrier puppies. The point is, I don’t know yet. And I don’t have time to find out, as you do. Men are still young blades at twenty-five, while women are growing old and useless.’

He still looked adorably, maddeningly, puzzled. ‘But you’re a lady. Good at running a household, surely. Where would society be without that? Good at raising children, helping charities...’

Emily threw up her hands, the tennis racket she still held tumbling to the ground. ‘You just don’t understand, Christopher! It’s like speaking a different language—men and women will never decipher each other.’ She stalked away, down the pathway that led through quiet, shady stands of trees to the ornamental pond. It was usually a walk that soothed her, made her feel peaceful in nature, but today its beauty only made her feel more unsettled.

She dropped on to a wrought-iron bench near the edge of the pond and stared out at the rowboats that dotted the water. It looked like a French painting, all dappled light and hazy figures in white lazing in the warm afternoon.

She heard the rustle of footsteps and Chris sat down carefully beside her. She glanced up at him and he gave her a sweet, placating smile that surely melted hearts all the way from Oxford to the Scottish border.

‘Do you really think that is all a lady can do?’ she asked, feeling so sad. ‘Marry and do charity work?’

He glanced out at the pond for a quiet moment, as if thinking over her words. ‘It seems to be what most of the ladies I know want to do,’ he said. His smile turned mischievous. ‘Except for ladies who aren’t really ladies, of course.’

Emily had to laugh. ‘Actresses and chorus girls? Women who work in cafés?’

‘And what do you know about that?’

‘Not nearly as much as you do, I’m sure. But maybe I should be an actress.’

‘You wouldn’t be the fun sort.’ He studied her closely, until she wanted to squirm. ‘You would be some terribly serious Shakespearean tragedienne, or maybe you would sing grand Italian opera. The sort that makes me fall asleep.’

Emily shook her head. ‘I can’t carry a tune at all, I’m afraid. I got tossed out of music class. And I can’t memorise a poem to save my life. I am the despair of our literature teachers.’ She felt a pang that there was something she could not, after all, excel at, when other classes came so easily. ‘I guess it must be marriage for me after all.’

She felt a gentle touch on her hand, and, startled, she glanced down to see Chris’s fingers over hers. His touch was warm, tingling, delightful. She looked up at him to see his cut-glass handsome face was serious, watchful, even more beautiful than ever. For just that one instant, she thought he might actually see her.

‘Some bloke will be so lucky, Em,’ he said softly. ‘And he had better work bloody hard to make you happy.’

Emily didn’t even notice the cursing, she was too lost in his eyes. Like drowning in endless blue. She felt like someone in one of the novels Diana loved so much, caught in moments that felt out of time, sparkling, delicate, perfect. His expression changed as he looked at her, darkened.

She was drawn closer to him, unable to turn away, as if invisible, unbreakable bonds tied them together. As if in a hazy, warm dream, she felt Chris’s arms come around her, drawing her so close nothing could come between them. Emily found herself longing to seize the moment, to make it her own and never forget it.

She looped her arms around his neck and closed her eyes, inhaling the warm scent of him, of fresh air, clean linen, faint lemony cologne, of Chris himself. It made her feel dizzy, giddy, like too much champagne.

She gently touched his cheek. He moaned a low, hoarse sound, and his lips claimed hers at last. She met his kiss with everything she had, all the emotion locked away inside her. It wasn’t a gentle kiss, as surely first kisses usually were, but one filled with heat, desperation, need. She wanted it to go on and on for ever.

A burst of laughter nearby broke into Emily’s dream and she pulled back from Chris’s embrace, hot and cold all at the same time. Flustered and panicked, and full of a strange, bursting—joy. Had she just kissed Chris Blakely? Where had such a fantastical thing come from?

She stared up at him in astonishment. He looked just as shocked as she did, a dull red flush over his sharp cheekbones. His eyes closed and he shook his head, an appalled expression spreading over his face.

Appalled? At the thought of kissing her? Had she been that bad at it? Emily suddenly felt so disgusted with herself.

‘Em,’ he said, his voice tight and strangled, so unlike his usual joking self. ‘I’m so very sorry. What a rotten thing...’

Emily wanted to hear no more. She couldn’t stand that something which had been, only a moment before, strange and wondrous and almost beautiful, had become something rotten to him. She jumped to her feet and backed away, trying not to scrub at her lips with her hand, to erase the memory of his touch. To try to erase those awful feelings.

Surely those London chorus girls he knew would never be such ninnies over a mere kiss. ‘Don’t think anything of it,’ she said, trying to laugh. To her own ears, she sounded high-pitched and frantic, like an ingénue on the melodrama stage. ‘How silly we are today! I must be getting back to the school.’

He stood up beside her, his hair tousled, his eyes wide. He held out his hand. ‘Emily, please...’

Her own eyes were starting to film over, making the sparkling water of the pond hazy, and she would rather throw herself into its depths before she let him see her cry. Before she would let anyone see her cry.

She whirled around and ran back down the path, ignoring the sound of her name as Chris called after her. She scrubbed furiously at her eyes and pasted a fierce smile on her lips. No one could suspect what a fool she had been.

Diana and Alex ran towards her as she came closer to the house. They both looked a little worried and Emily knew she couldn’t fool them entirely as to her emotional turmoil. They were her best friends and a smiling façade couldn’t quite conceal her thoughts from them.

But neither would they ever pry. All three of them would wait patiently until one had a confidence to share.

Emily knew this was one confidence she would never share, even with her friends.

‘Are you quite well, Em?’ Diana asked. ‘Your cheeks are very pink.’

‘Perfectly well,’ Emily answered, giving her hand a careless wave. ‘I’ve just been sitting in the sun too long.’

Alex held out a straw boater hat. ‘You did forget your hat again.’

‘Oh, drat it. I certainly don’t need another lecture from Miss Grantley about freckles.’ Emily took the hat and pinned it on her dishevelled hair, glad the wide brim could hide part of her face. Her expression.

‘Maybe we should go inside, find some cool lemonade?’ Diana said.

‘Or maybe we should take you to the nurse?’ Alex asked, her tone full of her usual quiet worry. Alex always wanted to take care of everyone. ‘Too much sun can be dangerous.’

‘Of course I don’t need to see the nurse, I’m perfectly all right,’ Emily answered. She scooped up her tennis racket from where she had dropped it in the grass. ‘Let’s just have a game before we have to go in to tea!’

Alex and Diana exchanged another long glance, before they nodded. ‘Maybe Millie or Elizabeth could join us,’ Diana said.

Emily took a deep breath and made a couple of fierce practice swings with her racket. She imagined they were landing right on Chris Blakely’s golden, handsome head...

* * *

Chris was very much afraid that, when he looked back on this one instant years later, he would see his life divided into ‘before’ and ‘after’. Before Emily Fortescue and after.

He stood in the shadows of a grove of trees at the edge of the sun-splashed green tennis lawn and watched her play with her friends. She leaped into the air, her white skirts billowing around her, her racket wielded like a young Athena charging into battle. Her chestnut hair, red and gold and amber in the sunlight, was tumbling from its pins and she was laughing.

Her face, sharp-chiselled and angular as a cat, was usually so serious, so deep in thought and watchful, as if she saw deep into people’s thoughts and read their deepest secrets—and didn’t quite approve. But when she laughed, she was utterly transformed. The rich, merry, uninhibited sound of it would draw anyone closer. Like a siren.

But sirens drove men to their deaths with unfulfilled longings. They pulled men in even as they shoved them away. Chris feared that was definitely the case with Emily.

He raked his hands through his hair, leaving the over-long blonde strands he was always meant to trim properly standing on end—another disappointment to his parents. But he couldn’t dislodge the memory of that kiss.

That kiss.

What had he been thinking? Had he gone sun-mad in that moment? But he knew the truth. He had not been thinking. Just as his father always shouted at him, Chris never thought about what he was doing. Yet kissing Emily was hardly like missing his tutor’s lecture to go for a lark on the river or drinking at the Dog and Hare. Kissing Emily was...

Was the stupidest thing he had ever done. And the most wonderful. For just that one moment, when their lips touched and he tasted the tart sweetness of lemonade, felt the lithe grace of her under his touch, it was like breaking free and soaring. Like the drunken, sparkling magic of a Bonfire Night. Like he was just where he should be.

Only for a moment. Then it all crashed down again. This wasn’t a chorus girl, no matter what wild ambitions she proclaimed. Not a tart at the Dog and Hare. It was Emily. Emily Fortescue. His cousin’s friend. A young lady of education and wealth. Being involved with her would mean promises, expectations. Serious promises. And he was no good at serious.

Not that she would have him even if he was. She was far too good for him and everyone knew it.

He watched her now, laughing in the sunlight. She had picked up the ball from where it fell by the net and was casually tossing it high and catching it again as she chatted with her friends. Graceful, easy, her mobile, sensual mouth smiling. Her hair like autumn leaves, shimmering, heavy, enticing a man to pull it free from its pins and see how long and luxurious it was. Feeling it under his touch. She was so enticing, beautiful and smart and serious...

And he was someone in danger of being sent down from Oxford unless he mended his careless ways and started behaving like a Blakely, according to his parents. He was someone who excelled at making parties merrier and not much else. Emily was clever, beautiful, smart enough to run her father’s business one day, if she wanted. Smart enough to marry anyone she liked. His cousin Alex said Emily was sure to even expand her father’s already lucrative business and become an even more wealthy heiress one day.

He could certainly believe it, after how angry she became when he suggested marriage was her best option, a lady’s only choice.

Yet if she didn’t marry, he thought ruefully, it would be quite a waste. What a kisser she was. It made him wonder what else she would be brilliant at, in the privacy of a bedchamber...

Chris shook his head hard to dislodge a sudden image of Emily Fortescue dressed only in a thin silk chemise, laughing amid a billow of white pillows, her glorious chestnut hair spread mermaid-like around her. He had no business thinking about her that way.

And when they were together, they always seemed to argue. She was definitely not for the likes of him and he was not for her. Maybe they would have fun in the bedroom, if that wild kiss was any indication, but they would quarrel each other to death everywhere else. She was too strong-minded, too gloriously goddess-like, for everyday use.

And he was sure he would never quite measure up to her.

Yet, oh, she was so beautiful. He watched as she gracefully drew her arm back to serve, the long, lean line of her body. How had he never realised that before? Oh, he had always known she was pretty, that was impossible to miss. But she was actually incomparable.

‘What are you doing lurking out here, Chris?’ he heard his brother William say.

He glanced back to see Will walking towards him along the pathway between the trees, his brother’s dark suit and dark hair blending into the shadows. He looked impeccable, responsible, the always-serious one. ‘Just hiding for a moment before I plunge into all that Miss Grantley’s schoolness, I suppose. I have a newfound allergy to academia, even if this isn’t quite Oxford.’

Will gave a wry chuckle. ‘I’m rather surprised you showed up at all. It doesn’t seem like your sort of scene.’

Chris glanced at Emily again, her white skirts a blur as she dashed along the net. Her laughter floated back to him on the breeze. ‘Lemonade and deportment lessons? No, thank you. But I thought Alex might appreciate someone here besides the Duchess.’

Will smiled. ‘Yes. Poor, sweet Alex.’ He, too, studied the tennis game and for one awful instant Chris wondered if he, too, admired Emily. But then he realised Will watched Diana Martin, her hair a bright red in the light, waving her racket in mock-threat at Emily. Will’s smile seemed uncharacteristically—soft in that moment.

Interesting.

Will turned away from the sun-dappled scene and aimed his piercing blue gaze at Chris. Much like Emily, Will had an uncanny ability to see too much. Even when they were children, Chris could never pull off pranks on Will. And now Will had left university with a First in the Classics and worked for the Foreign Office, respectable and perfect.

‘Are you sure nothing is amiss, Chris?’ Will asked.

Chris shook his head, making himself give his trademark careless grin. It always seemed to throw everyone off. ‘Amiss? Whatever could be amiss on such a bright, sunny day, far away from any work at all?’

‘Yes,’ Will said quietly. Quiet with him was always a dangerous sign. When Will got quiet, it meant he was thinking even more than usual. ‘You want everyone to think all your days are bright and sunny, don’t you, Brother?’

Chris turned away. ‘Why should they not be? We are young, the world is open to us. Pretty girls, a drink at the pub tonight, maybe a horse race tomorrow...’

‘And that’s all there is?’

‘Of course it’s not,’ Chris said, feeling a strange anger rise up in him. Life should be more, should have some purpose. That was easy for someone like Will to say, or Emily. They seemed brimming with purpose, with serious minds that led them towards something greater. Chris searched for it, but where was it? So, he played the pleasure-seeker, the clown, the trickster.

He looked towards the tennis lawn. The game was over and Emily had put on her hat and was hurrying towards the house, arm in arm with Alex and Diana, the three of them giggling together as if they hadn’t a care in the world. As if the world hadn’t been rocked with a kiss.

‘But that’s what life is for now,’ Chris concluded. ‘As to the future, who can say? Father declares I’m fitted for nothing. Maybe he’s right.’

Will frowned. ‘When has Father been right about anything?’ he said. ‘Listen, Chris, you’ll be done at Oxford soon. Why don’t you come talk to them at the Foreign Office? I can arrange an appointment time.’

‘And work with you?’ Chris thought of how he would come off next to Will and shook his head. ‘They wouldn’t take me. And I’d die of boredom there after a day at a desk, thinking about infinitely boring people at infinitely boring foreign courts.’

Will laughed, a rare, rich sound. ‘Not every job there is as tedious as formal diplomacy, Chris. There is a lot there that would suit you very well indeed. And I’ll be leaving for India soon; they need more men at the London office. You should think about it, anyway. Father will start making noises again about the church and Mother will find you an heiress to marry if you don’t head them off with a different plan.’

Chris grinned. Both of those were tacks their parents had taken with him many times. Both sounded like the depths of wretchedness. Maybe Will had a point. If he had a different job in mind, there could be no vicarages in his future. ‘We’ll see.’

‘Good, do think about it. Now, should we go in? Surely it’s time for tea and no one could ever fault Miss Grantley’s for their excellent cook.’

‘True. I’ve been thinking about those raspberry tarts all day.’ Chris followed Will towards the arbour where maids were setting up the tea service and he was glad the day was almost done. But he could swear he heard the echo of Emily’s laughter following him at every step.

Chapter One
London—spring 1891

Christopher Blakely was sure his eyes were crossing from the mounds of paperwork. He had been making his way through them for hours and still the piles of documents loomed high. This was by far his least favourite part of the job.

He pushed the papers away and sat back in his chair with a laugh. Surely he would be more useful at a party somewhere, drinking and laughing, drawing people in—and learning their secrets. Wasn’t that why the Foreign Office had hired him in the first place, after his useless years at university? His light-hearted ways, his charm, his genuine interest in people and their strange ways. Such charm drew people close, invited their confidences, in a way that cool professionalism, such as that possessed by his brother Will couldn’t hope to accomplish. At least not as quickly as Chris, with his dimpled smiles and endless bottles of wine, the way he seemed born to read people and situations and adjust his reactions accordingly, could achieve.

He sighed as he plucked the document off the top of the pile—a report from an operative in Berlin, where trouble always seemed to be brewing. Even though the Kaiser was Queen Victoria’s own grandson, he was a troublemaker of endless ambition and jealousy. It was certainly difficult work, there on the ground in the embassies, a tightrope of keeping secrets while ferreting out everyone else’s, especially in etiquette-ridden places like Berlin. Yet Chris found he rather envied those men. They were respected, known. His own work, once so exciting, now seemed rather—dim.

The parties, the laughter that hid so much behind the bright masks, the satisfaction of drawing out hidden dangers and using that information to help his country—it had been everything to him. It was all he could have wanted, using his own gifts to do some good, gifts so different from Will’s, from what his parents had always demanded. It gave him a deep fulfilment. Pleasure, even.

But he was not as young as he once was. Chris ruefully ran his hand through his hair and wondered when its golden colour would turn iron-grey. When his ‘light-hearted rogue’ act would no longer be useful. It was already dull to himself.

He glanced at a photograph in its silver frame, set on the edge of the desk as if to remind him that he did have a family, that he owed something to other people. Will and Diana Martin on their wedding day more than a year ago, all elegant morning coat and white satin, all joyful smiles. Even after all these months, the soft way they looked at each other, those secret smiles only for themselves, were still just as tender as they had been on that day.

It made Chris smile to think of them. And it made him feel discomfited. Nothing like that was on the horizon for him. He had become too good at his work. His reputation as a rake put him beyond serious marital consideration, even if he had wanted to marry. Society mamas let him dance with their daughters and flirted with him themselves, but he knew they did not see him as a good prospect. They only saw what he chose to show them.

Even if he did marry, he could never really be honest with a wife, could never be his true self. He wouldn’t put a person he cared about in a perilous position, not when his work included all manner of people and situations. Risking his own safety and reputation was one thing; he couldn’t do such a thing to a lady. Even if there was one out there who would have him.

Against his will, an image appeared in his mind as he thought of a lady he could care about—an image that came up too often sometimes. Emily Fortescue.

He saw her as she was at Di and Will’s wedding, her pale blue silk gown like the sky itself, her laughter as she caught the bouquet. Emily, with her sharply edged intelligence, her hazel eyes that always saw too much, her lips that tasted so sweet under his. So irresistible. She made him want to spill all his secrets to her, to tell her everything, and that was dangerous indeed.

Chris glanced again at the wedding image. Will and Di were Emily’s friends, too. Diana was practically her sister. He could never offer Emily, who meant so much to so many people, the kind of marriage she deserved; neither could he trifle with her. Not that he could imagine anyone trifling with Emily’s affections at all. She was too intelligent, too independent, and she had made it clear she did not intend to marry.

So, Emily Fortescue was the only lady he could imagine marrying—and the last lady he ever could. It was a prison of his own making and one he could never back out of now. His work depended on it; too many people depended on it, even if they would never know it.

He pushed away memories of Emily, as he so often had to do, and reached for the pile of papers again. Even the problems of Berlin were less complicated than romance.

Luckily, a knock at the door interrupted the tedious task. ‘Come in,’ he called in relief.

It was Laura, Lady Smythe-Tomas, another of the office’s secret agents and one of their most successful. A beautiful, redheaded young widow, she had a rare sense of style, a deep, husky laugh and royal connections to the Marlborough House Set. She and Chris had worked together often before and he always enjoyed her company, even if they were far too similar to ever be romantically involved. It was too bad; he wouldn’t have to hide his work from her.

‘Christopher, darling, are you ready for...?’ She paused in adjusting her kid evening gloves and sapphire-blue gown, her luminous green eyes narrowed as she took in his shirtsleeves and tousled hair. ‘I see you are not. Are we going to be fashionably late?’

‘Late for—what?’ Then Chris suddenly remembered. A gambling party at a very secret, very exclusive club, one which high-ranking German and Russian diplomats favoured.

Laura laughed and perched on the edge of his desk. ‘Too engrossed in all those fascinating reports, I see. Well, there is plenty of time. It’s better if we give them time to find the claret, then they’re easier to talk to. And we must appear to be carelessly late fribbles, anyway, yes?’

‘Fribbles we must be.’ Chris went to the wardrobe in the corner where he kept his extra evening clothes for just such emergencies. He glanced back at Laura, who was sorting through her beaded reticule and humming a little waltz to herself. She had been widowed for many years, left almost penniless by her titled older husband. Was she ever lonely? Did she ever regret the work? ‘Laura...’

‘Yes, darling?’ she answered, tucking a strand of dark red hair into her beaded bandeau.

‘Have you never considered marrying again?’

She gave a startled laugh. ‘Why, Chris! Are you proposing to me?’ She laughed even harder when he was afraid he looked rather alarmed. ‘Oh, don’t look so frightened. I know very well you are not. If there is anyone who is less the marrying sort than I am, it’s you.’ She slid off the desk and planted her gloved hands on her hips. ‘Why? Have you met someone and are having second thoughts about this work?’

‘No, not at all. I was just—just thinking about Will, I suppose.’

‘Oh, William.’ Laura waved her hand. ‘He is different. He works above-board at an embassy, he must have a spouse. One would just get in the way of our kind of work. You know that.’

‘Of course I know that.’ He had always known that, that being rakish was part of the importance of what he did. It was only lately that he felt himself changing, changing in ways he did not understand. ‘But have you not ever felt, I don’t know—felt alone?’

‘Oh, Chris, darling.’ She gave him a concerned frown and stepped forward to press his hand. ‘I confess I do. My marriage was not all it should have been, but still it was nice to know someone was there if I stumbled. But I am so much better off now and so are you. We are too good at our work to give it up.’

Chris nodded. He did know the score, he always had. He just had to shake away those wistful feelings and get on with what he was so good at doing.

‘Tonight’s party should be just the thing to chase the glooms away!’ Laura said, handing him his silk cravat. ‘Just think of all the lovely ladies who will be there, ready and eager for you to sweep them off their feet and learn all their little secrets...’

Chapter Two

Emily was running...running down the same endless dark alleyway lined with towering bales of cloth stretching so tall and so out of sight that she was sure they reached up into the sky that was always night. She couldn’t even see the starlight, only splashes of hazy, haloed gaslight that came from unseen lamps. She heard voices, but they came from so far away they only seemed like an echo of mocking laughter.

But the footsteps behind her were very clear. Slow, stately, unrelenting. Not hurried at all, not a panicked run like hers, but always moving closer.

Her lungs ached, her breath was strangled in her throat. Her hair tumbled into her eyes, blinding her.

She tried to run faster, but the alley was now choked with cobwebs, wrapping around her ankles, pulling her back. Making her trip. The footsteps grew louder and she fell, toppling towards the ground. He would surely catch her now and she was helpless, cornered like a fox pursued by baying hounds.

She was falling...

‘No!’ Emily cried, sitting straight up. For an instant she was sure the cobwebs had trapped her, holding her limbs immobile. Then she realised it was only the blanket, tangled around her. She was on her bedroom chaise, where she had gone for an afternoon rest, safe in her own chamber.

It was only that nightmare again.

With a cry of frustration, Emily pulled the blanket free and tossed it on the green-and-white-flowered carpet. She lay back on the tufted velvet cushions and closed her eyes.

For a time, after the event, the dream had plagued her almost every night when she tried to sleep. It had got so bad, she would just stay up every night and go over all the business ledgers in her father’s library. Her hard work, and begging pleas, had finally convinced her father to let her stop with her social Season and go into business full-time with him. With work, lots of work, the nightmare stopped and she almost forgot that one stupid event.

But it seemed it didn’t want to be forgotten. Not entirely.

She had been a foolish girl, thinking a man like Gregory Hamilton—handsome, highly connected, known for being something of a rake—would be truly interested in her. Yet it had been her first Season, fresh out of school, and she had wanted to dance and flirt, to laugh. Then he’d got her out on the terrace at that ball and she’d realised how foolish she really had been.

She had got away then and Gregory had gone away to Ceylon. Work had made her forget that cold fear, but still the dream came sometimes.

It was the last time she would ever be foolish over a man, Emily had always vowed, and she kept that promise to herself now. She’d had lots of suitors, some of them just as handsome and rich as Gregory had been, all of them quite dull. None of them could tempt her. She threw herself into her work, into making her father’s business even more successful than before.

Except whenever she saw Chris Blakely. When he came near, her vows to be sensible seemed to just fly out the window. They quarrelled every time they met, the last time at Alex’s wedding to Malcolm Gordston, and then Lady Rippon’s garden party. Chris was quite hopeless, given up as a wastrel by everyone. But when he kissed her...

‘No more,’ she cried, kicking at the blanket.

‘Miss Emily,’ she heard her maid Mary call out, as Mary knocked at the door. ‘Are you quite all right? Edna thought she heard you cry out while she was dusting down the corridor.’

‘Oh, yes, Mary, I’m fine,’ she answered, reaching for the dropped blanket. ‘It was just a bad dream. I must have fallen asleep.’

Mary hurried in, Emily’s dinner gown of blue silk and chiffon draped over her arm. Emily glanced at the half-curtained window and saw that the light was dark amber now, almost evening. Her father would be expecting her soon for their shared meal.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sleep so long,’ Emily said, trying to smooth her rumpled hair.

Mary laid out the dress on Emily’s green-brocade-draped four-poster bed and searched the wardrobe for the matching shoes. ‘It’s no wonder, Miss Emily. You were gone before breakfast this morning.’

‘I had to check that the Gordston’s shipment was ready to go,’ Emily said. Alex’s husband, the owner of two, soon to be three, very successful department stores, was one of their best business partners.

She sat down at her dressing table and reached for her silver-backed hairbrush. She tried to pull out the knots in her thick, chestnut hair, but it was hopeless.

‘Here, let me do that, Miss Emily,’ Mary said, taking the brush with a tsk. ‘You’ll have no hair left if you keep on like that. And then what would we pin your hats to?’

Emily laughed, some of the tension of her dream dissipating. She thought of the rows and rows of hats that sat on their own shelf in the dressing room, feathers and bows and fruit on straw and velvet and silk. It was part of her job now to be always super-stylish, to advertise the latest fashions, and she had to admit it was a part of her job she rather enjoyed. ‘True. I leave myself in your capable hands, Mary, as usual. Is my father already downstairs?’

‘He’s in his library, I think, Miss Emily.’

Where he always was when he was at home in Cadogan Square. ‘Working, no doubt.’

Mary tsked again as she swirled Emily’s hair into an elaborate coil at the nape of her neck and secured it with tortoiseshell combs. She handed Emily a pair of aquamarine earrings. ‘You both work much too hard.’

‘What else is there to do?’ Emily murmured as she slid the jewels on to her earlobes. She thought of what her friends did: Alex with her charity work in Paris as she helped Malcolm run his stores, and Diana writing her magazine articles in Vienna, where she hosted diplomatic receptions for her husband Will. They were busy all the time, too, doing useful things. Emily had to do the same. One day, her work would no longer be hers to do and she would have to find something new. She rather longed for what Diana and Alex had, but such longings did no good. Work was what she had.

Mary frowned disapprovingly, making Emily laugh. Mary had been with the Fortescue household for years, starting as a tweeny when Emily’s mother was still alive, and Emily knew she had opinions about how they should run their lives. Mary always thought Emily should follow her friends’ examples and marry. Emily knew her father felt the same way, though he rarely said so. He would love to see her settled with a good husband, a son-in-law to help carry on his work.

But Emily knew that was impossible. After Gregory Hamilton and his cold hands on that terrace, she couldn’t face intimacy with another man—except for Chris Blakely, who was impossible for entirely different reasons. And she could never give up her work.

‘For now, I suppose, Miss Emily,’ Mary said. She helped Emily out of her brocade dressing gown and into her dinner dress. ‘Is there anything else you need?’

Emily reached for her gloves. ‘Not now, Mary, thank you. After dinner, I’ll need to change into a tweed suit, though, something sturdy. I’ll be off to the meeting of the Women’s Franchise League.’

* * *

By the time Emily hurried downstairs, her father was waiting in the drawing room, a pre-dinner sherry in hand, reading through the day’s newspapers. The financial pages, no doubt, Emily thought as she crossed the room to kiss his cheek. After a day visiting suppliers, checking accounts and lunching with clients, Albert Fortescue liked to know what his rivals were doing.

Emily glanced over her father’s shoulder as the butler handed her a cut-crystal glass of the ruby-red liquor. She saw an advertisement, a full half-page, for Gordston’s Department Stores of Paris, London and now Brighton.

‘I’m very glad to see Gordston’s is doing so well,’ she said. ‘I see he is carrying the latest hats from Madame Fronde’s! Anything about the expansion of the Paris store?’

‘Not here, but I was looking over the café accounts; we are at beyond capacity there every day. It was an excellent idea of yours to go into such a venture with Mr Gordston, Emily. We will be opening one in the London store any time now, I am sure.’

Emily gave a satisfied smile, remembering the hard work of setting up the elegant café in the Paris store. ‘I am certainly glad to hear it. It was a stroke of genius on our parts, I must say, for both us and Malcolm. Ladies can shop even longer if they’re properly fortified for the day. Not to mention having a place to meet their friends for a cosy chat, without you men and your dreadful cigars stinking it all to bits.’

Her father laughed and folded his newspapers as he sat back in his armchair. Emily was a bit worried he was looking thinner than usual, his moustache showing traces of silver in the chestnut, and she wondered if Mary was right that work was not everything. Maybe her father could use a holiday, to Cannes or Portofino, some place warm. She did worry about his health and she knew that this caused many of his worries for her, for who would take care of her one day.

‘It was a brilliant idea,’ he said. ‘Cafés in department stores, it’s sure to catch on. In fact, that is something of what I wanted to talk to you about, my dear.’

‘The cafés?’

‘Paris. I had a note from Mr Gordston asking if we could have a meeting soon, to talk about the possible expansion.’

‘Really? I thought the Gordstons were not in the city now. My last letter from Alex was from their country chateau outside Versailles.’ She smiled to think of Alex and how happy she was now with her department-store millionaire husband, adored and pampered, just as she deserved. Emily rather envied her.

‘Yes, it seems they don’t plan to make it back to England any time very soon and I am so caught up in that business with the new spice company out of Madras. I was thinking you could go to Paris in my place. You did such a grand job last year.’

Go back to Paris? Where she’d last seen Chris? Last did such a foolish thing and kissed him in the maze at Lady Rippon’s garden party? Emily turned away as she felt her cheeks turn hot.

Her first instinct was to say no. Paris had such an intoxicating effect on her. But Gordston’s business was very important. And she had heard that Chris was still gadding about the Continent somewhere, doing who knew what. Perhaps he was in Austria with Will and Diana. She would surely not even see him in Paris again.

The butler announced dinner before she could answer and she took her father’s arm to make their way towards the dining room. She glimpsed her mother’s portrait, as she did every night, hanging near the doorway. Maude Fortescue smiled down at her husband and daughter serenely, always young, always perfect. How Emily wished she could ask her advice now!

But she could not. She never could. Growing up without a mother had made her keep her own counsel, find her advice in books and from her friends. That couldn’t change now. But Alex and Diana’s marriages, the way they did something different from most of the women in their world, made her wonder if there could be a way for her, too. Probably not. Will and Malcolm were unique husbands.

The dining room was a grand space, meant for entertaining and impressing business associates. With a long, polished mahogany table lined with blue-and-white-striped satin chairs, the silk-papered walls lined with valuable Old Masters, the sideboard gleaming with silver, it spoke quietly of her father’s success and good taste. But with only herself and her father at dinner, it seemed full of shadows, echoing, empty.

But two places were arranged at one end of the vast table, a cosy oasis of candlelight glowing on the Wedgwood porcelain, the heavy old silver. Their own cosy world, made just for themselves. What would she do one day when there was only one place laid at her table?

‘How lovely it is to get to spend the evening with my beautiful daughter,’ her father said as the footman ladled out the salmon bisque. ‘It is much too rare. You’ve become quite the social butterfly lately!’

Emily laughed. Parties were one way to outrun herself, to be sure. ‘You are the one who always taught me the value of connections, Father. I’m finding future customers wherever I go. You are no slouch in that direction, either. Were you not at the Criterion with Lady Musgrave’s party last week? I am sure I read about it in the paper.’

Albert’s cheeks flushed just a bit above his silvering whiskers and Emily wondered if there was more to the contact with Lady Musgrave than a visit to the theatre and a restaurant. She certainly was a handsome lady, widowed and energetic and cultured. Maybe that was the sort of rest her father needed? A new companion? Where would Emily’s place be, then? Yet she would love her father to find a friend.

‘You are quite right, my dear,’ he said. ‘Connections are all. And Lady Musgrave does serve the best wine in town, her cellar is beyond excellent. I should see about selling her a few cases.’

Emily laughed. ‘See? Always working. But, yes, it is very nice to have a dinner to ourselves.’

The footman brought in the fish course, a trout in lemon sauce. ‘Perhaps a hand of piquet after?’

‘I have to go out after dinner.’

Her father chuckled. ‘Another dance?’

‘Not at all. A meeting of the Women’s Franchise League.’

His laughter turned to a doubtful frown. ‘Not Mrs Hurst’s group?’

‘Yes, of course, Father. She is the president of the League. You know I go every month. It’s most fascinating and her speakers always have such excellent arguments to make.’

‘Emily, I do wish you would not associate with people of such radical and dangerous ideas,’ he scolded. ‘It’s dangerous.’

Emily sighed. They had indeed had such conversations before. She knew her father did not think her or any other educated woman incapable of voting; she knew he had supported the measure quite wholeheartedly when women householders were given the vote in local elections and two were even voted on to the London County Council in 1889. But he disliked tales of riots and arrests at meetings of union leaders and worried such things could happen with the League, as well. It was one of the reasons he was always trying to find a good husband for her, a son-in-law to take care of her and keep her away from such ‘radical’ interests.

But Emily liked what she heard at the meetings, liked not being dismissed for her brains and ambition. She had to believe her mother would have agreed, as well.

‘Oh, Father, I know you do not believe women making their own decisions for their own lives to be radical,’ she said. ‘Have I not done a fine job with you in the business? Have I not a brain and ideas, useful things to offer the world, just like anyone else?’

Her father gave her a gentle smile. ‘I could not have done without you these last few years, Emily, and you know that is true. You’re a natural at the business, my own daughter, but you are your mother’s daughter, as well. I’m afraid I have not reminded you of that often enough.’

‘Oh, Father,’ Emily said softly. ‘I do think of Mama so often. But whatever do you mean?’

‘I mean, you have her kind heart as well as her beauty. You should have your own family to appreciate that.’ It was an argument he made often and one she knew came from his heart.

Emily stared down hard at her plate, trying to swallow past the knot in her throat. Trying not to think about why she had vowed not to marry. ‘You know I don’t wish to wed anyone. Not right now, anyway.’

‘I know you have said that. And it’s quite true I know of no man worthy of my lovely daughter. But there must be someone, someone strong and intelligent and kind, who could possibly come into the business with us.’ He reached out and gently touched her hand. ‘I’m not a young man, Emily. I want to leave everything in capable hands—and not leave you alone.’

‘Oh, Father.’ Emily covered his hand with her own, trying not to cry. ‘You needn’t worry about the business, or about me. I am not alone. I have friends.’

‘Friends like Mrs Hurst and her group?’

‘Yes. And like Diana Blakely and Alexandra Gordston. I am quite well, just as I am, Father. I promise.’

‘Just keep an open mind, Emily. That’s all I ask. Meet new people. Consider the future.’

Emily gave him a reassuring smile, though she didn’t feel at all steady herself. ‘I will, I promise. If you will consider taking a holiday yourself.’

‘A holiday? Why on earth would I do such a thing?’ he scoffed.

‘Maybe go to the seaside. Read books. Go for walks.’ She smiled at him. ‘Maybe Lady Musgrave might enjoy a holiday, as well? You two could go on wine tastings. I do hear Burgundy is lovely this time of year.’

‘Minx,’ Albert said with a laugh. ‘Maybe a holiday isn’t such a bad idea after all. But let’s talk about you and Paris...’

* * *

When Emily left the house after dinner, changed from her silk gown to a tweed walking suit and small felt hat, and journeyed towards the hall where Mrs Hurst and the League met in Pimlico, it had been decided she would go to Paris to see to the Gordston business and her father would take a holiday as soon as she returned. Emily tried to tell herself that it was only a short visit to Paris and Chris was sure to be gone from there. She wasn’t quite sure if the idea was reassuring, or disappointing. Whenever she thought of Paris, she thought of Chris and the kiss they had shared there the last time they were together in the city. The kiss that made her feel so very much it was frightening.

She took her father’s carriage through the city streets, crowded with people making their way to theatres and supper parties, but then sent the coachman away once they arrived at the hall, much to his dutiful chagrin. She promised she would find a ride home from one of the other ladies’ carriages, but she didn’t mention that they would probably go to a coffee house first to talk about suffrage issues. She waited on the pavement until the carriage had rolled out of sight. Then she hoisted the ledgers she kept as the League’s treasurer into her arms and made her way inside.

The League’s headquarters didn’t look like anything remarkable or radical at all from the outside. A plain brick building, narrow and tall, identical to its neighbours, shutters drawn over the windows. There was no sign by the black-painted door, but a small brass bell. Ever since the League’s president, Mrs Hurst, had published a pamphlet titled Is Marriage A Failure?, they had been forced to move a couple of times.

Emily gave the bell three short rings and, after a moment, there was the patter of footsteps, the click of locks and the door swung open. To Emily’s surprise, it was Mrs Hurst herself who stood there.

Short, plump, greying brown hair in a knot atop her head, dressed in a plain shirtwaist and sensible dark blue skirt, no one would take Mrs Hurst for a radical, either. She smiled and reached out to take some of the ledgers. ‘Oh, my dear Miss Fortescue! You are the first to arrive. Do come in. You can help me set up.’

Emily followed her up a narrow flight of stairs and into a small room with a low platform set at one end, faced by rows of chairs. Mrs Hurst handed her a stack of papers to place on each chair, with an article of issues to cover at the meeting: going over the financials, groups sent to seek volunteers in other cities, a roster of speakers at other meetings.

‘I’m sure you have all the figures to present during the budget talks,’ Mrs Hurst said, bustling around setting up more chairs.

‘Oh, yes, of course. We’ve come out rather ahead last month, I’m glad to say.’

‘All because of your hard work, Miss Fortescue! You are quite the most efficient treasurer we have ever had. If you were Minister of the Exchequer, I am sure every problem of the Empire would be quite solved!’

‘I’m afraid I’m not such a whiz as all that,’ Emily said with a sigh. The accounts had never been the most interesting part of business to her, but they were none the less essential. She made her way down the rows, leaving the agendas at each place. ‘I’m not sure we have such a rosy picture for the rest of the quarter, though, unless we can hit on an idea for another fundraiser.’

‘It never is especially rosy,’ Mrs Hurst said, laughing. ‘But I might have a plan to change that, if you’re willing to help.’

‘Of course I am,’ Emily answered, intrigued.

‘I was at the Pankhursts’ At Home in Russell Square last week. Have you been there?’

‘No, but I should dearly like to meet them,’ Emily said. She had heard of Richard Pankhurst, a Liberal M.P., and his wife, who were interested in many causes such as suffrage, and the fascinating people they attracted to their drawing room for evenings of music, refreshments and radical conversation.

‘Oh, you simply must! Richard and Emmeline are the most astonishing people, so open-minded and full of ideas, and simply everyone goes there. I saw Grant Allen last week and that Italian anarchist, Malatesta. Mrs Stanton-Blatch is visiting from America next month. Well, I also met a woman called Madame Renard, who runs an organisation much like our own in Paris. They have faced problems similar to ours, I fear—having the funds to do our work, attracting women of every social station. But she has a few intriguing ideas for raising funds.’

‘What sort of ideas?’

‘It’s a gentleman from Germany she knows, an Herr Friedland. Much associated with the court of Emperor Frederick and his wife, our own Princess Royal still affectionately known as Crown Princess Vicky, of course. The royal couple were very interested in new ideas, in following the English liberalism of the Empress Dowager’s father, much unlike the rest of the German royals, and the Empress Dowager still is interested. Herr Friedland says he can act as liaison with her to set up a sort of roundabout fund for organisations like ours. The Empress Dowager wants to show her support to do so publicly.’

‘Really?’ Emily was intrigued, but rather dubious. The support of people like the Princess Royal would be very valuable indeed, even if it had to be discreet, but how could this man be trusted? So many men would do anything at all to make sure women never had the vote, never had any power. And she knew Germany was a very different place from England. ‘How can we verify his credentials, if it all must be so quiet?’

‘Well, that is where you can come in, my dear Miss Fortescue,’ Mrs Hurst said, practically clapping her hands with enthusiasm. ‘Madame Renard is to meet with Herr Friedland in Paris and has invited us to send someone to take part, to learn how we can all benefit. I cannot go, but I know the matter can be in no more capable hands than yours.’

‘Paris?’ Emily said, astonished. A visit to the city coming up twice in one day—it must be a sign she was meant to be there. ‘I am meant to go there soon anyway, on business for my father, but I don’t know...’

‘Excellent! Then it is meant to be, I’m sure,’ Mrs Hurst cried happily. ‘With enough financing, we can spread our operations to every corner of England at last and ensure freedom to every woman. I will have Madame Renard send you the particulars.’

Before she could ask any more questions, though, the bell rang again and Mrs Hurst dashed down the stairs to let in the others. Emily heard the burst of laughter as the women clattered up the steps and she knew she couldn’t focus now on anything but the important business at hand.

Chapter Three

The streets were quieter than Emily expected when she left her friends at the meeting, and she couldn’t glimpse any hansoms. She glanced at the watch pinned to her tweed lapel and realised it was later than she usually was. But the city was not completely deserted. She still saw a few carriages leaving late, post-theatre suppers, some lingering diners in cafés. So she decided to walk for a time until a hansom came by, a few minutes to clear her head.

After a League meeting, she always felt filled with energy, fizzing away so she could hardly rest. The rightness of what they were working for filled her with such a sense of purpose, of being right where she should be, that it felt as if she was floating in another world entirely from the real one of parties and appointments.

It was just like that when she was absorbed in her work. Or like those moments hidden in the thick green maze with Chris, his lips on hers, all else vanished...

‘No!’ she muttered aloud, stabbing at the pavement with the tip of her umbrella. She wouldn’t think about Christopher Blakely now, not tonight. It was only the idea of being in Paris again that brought him back to her so vividly. Paris had been a magical place and time, so beautiful and sparkling, and Chris had been such a part of it. Just as beautiful and sparkling as the Champs-Élysées itself, lit up at night, and just as illusory.

Yet she couldn’t help but wonder—what was he doing now? Did he ever think about her at all?

‘Don’t be silly,’ she told herself. Of course Chris didn’t think of her. He was too busy doing his Chris-like things: gambling clubs and horse races, theatres. He never had serious thought and he was all wrong for her.

But, oh, he was fun. Handsome and merry, so unlike her own serious self. Yes, she did rather miss him now. Blast him.

Emily heard an echo behind her, a slow, steady sound like a footfall on the paving stones, and she suddenly realised how quiet everything had become. While she was daydreaming, she had turned from the busier lanes of restaurants and hotels to a silent residential street. She stopped and glanced over her shoulder, but could see nothing but shadows in the pale light that fell from a few windows. The echo of footsteps stopped.

A memory flashed through her mind, of Gregory Hamilton and that deserted terrace, of the claustrophobic feeling of not being able to get away. She thought of the strange letters that had recently started to arrive at her house, notes she couldn’t explain, but had dismissed as the ramblings of an overzealous mystery suitor. She shivered and felt the hairs on her arm prickle a bit.

She spun back around, feeling foolish, and hurried ahead, as fast as she dared. The footsteps started again, also moving faster, and as she turned a corner a hand suddenly seized her arm, appearing from the darkness.

She was suddenly caught in her own nightmare, the cobwebs closing around her feet, tripping her as she tried to flee in the darkness.

Using her weight, Emily whirled around towards her attacker instead of trying to pull away. She drew back the hand that held her umbrella and lashed out with it at the shadowy figure.

He just looked like a phantom in the night, featureless, pale, terrifyingly tall and swathed in a black coat, a hat tugged low on his brow to conceal his face. But the iron grip on her arm was all too real.

She screamed and lashed out again with her umbrella. He muttered a low, rough curse and tried to grab her other arm as she landed a lucky blow to his skull. She screamed again, desperately, and tried to bring her boot-heel down on his foot.

A window somewhere along the street opened and someone called, ‘Here, what’s this about? Leave off or I’ll call on the constables, right now!’

As if startled, her attacker suddenly released her and fell back a step. Emily broke away and started running, as fast as she could. It had been a long time since her days of chasing tennis balls and rowing on the pond at Miss Grantley’s, but she could still move like the wind when she needed to. She didn’t stop until she somehow reached her own front door and she pounded her fists on it frantically.

She stumbled inside when the butler opened it and only then did she feel the ache in her struggling lungs, the pain in her legs. He stared at her in astonishment as she collapsed on the nearest chair.

‘Miss Emily,’ he said. ‘Whatever is the matter? Are you ill?’

Emily shook her head, gasping too hard to say anything. She wanted to beg him not to alert her father, but it was too late. Albert had already appeared at the top of the stairs in his dressing gown, his face creased with worry.

‘Emily,’ he cried, hurrying down to her side. Mary appeared behind him, her face shocked. ‘Fetch a doctor right away!’

‘No, I don’t need a doctor,’ Emily managed to say hoarsely. ‘I just had a bit of a fright, that’s all.’

‘Oh, Miss Emily, was it him? The letter writer?’ Mary gasped. ‘I knew he would show up!’

‘Him?’ Emily’s father said sharply.

Emily shot Mary a reproachful glance, but she didn’t blame the maid, not really. When Emily had confided in Mary about the notes, they had both determined it was probably just an overzealous suitor. Emily had begged Mary not to say anything, not to worry her father, and surely the letters would stop soon enough. Mary had agreed, but had they been very wrong after all?

‘I’ll just fetch a brandy, Miss Emily,’ Mary said, and she and the butler hurried away.

Albert sat beside Emily and gently took her hand. She felt steadier already, being in her own home with her father, and anger was beginning to replace the fear. ‘Emily, what does Mary mean? Was someone pestering you tonight? Someone you have had problems with before?’

Emily shook her head. ‘Someone was following me, I think, and I did receive one or two letters recently—very, um, affectionate letters. From someone nameless. But I am sure they are not connected.’

Albert looked shocked, his face turning red. ‘I never should have let you go alone to that blasted meeting! If only your mother were here. She would have known what to do.’

Emily held tightly to his hand. ‘It has nothing to do with the meeting, Father, I’m sure of it. It happened long after I left the hall. I was just being silly, distracted by a daydream. I will always take the carriage from now on, I promise.’

Mary returned with a glass of brandy and Emily took a bracing gulp of the amber liquid, glad of its steadying warmth.

‘Well, Paris is out of the question now,’ her father said.

‘Oh, no, Father,’ Emily argued. ‘We can’t let one strange incident get in the way of our business. I swear to you, I will be much more careful in the future.’ And the letter-writer, and that night’s follower, if they were indeed one and the same, could never be allowed to interfere in what really mattered: her work.

Her father looked as if he very much wanted to argue with her, but he just shook his head and patted her hand. ‘We will talk about it tomorrow, my dear. You look exhausted. Let Mary take you up to bed now. You need some rest.’

Emily nodded. She was exhausted, but she feared she wouldn’t find quiet sleep that night. She let Mary lead her up to her chamber, brush her hair and help her into her nightdress. The maid stayed beside her, reading from a book of poetry, as Emily climbed into bed. She closed her eyes and for a moment the fearful image of the dark alley wasn’t there at all. Instead she saw a sunny French garden, Chris’s teasing smile as he kissed her in that garden maze, and she was able to drift into slumber.

* * *

Albert Fortescue glanced through the darkened doorway at his peacefully sleeping daughter. In her slumber, she looked younger, serene, all the cares of the day, her endless energy, still for the moment. It reminded him of when she was a little girl and he would read her a bedtime fairy story, tuck her in before he went off to a dinner party or the theatre. Those quiet, precious moments, gone much too quickly.

But what wasn’t gone, what would never be gone, was his need to protect her. To keep her safe. He had promised Emily’s mother, as she lay dying, that their daughter would always be safe. Now he feared he was failing in that vow.

He remembered with an anguished pang the frightened look on her face earlier and the anger that anyone would dare treat her like that. His Emily, his precious girl!

Albert knew he had not raised her as most girls were. But how could he have done differently? He had been on his own for most of their life together. Emily had no mother, no aunt, no grandmother to guide her. Perhaps he should have married again, given her a stepmother, but the business took all his time. They had seemed to do well, the two of them, and his Emily was so smart, so full of energy, so independent. She was a true assistant in his work.

Yet he was not as young as he had once been. He could feel his own strength flagging and one day, perhaps much sooner than he could have wished, he would have to cease working so much. It was time to organise, once and for all, things he had put off for too long.

Emily needed a protector, someone to stand by her side in life. A husband who could give her a secure place in society, give her a family so she would never be alone and perhaps take over the reins of his business once he could no longer do it. She needed someone—before it was too late. The danger she’d run into that night only proved that to him.

Albert sighed and ran a hand over his face as weariness and worry washed over him. How to convince Emily of this urgency? Every time he thought he had found a proper suitor for her, his darling, headstrong girl turned her nose up at them! She always had an argument against them and he would never want to see her with someone she could not love. Someone she could love as he had once so loved her mother.

Surely, though, there was a man out there who would be worthy of his intelligent, kind-hearted daughter? A man they could both trust?

Emily sighed in her sleep and Albert hurried to tuck the blankets closer around her, just as he had done when she was a child. ‘Don’t worry, my dearest,’ he whispered. ‘I will find a way to make it right...’

Chapter Four

‘And Lord Henry Haite-Withers is getting married! I’m quite sure you remember him, Christopher, he is the son of my dear friend the Marchioness of Barnsworthy,’ Beatrice Blakely said, her voice touched with barely concealed reproach. She gestured to the butler to bring in dinner’s next course as she told Chris of every bit of marital gossip.

Was it only the fish course? Chris could have sworn they should be on the fruit and cheese at least. He felt as if he had been sitting there in the gloomy parental dining room for two days.

It was ever thus with his monthly obligatory family dinners. The dining room was a cavernous space decorated in the dark greens and burgundies of the style of his mother’s youth, back when the Queen was a young mother and not grandmother of an Empire. Every corner was stuffed with tables of bibelots, porcelain figurines, old silver, vases of peacock feathers, and the dining table was laden with gilded bowls of fruit and flowers. It was draped in green damask, lined with rows of gold-rimmed crystal and platters, even when it was only he and his parents dining. It was all dark, airless, lifeless.

Yet the decor was only the outward representation of the unspoken emotions that always hung heavy in the air. His parents had not spoken a word to each other in years, if they could possibly help it, and when they did it was only for his father to send barely veiled barbs at his mother and his mother to ignore them and chatter on to no one in particular about gossip. It had been thus for nearly as long as Chris could remember. Leaving for school, even with its cold baths and canings, had been a blessing.

Matters seemed to have got even worse since Will left for his diplomatic postings abroad and married Diana Martin. Chris adored Di, she was the perfect sister-in-law, and had brought such laughter to his solemn brother’s life. Yet Chris still couldn’t fathom how Will had been able to take the matrimonial plunge in the first place. Not with such an example of connubial disharmony before them every day of their lives.

Chris took a deep gulp of his wine. ‘Is he indeed? Old Harry... Who has he tricked into taking him on, then?’

‘Oh, Christopher...’ His mother sighed. ‘Lord Henry is quite respectable now, running his father’s estate in Devonshire. His fiancée is Miss Golens, a very pretty girl, I think. Perhaps you remember her from last Season? Mrs Golens, her mother, is very charming and she and I had rather hoped you might hit it off with her yourself. She really is very sweet.’ She sighed again and picked at her trout amandine. ‘But, alas, I think every good debutante from last Season is now spoken for.’

Chris’s father, who had said barely three words since the wretched meal began, shot his wife a thunderous glance. ‘How many times do I have to tell you, Beatrice? Christopher is hopeless. He will never make a respectable marriage, never settle into any useful work at all. You should direct your energies elsewhere.’

‘Oh, one must never give up hope,’ Beatrice murmured.

Chris, ever mindful of the careless façade he had to maintain, gave his mother a wide grin and drained his wineglass. He gestured to the footman for a refill. ‘I’ve been working ever so hard, Father. I go to the office for, oh, at least three hours every afternoon. It gets terribly in the way of what’s really important.’

His father’s face darkened. ‘Your brother got you that job and you should be grateful to him! He has better things to worry about than his ne’er-do-well sibling, with his postings in Vienna and now Paris, a wife to take care of...’

‘And I’m sure a nursery to set up soon,’ his wife said hopefully, but her husband ignored her.

‘You should try to make William proud, not embarrass him—embarrass all of us—at every turn. If you botch up this position, it could ruin his chances for advancement,’ Chris’s father went on. He brought his fist down on the table, rattling the copious silver and china, making Chris’s mother cringe. ‘What other pursuits could be so important as bringing honour to your family name?’

‘Oh, you know,’ Chris said with an airy wave of his hand. It was always thus when he was with his family. They could know nothing of what his work was like, so they always disapproved of him. Always thought he would never fit in. ‘There was a prize fought on Hampstead Heath last week. Couldn’t miss that, could I? It was Big Jim Barnes, I won a mint. And the races. Ascot is coming up, isn’t it?’

His mother gasped and his father turned purple behind his silver beard. ‘I will hear no more of such things in my house! And how can you afford such nonsense anyway? After that Nixson investment business last year...’

‘I didn’t lose a farthing in that business,’ Chris said and indeed he hadn’t. The Nixson business had all been a set-up through his work to catch a spy, but his parents couldn’t know that. To them he was just their disappointing son.

‘Only because your brother saved you yet again.’ His father turned away with a huff of disgust and silence reigned in the dining room again.

Chris finished his fresh glass of wine, secretly pouring most of it into a potted fern, and thought of his brother with a sharp pang of jealousy that Will was far away in Vienna. He had letters from him and Di every week, as they had to keep in touch for work as well as affection, and Chris couldn’t help but be a bit envious of how happy they were together. How seldom they had to see the elder Blakelys.

It was with the greatest of relief that he could finally escape at the end of the meal, like a man walking out of the gates of Holloway after a long sentence. His mother followed him to the hall, where she stood silently beside him as they waited for the butler to fetch his hat.

‘You know, Christopher,’ she whispered, laying a birdlike hand on his arm. ‘I do think Miss Golens has a younger sister. Not quite as pretty, perhaps, but still...’

‘Mother,’ he said. ‘No respectable lady would have me. You know that. My reputation is irredeemably rackety, I’m afraid.’ And that was exactly what had come to nag at his own mind lately, seeing how happy Will and Di were, knowing that could not be his. But that was his world and he would work with it. He just couldn’t tell that to his mother.

‘No man is truly irredeemable,’ she said. Then her face clouded, as if she remembered her husband. ‘Usually. You are so handsome and with your new place at the Foreign Office—I am sure if you worked hard...’

‘Go off to India like Will, you mean? Then come back to astonish society with my newfound sobriety?’

‘It wouldn’t hurt. Many fortunes are made in India,’ she said hopefully.

The butler came back with Chris’s coat and hat, and Chris gave his mother a quick kiss on her cheek. ‘Don’t worry about me, Mother, please. Just take care of yourself. I’ll see you soon.’

To his surprise, she caught his arm as he turned to leave. ‘Where are you off to now, Christopher?’

He was going back to the office to face a new mountain of paperwork, but he couldn’t tell her that, of course. No chink could ever show in his carefully constructed mask. He gave her a bright grin. ‘Now, a chap should never say such things to his mother.’

He gave her one more kiss and set off into the night. It was the hour most of London was bent on merriment—or mischief. He saw carriages flashing past, pale faces and bright jewels in their windows as the riders set off to the theatre or a ball. A group of men, already staggering and laughing, moved in a blur just down the street. But, despite what he wanted everyone to believe, Chris was intent on neither. He found a hansom and directed the driver to a near-deserted office building in a respectable, but not terribly elegant, part of town.

During the day, it bustled with business, crowds of men in their black bowler hats and carrying furled umbrellas hurrying on terribly important errands. At night, it was silent.

The foyer of the building was empty, the reception desk dark, but chinks of light flashed under a few doorways. Chris made his way up the stairs to his own room on the top floor and lit the lamp. The glow fell on a couple of chairs, a cabinet, a large desk covered with neat piles of papers.

He hung up his coat and hat, and only when he sat down and reached for the folder on top of the stack did he let his mask drop. He had to pay attention now and get his work finished. He had to be sombre, responsible Chris now.

Suddenly an image flashed through his mind. Emily Fortescue’s face, the French sun shining on her chestnut hair, her lips pink from their kiss. A kiss he should never have stolen, but the temptation had been overwhelming as he saw her laughing there, running lost through the maze. The intoxicating sweetness of her taste, the way she’d felt in his arms. The way he’d never wanted to let her go.

No other woman in his life had ever been able to make him feel quite like Emily did, as if he was driven half-mad by her.

Then he remembered the terrible disappointment on her face as they parted that day in Paris. The sense that something had ended before its time and he didn’t know how to fix it. Chris had become accustomed to such looks on people’s faces—he had seen them all his life. But the glimpse of that same look on Emily’s face had pierced him like an arrow and he had never quite been able to forget it. It drove him forward even more in his work, even though she would never know about it.

Chris sucked in a deep breath and pushed the memory of Emily away. She could never be his and it was no use remembering her now. He took out a sheaf of papers and started reading. Soon he was lost entirely in the work.

* * *

As the clock down the corridor tolled one, a knock sounded at his door. Chris was startled. No one ever disturbed anyone else’s work at such an hour. Worried it might be an emergency, he pushed his papers back into their folder and called, ‘Yes, come in.’

To his surprise, it was Lord Ellersmere, head of the office. ‘Ah, Mr Blakely. I’m glad to see you’re here this evening. Something has come up today and I think you might be just the man for the job.’

‘Me, Lord Ellersmere?’ Chris said, puzzled. He hadn’t been sent on a foreign assignment since the Nixson business in France and he wondered what was happening now.

‘Oh, yes.’ Ellersmere sat down across from the desk, looking immaculate in a dark suit despite the late hour. He had been working for the Foreign Office for many years and nothing ever seemed to ruffle him. ‘After your excellent work on the Eastern Star and then the Nixson business, you do seem to be just the one we need.’

Chris smiled wryly at the memory of those jobs, both in France. They had both required a great deal of subtlety, of subterfuge, and he had enjoyed them rather a lot. But his smile faded when he remembered Emily’s contempt when she’d found him on the street, ‘drunk’ and flat broke, during the Star operation. ‘The man to play the buffoon?’

Ellersmere chuckled. ‘We are very lucky you decided to work for us instead of going onstage at the Lyceum. Your skills are invaluable, and rare among our sort. But I’m not sure buffoonery is needed so much this time, though one never knows in this line of work.’

Chris was intrigued. ‘What is it?’

Ellersmere sighed. ‘Trouble with the Germans again, I fear. Have you ever heard of a man called Herr Friedland, or maybe a Madame Renard?’

Chris mentally scanned through all the case paperwork he had just been reading. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Well, Friedland may not be his real name, we aren’t quite sure yet. One of our people in Berlin, someone quite high up with the Crown Princess, has got word of some strange new scheme among some of the—wilder sort there.’

Chris sat back in his chair, fascinated. There was always trouble with the Germans, of course, the elderly Bismarck, the bellicose Kaiser and Queen Victoria’s liberal-minded daughter Princess Vicky always creating a stir. ‘Involving a Madame Renard?’

‘A French radical, yes, and a friend of a woman called Mrs Hurst. Perhaps you’ve heard of her? She’s a regular at the Pankhursts’ At Homes. They’re always involved in all manner of doings there.’

‘Oh, yes. I believe she is president of something called the Women’s Franchise League. Makes a nuisance of herself at Hyde Park Corner sometimes, but I don’t remember hearing of anything really nefarious there.’

‘Neither do we, though certainly radical elements like that always bear watching.’ Ellersmere chuckled. ‘Whatever would happen next if women got the vote? Female M.P.s? Preposterous.’

Chris wasn’t so sure about that. Women often seemed to him rather more sensible than most men. Laura Smythe-Tomas was one of their best agents; Emily ran her father’s business; Diana wrote articles. ‘Some women can already vote locally, of course, and sit on school boards. It seems to go rather well.’

Ellersmere frowned. ‘That is quite a different matter to what this Mrs Hurst and her ilk seem to want. We’ve heard she is setting up meetings with Madame Renard and Herr Friedland in Paris. What on earth could they be scheming about with the Germans? Our contact in Berlin thinks it is a fraud of some sort, one which could come to involve the Crown Princess. We cannot allow that to happen. We have enough to do diverting the scandals of the Prince of Wales, we don’t need one with his elder sister, as well. Not that the Princess has ever given us a moment’s trouble in herself.’

‘And how can I help? I hardly think I could infiltrate the League. I’m a good actor, as you said, but not good enough to pass as a Mrs Blakely.’ Nor was there likely to be a real Mrs Blakely by his side any time soon.

‘We just need you to go to Paris and make friends with this Friedland person. Make him think you are sympathetic to German interests and want to promote their friendship with Britain. Maybe romance Madame Renard a little. You know the sort of thing. Whatever it takes to find out what they’re up to.’

Chris seemed haunted by Paris tonight, by old memories there. By the magic of Emily herself in Paris. ‘You want me to go to France?’

‘Yes.’ Ellersmere sat back, a confiding expression on his face. ‘You know, Blakely, we have been very impressed indeed lately by your work. You have uncovered information that was invaluable. A position is soon to be open in St Petersburg which will need a—lighter touch.’

‘St Petersburg?’ Chris said, astonished. It usually took years for a man to gain a posting at such an important court. And it was a notorious tangle of complications. ‘You need a jester in Russia?’

Ellersmere laughed. ‘Hardly. It is an important post, private secretary to the Vice Ambassador, with much room for advancement if all goes well. You know, Blakely, when I was young, before I met Lady Ellersmere, I often took on tasks similar to yours. It was all most exciting. But we all grow older; we all must move forward, make changes when the time is right. A fascinating place, Russia, most challenging. You might enjoy it, even if the duties might seem a bit duller than your current work at first.’ His smile faded into sternness. ‘Provided this Paris operation goes off well.’

‘Indeed,’ Chris murmured, his thoughts racing. A real position, a high secretarial post? For him? One where he could be himself again at long last, find out what he could become once the mask was off. It sounded fascinating. It sounded like work he could grow into, now that weariness had set in at his rakish role. Could it be possible?

Ellersmere sat forward, his hands clasped. ‘I know I need not tell you, of all people, the great need for secrecy in this matter, Blakely. Paris needs a frivolous touch right now, shall we say.’

Chris nodded. He did, indeed, know how to be frivolous. He thought of Emily again, that disappointed look on her face, and a surge of energy for this new job filled him. ‘Then, yes. I think I am exactly your man.’

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