A School for Unusual Girls (12 page)

My cheeks burned. That had come out all wrong. I only hoped he would ignore the more torrid implications.

Madame Cho coughed discreetly.

His lips parted. He stared at me, as if I stood before him as naked as his forearms. I rubbed mine, feeling unaccountably chilled. Silence bristled between us.

With a smirk, he relaxed. “Peace, Miss Fitzwilliam.” He held up his hands in mock surrender. “As Captain Grey explained, I am a diplomatic attaché. The captain and I are charged with protecting certain European dignitaries. We require your ink in order to exchange sensitive messages when the need arises. The old codes and our current ink formulas are too easily detected. There. That should be explanation enough.”

I clutched the books to my bosom. It was exactly what I'd suspected. “So, you are a spy.”

“No. A diplomatic attaché.”

“Which is a fancy way of saying a spy.”

He shook his head. “That bump on your head must've injured your brain.”

“Your concern is touching,” I said, pointing out that he hadn't yet asked after my health. “But you needn't worry, my brain is quite well. Well enough to deduce the obvious.”

“Apparently not, since you are sorely mistaken. I am a member of the Office of Foreign Affairs, a diplomat, as was my father, and his father before him.”

He explained all this using the same tone and forbearance Miss Grissmore had used when explaining higher mathematics to me when I was only ten. I found his overblown patience both entertaining and annoying.

“As such,” he continued, “I am sworn to protect Britain's interests and that of her allies. If, on occasion, that means I must go about my task quietly and without drawing attention to my identity, I only do so in order to fulfill my duties as a sworn protector of King and country.”

“
Quietly
. Yes, I see,” I said, tapping one finger against my lips. “Because, clearly, you
are
a spy.”

The muscles in his jaw knotted and he drew in a long irritated breath. “And
clearly,
you lack even the most basic skills in diplomacy or tact.”

My cheeks flamed up again. He'd struck too near the mark. I thrust my chin up proudly, unwilling to tolerate insults from him. “If by that you mean I lack skills in deception and trickery, then you are right. If I possessed those arts I wouldn't be locked away in this hellish place, would I? And you wouldn't know anything about my ink.”

“Hellish? Stranje House?” He frowned at me, his mischievousness evaporated. “You don't know what hell is, little girl. I see no guards at the doors or bars on the windows.”

“No, but you
did
see daughters of the realm gagged and tied to chairs.”

“That was…” He clamped his lips together. “Ask your friends about that.”

“I did. They wouldn't say anything.”

“Well, ask again.”

“Are you aware of the fact that Miss Stranje keeps a discipline chamber filled with torture devices?”

“Oh, that…” He caught himself, buckled his jaw, and crossed his arms. “In your case, I suspect a good spanking now and then might prove useful.”

“You're just like her. Uncaring. Heartless. Arrogant—”

“Enough! If you think this is such a terrible place, why do you not leave?”

“I tried.”

“Yes, and you wreaked havoc on a perfectly good boat. Next time try taking a dryer route. There's the door. The road is a half mile due north.”

I stepped back, unwilling to confess I had nowhere to go—no one who loved me well enough to shelter me if I did leave. I bit down on my lower lip to keep from betraying myself with angry tears. He was no gentleman to be so cruel.

He swore under his breath. “I'm sorry. That was badly done. Look here, Miss Fitzwilliam, we have gotten off to a bad start. Might we not just begin work on the ink?”

I shook my head, unwilling to look at him until I had my emotions under control. “Not unless you explain. Fully.”

“It is all so complicated.”

I said nothing to that.

“I can't tell you everything. These are matters of state. What I am at leisure to explain, you could not be expected to understand.”

Wishing to heap burning coals on his foul head, I found the courage to face him squarely. “Then I suggest you put to use all that diplomacy and tact you claim you have, and help me understand.”

He drew back, as if I'd surprised him. That wicked eyebrow of his arched up as he stood there assessing me. After a prolonged and uncomfortable silence, Sebastian's shoulders relaxed and I saw his resolve weakening.

“I learn quickly,” I offered as a salve. Although, why I should soothe his rude temperament, I didn't know. I suppose some treacherous part of me wanted to prove my worth to him. He continued to brood in silence. The man stood nearly three feet away from me, yet I could smell the freshly pressed linen of his shirt and, I swear, I could almost taste the damp morning mist that had settled in his hair.

“Very well.” He exhaled abruptly, and his manner softened. “A far cry from peace—Europe is in chaos. So many nobles were executed during the Terror or killed in the war, that much of the ruling class of Europe is either dead or in hiding. Spain, Portugal, Italy, the entire continent is plunged into a dangerous upheaval. Borders are in dispute. Economies destroyed by the war. Europe is unstable—a beast without a head, wounded, thrashing in pain.”

He turned and leaned against the cabinet, staring out the window at the brilliant midmorning sky. A sparrow leaped from the branches of a flowering pear tree and fluttered past, completely unconcerned about the volatility of Europe.

Sebastian glanced over his shoulder at me, sadness darkening his features, and I saw how he thought of me. I was like that sparrow, flittering to and fro, blissfully ignorant of the monstrous happenings in the rest of the world.

“Were you there when they beheaded Monsieur Lavoisier?” I bit my lip. It was a dreadful question. It had nothing to do with the matters at hand, but it sprang from my mouth before I could retract it. Seeing such horrors might explain the hardness in him.

He paced. I didn't think he would answer, but he stopped beside me and said quietly, “Not Monsieur Lavoisier. I was a child, only five. Captain Grey exaggerates my part in all that. I only helped carry a few sacks and provided a diversion. But a few weeks later, they caught my father and, although he was a diplomat to the French government, dragged him away and executed him for crimes against the Republic. I shouldn't remember, but how can I forget? The shriek of the blade falling and…” Sebastian stopped and squeezed his eyes shut.

I swallowed, waiting, afraid to breathe, regretting having brought him needless pain.

When he opened his eyes the hardness had returned. “You've distracted me with pointless memories. I thought you wanted me to explain why we need your formula.”

I could scarcely move, much less nod.

Squaring his shoulders, he towered over me. “What I am about to tell you must be kept in strictest confidence. You will never tell anyone.” He grabbed my shoulders. “
Anyone
. Do you understand me? Lives depend on you keeping silent. My life.”

I ought to have felt angry that he handled me as if I were a wayward child. I didn't. I felt afraid. Afraid, because his touch sent my pulse flapping faster than a frightened sparrow. But, instead of running away, I wanted to draw closer. I wanted to slide my hand over the place that hid his heart and soothe the trouble there. Heat flooded up my neck. I stared blindly at his shoulders, not daring to look up, and yet I couldn't stop thinking of his face, his searing blue eyes, his mouth so close to mine.

A hundred questions I wanted to ask him. He'd seen his own father beheaded. Why had he been allowed to witness such a terrible thing? Had his mother held his hand as they watched? I inhaled sharply. Or had he lost her, too? How had they escaped France? And after all that, why did he follow in his father's footsteps? For his sake, I stuffed a fist into the mouth of my curiosity.

“Swear.” He stood over me, waiting, demanding my promise of silence.

“I give you my word.”

He glanced at Madame Cho. “And you.” She looked up from her embroidery and nodded as if such vows of silence were commonplace for her.

Sebastian released me and shifted uneasily. “Rulers and ambassadors from all over Europe are planning to gather for a council, a congress of sorts, in Vienna.”

I'd read something in the London
Times
about a historic meeting to take place on the continent. I nodded, encouraging him to continue.

“Their goal is to hammer out a course of action to restore order and economic stability to Europe. There is strong disagreement about how this should be achieved. Many leaders are determined to restore the ruling aristocracy and the royal families. You can imagine how this infuriates the populists and revolutionaries, especially those in France.”

He massaged the muscles of his forearms as if it might relieve some of his tension. In a low voice he added, “We've heard rumors of a plan to assassinate these heads of state while they are all gathered so conveniently in one place.”

I backed away. “This can't be true. No one would do such a dishonorable thing.”

“I assure you, Miss Fitzwilliam, it is true. There are those to whom honor does not matter.” His face darkened and his eyes narrowed with anger. “They have banded together, dedicated to one purpose: restoring Napoleon to his throne and uniting all of Europe under one crown.”

My mouth formed an O. Now I understood. “The Order of the Iron Crown.”

He squinted sideways at me. “How do you know that name?”

I pinched my lips together not wanting to admit to eavesdropping. I glanced up to the ceiling and that was clue enough.

“Of course.” He groaned. “The tapestry. You overhead us.”

“Yes, but what's more important is how did you hear of this plot? Have you told the proper authorities?”

“Slow down.” He warded off my rapid questions. “You already know more than you ought. It's my job and Captain Grey's to uncover such plots. All you need to know is that if you give us your formula for invisible ink many lives will be saved. The inks we have at present are too easily exposed by applying heat. Lately, we've had to rely on codes—a grave risk. The Order has deciphered several of them. Consequently, men have died. Good men.” Sebastian paused and raked through his black curls, clenching his jaw muscles. “In one case, our man and his entire family were murdered for helping us.”

“I'm so sorry.” I flinched at passing off someone's life with so light a sentiment. I attempted to change the subject. “I imagine it is extremely difficult to distribute new codes without them being intercepted by your enemies.”

“Exactly.” Some of his ire cooled. “It's vital to the safety of hundreds of dignitaries, their families, and their entourages, that we have a means of exchanging messages covertly.”

His life hung in the balance as well.

My throat tightened and I had trouble swallowing. We had a
very
big problem. “You do realize my formula isn't perfected yet?” My shoulders sagged under the confession of my failure.

“So I heard.” He surprised me with a wry half grin. “An explosion, was it?”

I shrugged, preferring not to think about that day. I wanted to please him and he needed me to succeed. The leaders of Europe were in danger.
He
was in danger. Dwelling on my past mistakes wouldn't help any of us.

When he started to chuckle at my embarrassment, I thrust the Persian text at him. Laughing at me wouldn't help, either. “We ought to get started,” I said brusquely.

 

Seven

ASHES

I opened my notes and brushed away ashes and charred flecks of paper left from the day of the fire. That whiff of burnt paper, although only a hint, billowed into a remembered blaze of singed horsehair and smoldering straw. I nearly choked, but instead gulped air. Despite my dry throat, I slowly breathed out the memory. That's all it was, just a memory. Nothing more. I had work to do, and no time for nonsensical phantom smells.

“Turn to my marker,” I told Sebastian, embarrassed that my vocal cords crackled like an adolescent boy's.

“Which marker?” Snippets of paper protruded every which way out of the Persian book

I flipped it open and pointed to a passage on transmutable dyes. “There. We will begin where I left off.” I showed him the recipe on the singed pages of my notebook. We compared the ingredients to the chemicals described in the Persian text.

“See here, where it says
red salt
. I'm not certain what that means. At first I thought it referred to copperas, copper crystals. But then I got the idea to mix cobalt with saltpeter, potassium nitrate. That's what I was doing when—”

“Why? Cobalt is blue.” He frowned and rubbed the stubble on his chin while he pondered the recipe.

“Yes, of course. But when you mix it with a nitric acid, such as saltpeter, cobalt turns red.” I was eager to explain more, especially because he paid attention. Sincere attention. His skeptical smirk had vanished. He leaned across the worktable; listening, considering my hypothesis.

Listening
. To me.

No one had ever done that. Not really, not with that kind of respectful consideration. Oh, our old cook used to let me sit at the table and theorize to her while she kneaded bread—but she was half deaf. Mother never even feigned interest. She usually yawned and glanced at the ceiling before shooing me away, exasperated with my
harebrained
ideas.

Sebastian, with steady blue eyes, waited to hear more.

I swallowed hard, trying to keep my heart from flinging itself up into my throat. Childish of me to react so excitedly, simply because someone was polite enough to listen. “The acid causes the cobalt to crystallize—into red crystals. That might be our red salt.”