A Spy in the House (11 page)

James Easton had never before experienced the urge to wring a girl’s neck. It was a powerful one, however, and he kept his fist clenched round her coarse cotton shirt in order to avoid acting on it.

“You and I,” he growled, swinging her round to face him, “are going to talk.”

“Perhaps later,” she suggested. “After supper and the charity raffle.”

For all her flippant words, her eyes were wide with fear. Good. At this moment, he wanted her to be
terrified.
He kept a firm grip on her shirt — she could hardly run off without it, could she? — and marched her alongside as he retraced their steps and retrieved her scattered belongings. Jacket. Bag.

They kept marching back toward the warehouse until they saw, looming in the mist, a large black carriage.

She stiffened as soon as she saw it. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes.”

“I am not getting in that with you.”

“Why not?”

She squirmed against his grip. “It’s . . . not proper.”

He would have laughed, except that she’d knocked his sense of humor sorely out of joint along with his nose. “But running around London in the middle of the night, dressed as a boy, is.”

She had no reply to that. A minor miracle.

He opened the door and tossed her inside like a bundle of laundry, then climbed in and barred the door.

She moved immediately toward the door on the other side.

Lunging forward, he pinned her to the bench, one hand clenched on each narrow shoulder. “Don’t bother trying. You’ll not get out until I tell you to.” Glaring at her, he rapped the ceiling of the carriage twice. The vehicle lurched into motion.

Her hair had come loose during her flight. She looked ridiculously young. And she’d lost most of the buttons on her shirt — they must have popped off when he’d grabbed it. Color flooded her cheeks, and she clutched the shirt closed with a sudden movement, making him blush and avert his eyes. “May I have my jacket?” she whispered.

He passed it to her but couldn’t manage an apology. His tongue lay like a stone in his mouth. Instead, he busied himself with drawing the curtains on both windows.

An awkward silence ensued. It was Mary who broke it. “Your nose is bleeding.”

James blinked and touched it experimentally. “So it is.” He fumbled for his handkerchief.

“Is it . . . broken?”

He couldn’t help it: the corners of his mouth turned up. “You sound hopeful.”

She began to laugh, then quickly stifled it. “Not at all,” she said hurriedly. “I didn’t intend to — that is, I meant to punch you that hard; only I didn’t know that it was you. . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“Does it look broken?” He lifted the handkerchief and leaned toward her.

Slender fingers traced the bridge of his nose, so lightly he could scarcely tell she was touching him. “Possibly . . . At the very least, you’ll have a bruise.”

“As long as it’s not pointing to one side, I’m not worried.”

She drew back her hand uncertainly. “You ought to see a physician.”

He grinned suddenly, then winced. “That’s what I said to you. Did you?”

She waved dismissively. “It’s healing.”

James was startled to find that he was enjoying her company. The glint in her eyes, her saucy attitude, the intimacy of the carriage . . . It was high time to return to the matter at hand. “So, Miss Quinn, what is your interest in Henry Thorold’s private affairs?”

All warmth drained from her face as she straightened her spine. “That is none of your concern.”

“Ah, but it is,” he insisted. “My family might soon be linked with the Thorolds. As such, I must know why you broke into his warehouses tonight and what you found.”

“Is that why you’re sneaking about? Spying on your future relations?”

He tried to look ashamed but failed utterly. “A sad commentary on our modern times, isn’t it?”

“Tragic,” she snapped. “I’ll leave you to mourn in private.” She banged the roof twice, sharply, and reached for the door latch.

James leaned back and crossed his arms. “I don’t recommend leaping from a moving carriage, Miss Quinn.”

He was right. The carriage continued to bowl along at a fast trot. She glared at him. “Why aren’t we stopping?”

He couldn’t repress a small smile. “Because my coachman is well trained. He knows my knock.”

She stared at him for a second, then pulled the curtain aside. “Where are we, anyway?” Because the inside of the carriage was lit, all she saw was her own face in the window.

He shrugged. “Twickenham perhaps?” What would it feel like to touch hair that silken straight? He pushed away the thought the moment it formed.

Her entire body stiffened. “This is kidnapping!”

“No, it’s not. Don’t flatter yourself, Miss Quinn.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Then what do you want?”

“Merely a brief conversation. I’ll return you to Cheyne Walk once we’ve had our talk.”

“Do you really expect me to believe that?”

His lip curled. “My dear Miss Quinn, if I wanted melodrama and cliché, I would go to the theater. I am not kidnapping you. I have no ulterior motive. And yes, I expect you to believe me. Now let us talk. It will be to our benefit to share information, and possibly even work together. Or at least, not against each other.”

He expected more indignation. Instead, she folded her arms and eyed him coldly. “Fair enough, I suppose. You first.”

“I recently learned that some private investors lost heavily in several of Thorold’s trade expeditions over the past few years. Apparently, Thorold claimed that the ships were either wrecked or lost at sea. However, these investors have since come to believe that, contrary to his claims, the ships were not actually lost. They think that Thorold has kept the profits for himself instead.”

She looked skeptical, and he hurried on, anticipating her questions. “Normally, it is difficult to dispute these sorts of events: each ship is registered and its progress charted. It is quite a public event when ships are lost or capsized, and it does happen. However, the goods on these particular passages were smuggled and the investors expected to receive a high return on their investments by avoiding duties and taxes. For the same reasons, Thorold was able to be vague about the details. It would have been easy for him to lie about the shipments.”

James noted with satisfaction that she was listening in earnest now. The girl was infuriating, but at least she wasn’t a ninny. “You appreciate, of course, the position I am in: it’s potentially very embarrassing.”

“Is it the smuggling itself that bothers you or merely the double-crossing? Honor among thieves and all that.”

“There’s no need to sneer. I object to both.”

“And so you decided to investigate. . . .”

“Yes.”

“Why do so yourself?”

“Discretion isn’t a good reason?”

“One can buy discretion.”

He nodded. “It’s also a matter of time. George wants to propose to Miss Thorold very soon, and I need evidence in hand if I’m to stop him.”

That made sense. “What was the cargo?”

He paused reluctantly. “Opium mainly. But I’m told that Thorold is also interested in gemstones.”

“And when was this?”

“Between two and seven years ago, according to my source.”

She thought about that. “It’s quite likely that all the records from those journeys have long been destroyed. If they existed in the first place.”

He scrubbed his face with his hands wearily. “I know. This is also why I’ve not gone to the authorities.”

“I take it you’re interested mainly in the China route, then.”

“I’m not sure. . . . Opium is also cultivated on the Indian subcontinent, and the bulk of Thorold’s trade lies there.”

Mary stared at him in disbelief. “So you’ve no idea where the ships originated or what route they might have taken?”

“I’ve just begun my research,” he said defensively.

“And you expect to learn all this . . . how?” She gestured incredulously. “By following me around London?”

His left eyebrow rose. “Melodrama again?”

She sighed. “I simply don’t see why you think I might be useful to you.”

“Frankly, I’m more concerned that you might be harmful to me. Now that I’ve explained myself, what’s your interest?”

“It won’t take long to tell. You’d better tell your coachman to drive for Chelsea; I need to be back before the servants are up and about.”

“Not till you’ve explained yourself.”

She fixed him with what she obviously thought was a withering look.

He shrugged amiably and glanced out the window again. “Then again, it’s a lovely day for a long drive in the country.”

“Oh, very well,” she sighed. She paused, appearing to collect her thoughts. “I believe you know about the Thorolds’ last parlor maid, Gladys.”

He kept his face very still, his expression neutral. “Yes.”

“Her sister hasn’t heard from her since she was dismissed, which is unlike Gladys. The sister is a friend of mine. She is extremely concerned and asked me to try to find out what’s happened to her.”

He waited for several seconds, but it seemed she was finished. He stared at her in disbelief.
“A vanished servant?”

“Yes.”

“And you expect me to believe that?”

“Now who’s indulging in melodrama?”

He frowned. “It sounds like a task for the police.”

“Rather like yours?”

He frowned but didn’t pursue it. “What did you find tonight?”

She sighed. “Nothing.”

He thought about rifling through her small satchel to be sure, but that was too rude. (A strange idea, considering how he’d manhandled her earlier.) “What were you looking for?”

“Everything, really. Letters. Instructions. Records of payment. Anything that refers to her or to homes for fallen women or brothels or workhouses or any of the places she might have ended up.”

“But why would Thorold have those documents? Mrs. Thorold is in charge of the domestic staff.”

“Mrs. Thorold doesn’t appear to have any files; she dislikes putting pen to paper. And really — do you think that a man like Thorold could ask his invalid wife to deal with the fate of a maid whom he’d seduced?”

“But why would he keep records concerning her? Wouldn’t he just kick her into the street?”

Mary looked scornful. “You would suggest that. And I admit, it’s quite likely. However, Gladys was pregnant. Thorold lost his son a few years ago, and he has a sentimental streak. There’s a slight chance he may have tried to help the girl, perhaps even maintain contact. He could never acknowledge the child publicly, but that doesn’t seem to stop some men.”

“I see.” He was silent for a minute.

“Will that affect your brother’s attitude toward Miss Thorold?”

“No. George has absolutely lost his mind over her. Besides, the old pregnant mistress plot won’t affect us legally.” He caught the look on her face. “No disrespect intended toward your friend Gladys, of course.”

“Of course.” Her voice was glacial.

He coughed awkwardly. “Er — I don’t suppose you remember whether any of the documents you saw related to —”

“Your interests? There was nothing to do with opium, in any case. Everything I found was legal. Most frequently, Thorold’s ships carry manufactured goods, like textiles and stainless steel, to India and transport back things like tea and rice. Occasionally the ships make a third stop in America or the West Indies but much less so these days.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

It was impossible to read her expression. Her eyes — nut brown in some lights, greenish in others, he now knew — were steady, defiant. He didn’t know how to reply. She had a dark smudge — coal? dirt? — on her cheek that was, for some reason, rather charming.

“What was all that nonsense the other day about my being Thorold’s mistress?”

He hoped the dim light masked his blush. “It was merely a theory.”

“It sounded like an accusation.”

The heat under his collar intensified. “I apologize.” He uttered the words with difficulty.

Amusement flickered in her eyes. “It’s not often that you do, is it?”

He grinned despite himself. “No. You’re in select company.”

“Well, as long as we’re being civil to each other, why don’t you return me to Chelsea?”

Obediently, he thrust his head out the window and called instructions to the coachman. “It will only take a few minutes,” he said, taking out his watch. “We’re nearly at Battersea and it’s just past five o’clock.”

“Thank you.” She looked faintly self-mocking as soon as she’d said it.

“Oh, it’s been my pleasure entirely, Miss Quinn.” He grinned. “We must do this again soon.”

She couldn’t quite repress a smile. “As soon as your nose heals, perhaps.”

He ran one finger along the bridge. “It should be fine. Where on earth did you learn to fight like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like a man, I suppose. Most young ladies would have screamed and tried to claw at my face. Or perhaps simply fainted.”

“I was a tomboy.”

“A tomboy with a lot of brothers?” He could picture it: a slight, fierce girl surrounded by a pack of hulking boys.

“Something like that. And now you owe me an answer: how did you know I was at the warehouses tonight?”

He looked smug. “I saw you inspecting them earlier.”

Her eyes widened. “This morning? But how did you know I’d be there?”

“I, er, was informed of your whereabouts.”

“Who by?”

“By an employee.”

“You were having me watched?”

“I suppose it wasn’t very sporting of me. . . .”

She considered for a moment, then admitted, “I’d have done the same thing in your situation.”

From the sound of the carriage wheels, they were crossing Battersea Bridge. In a minute, they would be at Cheyne Walk itself.

“Look — I think we ought to collaborate,” he said, sitting forward.

A small frown appeared between her brows. “Why?”

“Because we can cover more ground that way,” he said impatiently. “And because we’ll run less risk of interfering with each other’s inquiries, not to mention putting Thorold on the alert.”

“But we’re looking at entirely different events and time periods.”

“But for similar types of proof . . . assuming they exist. Look, you can’t keep breaking into the warehouses to read Thorold’s files night after night. You might have one or two more opportunities at most before a watchman catches you. If you still haven’t found anything concrete at that point, what will you do?”