One Night With a Spy (26 page)

A short gasping laugh broke from her. "I shan't dissolve or anything, you know." She took a breath and straightened.

"There is work to be done. I have a great deal to tell you about my father."

Barrowby was just as Marcus had left it—and entirely changed.

The great house was dark and silent. Marcus's boot heels rang loudly on the marble floor of the entrance hall. The sound seemed to report forever through the chill and vacant halls.

For all its elegance, the place had the eerie feeling of a graveyard. It was dead without the opulent use of candles, without the buoyant energy of the oddment staff, without—

Without her.

He had been lost since the moment he'd seen her miniature and the vulnerability in those wide, gray eyes.

He'd done everything wrong. He'd lost all perspective, lost sight of his goal, lost himself in the beauty and warmth of her—

And yet here he was, the Fox. He'd won.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the sizable looking-glass which dominated the front hall. Even in the dimness, he looked every inch the lord and leader.

He turned away.
Liar
.

Yes, he'd lied. He'd lied to the Three when he hadn't told them immediately how to find Julia. He'd lied to Julia when he'd pretended that all was well for that one perfect day. He'd lied to himself when he'd pretended he would be able to walk away afterward.

She'd known, obviously. She'd poured all her love into one day with him, then made his decision for him. Rescuing him from himself.

Again.

Wouldn't she make a marvelous Fox?

He threw his hat to the side table and ran a hand through his damp hair. "Shut it," he muttered.

What was done was done. She'd made her choice, and who could blame her for preferring a life on the road to putting herself in his hands.

When had he ever given her reason to trust him?

Yet she'd trusted him to be the Fox.

Under the lake.

The lake had been covered in mist when Marcus had ridden in. He didn't relish the idea of diving into it in search of the Fox's records.

Under the lake? Perhaps John Wald had mangled the message. It simply didn't make sense. Although submerging something in a lake would be an excellent way to hide it, how would one be able to preserve it properly? What about the constant use and referral to the files?

John must have mistaken Julia's words. Which left Marcus with nothing.

Too much to think on—too late at night—too heartsick to care…

He drew himself straight and blinked. He had duties to attend to. He must find the Fox's files and then he would make his way to Ravencliff. He had a difficult task before him. Never had a man taken over a seat without years of involvement with his mentor.

Marcus's estate on the moors was isolated. He would tend to his neglected estate matters and use the silence to absorb all that he had not learned at the Fox's side.

Julia's side.

Julia had truly been the Fox. With all her abilities and intelligence, Julia had been far, far more than an old man's mistake.

Or a younger man's regret…

For the rest of his life.

«
^
»

When I leave my lover behind, I never allow myself to look back. Perhaps I fear he won't be there after all.

Julia pulled her new borrowed—and much too short—wool coat about her.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like for me to find you something more…" Clara's brow wrinkled. "More fitting?"

Julia's lips twitched as she looked down at the dress and boots Clara had obtained from one of her taller housemaids. "I think this is perfectly appropriate for me." She flashed a brief grin at Clara. "I much prefer it to a nun's habit!"

Clara snorted. "Who wouldn't? That's just like Liverpool. A woman stirs from her designated place in the world and all he can think to do is to lock her away!"

Julia shook her head. "He isn't against women, Clara. He is against change—and that makes him much more dangerous."

Clara narrowed her eyes. "I think Mr. Underkind will have something to say about locking up women."

Julia straightened. "Clara, your fingers are twitching again."

Clara smiled and it was not a nice smile. "I can be rather dangerous myself, you know."

Julia pointed a finger at her. "No. No political cartoons about me or my fate. You must not ever let the Four think you know as much as you do. It isn't safe."

Clara tilted her head. "You might have been one of them. What would you do to me if you were?"

Julia drew a breath, then shrugged and answered honestly. "I would watch you like a hawk. If you did not show good sense and keep to your societal issues, I would probably recommend that the Four take steps to neutralize you."

Clara blinked. "Well… perhaps you made a good Fox, after all."

I helped take a throne from a king
. Julia gazed at Clara evenly. "I made an
excellent
Fox."

Clara moved back a fraction. "Julia, you give me the most uncanny chill at times." Then she smiled. "I'm rather used to it, you know. Dalton is much the same."

"Your husband is very fortunate. He is the only member of the Four ever to step down—unless one counts Lord Liverpool stepping sideways to become Prime Minister."

Clara nodded. "Dalton misses it sometimes, I think. He was not the Cobra for long, but sometimes I think…"

"You think that he is the Cobra still." Julia sent her a sympathetic smile.

Clara smiled. "I suspect that Dalton always will be, a bit."

"Always will be what?"

Clara turned to smile at her lord where he loomed in the doorway. "Always will be a bit tardy, darling. We've been waiting for you."

"I took a moment to load your pistol for you, Lady Barrowby." Etheridge frowned at Julia. "I will give it to you as soon as my wife is no longer in the room."

Clara sighed. "You're never going to leave that be, are you, darling?"

"No," he said, his voice grim.

Julia raised a hand to divert the lover's quarrel that was brewing. "Clara, I more than deserve his suspicions. The pistol was uncalled for. I did not know you, or I would simply have asked for your help." She turned to Etheridge. "What will you say when you report this evening's events to the Four?"

Clara stepped forward. "Oh, Dalton won't—"

Julia glanced at her. "Of course he will. I would." She turned back to Etheridge, who didn't bother to mask the respect dawning in his eyes. "Will you give me time to get out of London?"

Etheridge nodded. "I cannot keep it a secret forever, but perhaps I can delay my report until you've had a chance to disappear again."

Julia nodded. "Do not wait long. The Four must have this information." She drew a breath and smiled at them both. "Thank you. I did not think I would have this chance."

This chance to run… forever. She would never be able to rest, never be able to live a true life—never be able to see Marcus, ever again.

Are you sure the nunnery isn't preferable?

But in the convent, she would be of no use. At least this way, possibly, she might still work for England, even if it was only in the collection of useful information by way of the traveling folk. Perhaps, in some small way, she might still be a shadow of the woman Aldus had taught her to be, who Marcus had loved, who—for a little while—had held the reins of a nation in her hands.

Clara embraced her quickly. "Go. Let us know how you fare."

Julia smiled, but she knew she wouldn't dare risk them that way. She had already put them in enough danger.

Etheridge was watching her closely. "Do not worry for us. We told you nothing. You gave Clara information, then disappeared before I could detain you. I hear you're quite crafty."

She nodded. "I hear the same about you. After all, you sent Elliot to me."

"I knew who Barrowby was from my days in the Four. When he died, I sent Elliot to find out the lay of the land. There is a practice of keeping the spymaster on an information string."

He gave a sour smile. "I have learned not to take everything the Four says on faith alone. There have been too many losses—and near losses—" He gazed at Clara with fierce love in his eyes. Then he turned back to Julia. "Like you, I keep my own avenues of intelligence open."

Leaving the warm circle of Lord and Lady Etheridge made Julia all the more aware of the cold outside. She regained her rested horse and picked her way down the back alleys of London, eager to be free of the city yet uncertain about where she might go next.

The only thing she was sure of was that the road to Barrowby was closed to her.

She rode the day away, traveling north up the Great Road, keeping alert for signs of the fair folk, though she saw none. She was not sure she could go back, in any case.

There must be somewhere in the world for her. She only wished she knew where it was.

She found herself on a northern road anyway and chastised herself for a fool. What did she think Derbyshire had to offer her? Other than the opportunity to be apprehended by the Royal Four.

Her cheerless thoughts were interrupted by the realization that the stallion had stopped his listless plodding and was now pulling at clumps of dry grass along the road. She pulled his head back. "You'll get your oats this evening," she said soothingly. If she let him have his head, she'd never be able to control him.

He was too much horse for a poverty-stricken traveler like her at any rate. She'd be better off selling him to the next hosteler she saw and bargaining for a less memorable mount.

But Marcus loves him so.

"Which has nothing to do with the price of apples," she told herself. If she needed to sell the horse, she would do as she must. She simply didn't see the need to sell him quite yet.

She heard the clip-clop of hooves behind and looked back to see another soul on the road. Although this was a post road and was well used in most seasons, she'd not seen another person for hours on this grim evening.

Whoever it was had better places to be, apparently, for the mount was being pushed at a good steady clip. She decided to halt the stallion to let the rider pass, for the less time someone had to look at her on her very fine horse, the less chance they would remember her later.

The stallion took to the grassy bank with some relief and the other traveler came even with them in a few moments.

The other rider was huge, a giant man on a mount that was nearly the size of a draft horse. Julia felt a moment of natural caution at being alone on the road with such a person, until she noticed the scarred visage beneath the brim of the rough hat.

Then icy horror drenched her gut. Kurt, the Liar's Club assassin, was looking her right in the eye.

Julia looked down quickly, letting her cloak hood cover her eyes. Her hair was covered and her outsized clothing completely disguised her shape. If she was lucky, Kurt the Cook would think her no more than a rather stout old woman.

The larger mount passed with a horsy whicker of greeting and Julia could hear the distance growing between them by the hoofbeats. She held her breath and her fear in a tight grip until she could no longer hear the other mount.

Only then did she risk looking up.

The giant rider had halted his mount in the middle of the road and was staring back at her. Even as she watched, he turned his mount completely and kicked it into a gallop.

No.

Her booted heels hit the stallion's sides with every ounce of power she had in her and the horse spun about and shot forward with a surprised squeal, stretching his high-blooded legs out in an ears-back gallop that stole the breath from Julia's lungs.

She lay low on his back and tangled her fingers into his mane. She was smaller and lighter and her mount was of racing stock—
oh, God, give me wings
!—but Kurt could pin a fly at fifty paces with one of his throwing knives!

A smaller target has a better chance.

The thought had scarcely crossed her mind before she was out of the saddle and hanging on the far side of the stallion's great lunging body with only one leg crooked over his back. He started and nearly slowed at the peculiar shift of her weight.

"Yah!" she screamed, nearly in his delicate ear. He flinched and put on more power, probably hoping to leave his mad rider behind. She clung to his side like a flea and lifted her head to see behind them.

The giant charger was matching their pace, despite Kurt's greater weight. She couldn't believe it. If any horse could outrun the assassin's powerful mount it would be Marcus's stallion. Kurt had likely been riding at a good pace all day to have reached her so soon after Lord Etheridge had reported her location to the Four.

How Marcus must have hated making that choice—and yet he'd made it. He truly was a better Fox, for she was not sure she could have killed someone she cared for, no matter what sort of security risk they posed.

Unfortunately, she wasn't going to live long enough to answer that question. The stallion was maintaining his powerful gallop, but so was the charger. No advantage gained, just an exhausting race of equals until her horse dropped dead and Kurt killed her.

A lunatic giggle bubbled up from Julia's aching lungs. Oh, dear. She had that Jilly feeling again.

Then again, what had she to lose?

She put herself to rights in the saddle and urged the stallion off the road, sending him leaping wildly into the wood.

She didn't look back, although she knew from the crashing hoofbeats behind her that she was being followed. She kept low, praying that she and the stallion could squeak through the forest and lose her much larger pursuers.

Unfortunately, the wood began to thin and she found herself racing through open pastureland. The stallion took stone wall after stone wall, uphill and down, racing through herds of sheep whose bahing protest was lost in the wind. Still the assassin kept pace.

The stallion began to tire, and in an act of desperation, Julia set him to a wall too high for the draft horse to manage.