Unlaced Corset (11 page)

21

Mary

The door closed behind James. He sounded angry, but to her extreme relief another moment later the doors opened, and back in walked her uncle's goons. She said a silent prayer, and started slowly toward her own bedroom. When she got there without anyone seeing her, she said another.

Mary tried to sleep, and when someone knocked on her door and called in with Davis's voice, she wished that she had managed it. Perhaps she'd have been able to pretend that she wasn't here, or that she in her dreams she'd invented the danger she was in.

But that comfort wasn't going to be granted to her, and thinking about it would only hurt in the long run. She'd only known him a few long days, but Mary found it hard not to trust James. He would fix things for her, or he'd die trying.

What made her more nervous, though, was that she was quickly getting the impression that the same could be said for her uncle.

James was larger. He clearly had spent more than his share of time in the gymnasium, and if it came down to a fist fight, she thought that James would win. His looks, of course, were another victory for him.

But that was where it ended. Besides that, her uncle was better-funded, better-experienced, and better-armed. James looked like he could take any one of the men that Oliver had brought with him, but not two. Oliver had four that she'd seen, though she hadn't looked to see whether or not they stayed.

So, she reminded herself as she pretended to take the time to get dressed, it was absolutely imperative that she let things go by. If she let anyone think that she was onto them, then there wouldn't be any stopping them.

These weren't the type of people to spare her because she was family, and they weren't the type to spare her because she was a woman. If she threatened them, then she'd be dealt with. James could have taken any one of them, but Mary could not.

She went straight to the library without taking breakfast, and immediately opened another book. She tried to read; the best lie is a true one. But she quickly realized that wasn't going to work, so she settled for moving her eyes over the page.

She needed a way to tell her uncle that she wasn't a threat, that she wasn't involved. She'd been pretending not to be involved before, and it felt as if the easiest way to go back to it was to use the same lie she'd used before.

The clock chimed and she nearly jumped out of her seat. She looked up, and realized that it had been nearly two hours that she'd sat there in her reverie. Davis was standing just inside the door.

There had been a time, only a few days ago, when she might have been comforted to see him there. He had reminded her of her father. Now it seemed as if he was a a constant reminder that her uncle couldn't be defied, that he was always watching.

She opened her mouth to ask for something to eat, but the words never came. She croaked and stared, open-mouthed. Then she gave up and looked back at her book.

Davis cleared his throat, and then she realized that he hadn't been standing there for long.

"Yes?" She looked up again, and the word came out automatically.

She didn't sound afraid or panicked, she hoped. It could have passed for distracted, if she hadn't known better. She had to hope that Davis wouldn't know better, though she knew it was an unlikely hope at best.

"Your Uncle will see you now," he said. She was almost surprised at how disinterested he sounded, as if everything was going according to some strange, twisted plan.

She set her book aside and rose to follow him. She followed a few steps behind as they wound through the halls, until they came to the study. For a moment, a dozen images flashed through Mary's mind, different encounters from the past week.

It made her miss James, though they'd only been apart a few hours. When Davis opened the door and pushed it open for her, she nearly gasped.

It almost seemed like a completely different room. The furniture was the same, but where there had been messes and scores of papers pressed into haphazard stacks, there were now bare shelves. The only books in the room were well-used war manuals with names that Mary didn't recognize on them.

"Ah, Mary. The last time I saw you, you were this high!"

He put his hand a little higher than his knee to show her. It was true, and she realized now why she'd always been a little afraid of him from her childhood memories. He seemed as uncomfortable in the room as she'd seen anyone anywhere.

If James had seemed like he would be suited to soldiering, he had at least seemed like someone who could fit in other places as well. Oliver had none of that.

He looked like he could only be comfortable chasing the next far-off battlefield. He was approaching sixty, she could see, but his body was big and brawny. He carried himself with a straight back, but his eyes were searching constantly. Cataloging everything he saw, as if at any moment something might dart out of the shadows.

"Uncle," she said cautiously.

"Listen, I've just finished going through Mr. Poole's reports. Capable man, that boy, I must say I was surprised."

She wasn't sure what he meant by it, whether he was referring to the work he'd done, or the work that the burglar had fabricated to cover for the missing slips. She wasn't going to ask him to find out.

"If you say so, sir."

He watched her eyes and pursed his lips. For a moment, he almost looked sad, as if he regretted something. Then the look was gone.

"It seems as if your father had some financial troubles. I trust he didn't tell you anything about any of that, though, did he?"

"No, sir."

"Well, there are going to need to be some changes around here, looking at these papers. I only have another couple of days' shore leave. I came to pay my respects—to your father, you see. In the absence of a will, all of this belongs to me."

She wondered at that comment, the way he sounded so sure that there was no will, but she didn't question it.

"I think I understand."

"Good girl!"

He was watching her, she saw. Not just once or twice, not after key comments. Everything she did was being carefully scrutinized. Everything in the room, everyone in the hall behind them—that had been his choice. She was the only variable left for him to worry about.

If this was a test, then she wasn't sure if she was passing it, or even what was being tested.

"Now," he said, his voice softening, "I don't mean to be rude, of course, but about the matter of your eligibility."

She didn't want to talk about it, least of all with her uncle. Less still with the man that she was certain had killed her father.

"Sir?"

"Well—I apologize for my frankness, but I've been a soldier for near forty years now, and I don't know another way—you've been staying alone in a house with a young man, nearly seven days now. That's not going to look good to most people of your stature, you know."

Mary didn't answer. She tried to keep her face neutral, but as he continued she realized that it was getting harder and harder. She blanched as he continued, and hoped that she appeared mortified by the entire subject, rather than afraid.

"Well, I've got some good news in that regard. I happen to know a young Earl, Earl Scarborough, a few years older than yourself, who just put in a transfer request. Now, normally I'd refuse, of course. Too much complexity to deal with some landed boy's problems."

Mary gave a noise to show she was listening, but the truth was she wasn't hearing everything he said, just bits and pieces. Enough to make her stomach churn.

"I could get the word to him that I would do him a favor, if he did me a favor—tit for tat, if you will." He smiled, as if she would appreciate the gesture. "I'm sure that with the craziness going around about soldiers back home on leave, if I told him how much you... appreciated His Majesty's soldiers, he'd be willing to overlook any indiscretions."

It took every fiber in her being not to lose her control right then and there. But if she did that, then she'd have lost already. She needed to give James time, as much time as she could give him. Until he got back to Dover with something they could use, she needed to play along. Not that it made her feel any better. She took a deep breath to steady herself before she answered.

"Can I have some time to consider it, sir?"

22

James

The train ride had been slower than he could have imagined. By the time on his watch, it took the same, but James decided that he must have forgotten to wind it; it had felt considerably longer.

The cab was small, but he didn't need much space. Just enough for a change of clothes and his own broad shoulders, that touched on both sides. The driver got the horses going at a clip, and for that at least, James was thankful.

His jacket was wrinkled from the long days of near-constant travel, and he was afraid that if he did much more then it would tear. He leaned forward and struggled to get it to slide off, and then laid it out across his lap.

"Where you going, sir?"

"The Geis estate, do you know the place?"

"Outside of town, I'll have to charge you extra, sir."

"That's quite alright," James said with a wave of his hand. He didn't have time for these sort of distractions. He needed to get back immediately. They started to trundle along the street, bouncing with the bumps and pits in the road, and for a moment James tried to turn off his brain. It would be easier that way, if he could manage it.

When he came back to the world, he wasn't immediately sure where they were, but they weren't outside of town yet. The cab turned down another street, and he started to recognize buildings again. No, they weren't outside of town yet. But they were close.

He laid his head back and examined the awning that made up the roof of the cab. He'd almost expected it to be grimy, but the wood had either been recently replaced, or else had been carefully polished.

James made a mental note to tip the man handsomely, and then a loud wail went up. German bombers were on the way, and everyone had better get to a shelter. The cab slowed, and then stopped. James stepped out and looked up at the driver.

"I don't suppose I could offer you extra to go the rest of the way?"

The man gave a look that bordered on apologetic, and shook his head.

"No sir, I gotta get my family."

"Well," James said, reaching into a pocket and pulling out a billfold, "here."

He handed over a little more than he owed and picked his things up. It was only a couple kilometers. If he hurried, he could be there in twenty minutes. Just in time for things to go wrong.

For a moment, he walked, carrying his bag and jacket. Then he thought better of it, pulled anything he could from his jacket pocket, and transferred it to his trousers.

Then he started to jog, and then his strides spread out into a full run. If he wagered it right, he could cut his time in half. As he ran, a noise pulled him out of his fog. He narrowly avoided a car running down the street. That would be Mary and her uncle, then.

She couldn't be safe with Oliver around, he knew, but they couldn't stop him without proof. As long as she got to shelter, everything would be fine. He redoubled his efforts.

By the time he arrived, people were streaming out the front door, nearly a dozen men and women, few of them carrying more than the clothes on their back. He stood back and watched.

They were the servants he'd let go, all right. Whether or not Davis had been involved in whatever Oliver was doing or not, he'd made sure to hire the same staff back on.

One face stood out, though, and he had to blink and rub his eyes to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. Was that... ?

"Mary!"

She looked up. They all looked up, but most of them went back to what they'd been doing before. She had to push through the pack of people, all of them moving in towards town, as she tried to cross the road to him.

"What are you doing here?"

"Pearl is dead. Someone shot him."

James wanted nothing more than to draw her up into an embrace, and kiss her, to take her away and damn the consequences. But the people who shot a second-rate lawyer from two towns over on suspicion that he'd been working for someone who knew their secrets wouldn't let that happen. They'd be dead before they made it back to London if he didn't deal with it now.

"I don't understand," Mary was saying.

He kissed her and fished in his pocket, then pressed the key to his flat into her hand.

"Take this. When the raid is over, if you can, take the train to London. Stay in my flat, I should be paid for the rest of the month. I'll come back for you. I promise."

"I want to stay with you," Mary pleaded. He looked down at her, so afraid and vulnerable. He wished that she could stay with him, but it wasn't time yet.

"No. It's not safe. Go on, Mary, before they all leave you behind. With all those people around, you'll be able to blend into the crowd. Wait! Before you go, I have one question. Which room is your uncle's?"

Her directions were good. Up the stairs, take a left, down the hall. He could have drawn a map himself, though he'd only gone up the stairs a handful of times. When he got there, the door was closed and locked.

The lock, surprisingly, held up when he put his shoulder into the door. The frame around it, on the other hand, splintered in after a few hard kicks. A shame, really, James thought. They don't make them like they used to, any more.

The room was largely barren. A footlocker sat at the foot of the bed, and he tried the lock. Closed. He looked around for a minute. Was there anyplace easier to look?

A satchel beside the locker, simply zipped up. He opened the zipper and upended the bag onto the bed. A day's clothing, a shaving kit, and a bar of soap. The Colonel was a simple man, and he traveled light.

James sat back against the side of the bed and breathed. What now? The entire caper had been done in less than a day. Whoever had done it, there was a way to tie it back to Oliver Geis. James was sure of that much, but what?

With a sigh, he started the walk across the estate to his room. He pulled the zipper on his bag, and pulled a pistol from it, checked the chamber to ensure that it was loaded, and slipped it into his pocket.

The house was eerily silent, he noticed now. It seemed almost surreal; the sirens had been audible even from this distance, but now in the belly of the house, he could have heard a pin drop. He came back to the master bedroom, took aim with his pistol, plugged his ear as best he could, and shot.

The bang was deafening, and when he opened his eyes the entire lock mechanism had been blown off. He opened the footlocker. There were large scorch marks where his bullet had gone in, but inside were scores upon scores of letters, each of them addressed to Oliver Geis.

James didn't have time to read them, but some were clearly written in German—and then from behind, he heard a man clear his throat.

He turned slowly. There was no reason to rush, now, after all. James knew who it had to be.

Oliver Geis stood in the door, a couple of men flanking behind him. Davis was one, and the other had been the other man who threw him out. James backed up into the bed and watched them with his tired eyes.

"Mr. Poole, I'm so glad to see that you've returned."

"Colonel Geis."

"So sorry that you won't be staying long." He smiled briefly, a cruel expression that held no happiness. "Davis, Richard, you know what needs to be done."

Oliver stepped back, and then the two men exploded into action. James fired a shot that went wide, and a second that struck the second man, Richard, in the gut. He went down to the ground and didn't move to get back up. He didn't have time for a third shot before Davis's fist hit him square in the gut.

James had been focused on the gun, so he hadn't braced for the hit, and he folded near in half and dropped it. He couldn't take a breath, and couldn't see straight, but he pushed himself straight upright.

Another fist came barreling down, cracking him hard on the jaw, and he fell to the floor. Davis kicked the gun away and moved up to sit on his chest, pulling a fist back to start pounding the steward's face into mincemeat.

In a last ditch effort, James threw his body up and to the side, and Davis was thrown off. Mr Poole didn't waste a moment in scrambling to press his advantage. He didn't bother with a punch, but set his knee into the butler's throat and put his weight down hard.

James could see Oliver, across the room, bent down to pick up the gun. He jumped up without a moment's thought and dove shoulder-first into the Colonel.

Then the room exploded.