She raised the pistol and waited, trying to stay calm. She felt the warmth of his body behind her and flinched slightly when his hands grasped her shoulders, moving her so that her body faced more squarely down the lane.

‘I know this will feel strange to you,’ he said calmly.

He was so close she could feel his breath, warm against her nape. His hand moved to her upper arm, closing on it gently, urging it back.

‘Move your right foot forward just a bit and lean your shoulder back. Your arm should be at an angle to your body—like this.’

She obeyed, but she could feel her arm start to shake and took a deep breath, trying to focus on nothing but the pistol.

‘Relax.’ His voice was soft and low, soothing. ‘Remember, this is easy for you.’

His hand moved down her arm slightly, steadying it. It felt warm through the thin fabric of her dress. He was mere inches behind her now, and the contrast between the coolness of the underground cavern and the warmth radiating from his body was disorientating.

Author Note

In my first week as a financial analyst at an investment bank I sat in a large room with twenty young men and one woman. Amidst all the information bombarding us (including an admonition to us two females not to wear trouser suits—and this was in the nineties!) I started thinking … What must it have been like two hundred years ago for women whose skills placed them in predominantly male environments? I had already spent two years in the military, and now there I was again—surrounded by confident, aggressive, ambitious men.

That evening I sat in my little flat in Fulham and began writing about a young woman thrust into the male world of espionage in Regency London—a world shaped by men like my hero Michael, Earl of Crayle, who is driven by the dark cost of that privilege and the deep scars of war.

Sari Trevor, my unconventional heroine, has no such traditions either to ground her or limit her. She has to invent herself, in a world intolerant of female initiative, so when she enters the earl’s world she is both deeply insecure and fiercely determined to succeed. The inevitable clash between them is also at the core of their attraction—it lays bare each other’s scars and needs and allows them … eventually … to find salvation together.

The first draft of this story lay dormant for many years, alongside others in my writing drawer, until my mother—a wonderful poet and editor—drew my attention to Mills & Boon’s So You Think You Can Write 2014 competition. With her inspired help I dusted it off and submitted it, and now Lord Crayle’s Secret World is about to be revealed.

Lord Crayle’s Secret World

Lara Temple

www.millsandboon.co.uk

LARA TEMPLE was three years old when she begged her mother to take the dictation of her first adventure story. Since then she has led a double life—by day she is a high-tech investment professional, who has lived and worked on three continents, but when darkness falls she loses herself in history and romance (at least on the page). Luckily her husband and two beautiful and very energetic children help her weave it all together.

Lord Crayle’s Secret World is Lara Temple’s exhilarating debut for Mills & Boon Historical Romance!

Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk.

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Contents

Cover

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

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

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Hampstead Heath, March 1817

Sari rubbed her gloved but frozen hands together as she and George hid among the beeches lining the London road. It was past midnight, and even as she watched the limp leaves were turning crisp with frost. She wondered once again what on earth had convinced her that highway robbery was a good idea. Madness was the only reasonable explanation for resorting to such extreme measures, no matter how desperate they had become.

It was partially George’s fault. As children, she and her brother had been captivated by his tales of the robber gangs on the Heath and he had taught them both how to ride and shoot, much to her parents’ chagrin. As she had stared at the last few copper coins in their deflated purse, the Heath had seemed a viable means of escaping debt and starvation. But now, as George stood by her side in the dark, looking as defeated as she felt, but showing the same loyal doggedness that had kept him by her family’s side, she knew she could not do this.

She was just opening her mouth to speak when she heard it—a distant rumble, separating into the staccato of hooves and the uneven rattle of wheels. George gave a quick nod and swung into his saddle as if mere days rather than twenty years had passed since his last raid. Sari scrambled into hers, her heart jerking unevenly and her body alert. This was it; there was no turning back. When the carriage was close enough for them to see the mist rising from the horses’ breath, George dug his heels into his mare’s flanks, and Sari urged her horse after him, just as they had practised.

‘Stand and deliver,’ George called out as Sari’s horse skidded to a halt in the middle of the road. The coachman, finding himself staring straight down the silvery rim of a pistol, pulled hard on the reins. The four horses twisted and whinnied in protest, but finally the whole steaming, huffing contraption shuddered to a halt barely two yards from her extended pistol.

The back rider diligently jumped off his perch, weapon at the ready, but George clipped him on the head with his musket and the man crumpled. The coachman made a futile grab for his shotgun, but Sari disabled it with a well-aimed shot. With a horrified look at the mangled wood and metal, the coachman raised his hands shakily.

Sari turned her attention to the carriage, moving her mare to cover George. She heard a muffled shriek from inside and smiled grimly. A woman. Hopefully well jewelled. Perhaps this would be their lucky night after all.

* * *

The two inhabitants of the carriage hardly shared Sari’s optimism. Lord Crayle was tired and the tedious social rituals at the Stanton-Hills’ ball had reminded him why he tried to avoid such events as much as possible. Unfortunately, his sister Alicia’s debut in society required his occasional attendance. The last thing he felt like dealing with at the moment was footpads. It was sheer ill luck that these particular footpads had chosen that night, that road and their carriage. He had spent a third of his life getting shot at by the French and would have been happy to remain on the right side of firearms for the rest of his life. Unfortunately, fate apparently had other ideas. His only consolation was that at least he was better equipped to handle this unpleasant situation than Alicia and her usual chaperon, Lady Montvale.

‘Do something, Michael,’ Alicia squeaked from the corner of the carriage to where she had shrunk at the explosion of the shot.

Michael sighed. The blinds were drawn, but he had little doubt the momentary silence would soon be rudely interrupted.

‘What precisely do you suggest I do, Allie?’

‘I don’t know. You always think of something.’

That last statement was a depressing truth. As head of the large Alistair family he had indeed always ‘thought of something’; as major in the Ninety-Fifth Rifles during the Peninsular War he had always ‘thought of something’; and now as advisor to the government and one of the founders of the Institute aimed at preventing foreign intrigue on British soil he always ‘thought of something’.

‘There is no need for heroics, Allie,’ he said reassuringly, reaching over and giving her hand a squeeze. ‘I had rather hand over my purse than get into a shooting match, especially with you in the carriage.’

‘But, Mama’s brooch! I would never forgive myself if they took it.’

He groaned inwardly as he registered the brooch pinned to her lace of her bodice. It had been their mother’s favourite ornament and the thought of some greasy footpad wrenching the delicate and very ancient Celtic cross apart for its emeralds and diamonds was repugnant.

‘What the devil did you wear that for?’ he said impatiently even as he moved into action. He tugged off his greatcoat, tossed it in an ungainly pile on the seat facing him, and plucked a pistol from the coach pocket.

Alicia was about to retort hotly when the door was pulled open and a giant of a man filled the frame, musket in hand.

‘Your valuables, if you please, sir,’ he said in a deep voice.

Michael considered how best to deal with this rather large-looking person.

‘My purse is in my coat.’ He nodded at the lump of cloth on the seat opposite. ‘If you will allow me to reach for it...?’

The giant grunted. ‘If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll do that myself. If you’ll sit well back, sir,’ he continued, keeping his musket trained on them.

Michael did not mind in the least. Polite chap, he thought sardonically as the giant cautiously leaned over to reach for the coat, allowing Michael a view of the other rider illuminated by the carriage lamps.

Michael took a deep breath before he moved. It took no more than a few seconds to slam the butt of his pistol against the back of the giant’s head with his left hand while he grabbed the man’s weapon with his right. He took aim at the other rider outside and fired the musket.

The giant slumped to the floor at his feet, but to his frustration the rider was still in the saddle, his pistol now trained straight at Michael. Michael quickly switched his own loaded pistol to his right hand, aiming back. He cursed silently. He was sure he had scored a hit.

‘It throws right, sir,’ said the rider calmly. ‘It is always risky to borrow someone else’s firearm.’

He almost faltered at the voice and he heard his sister give a faint squeak of surprise. It was deep and intentionally husky, but most definitely a woman’s voice and a cultured one... He contained his surprise and focused on the problem at hand.

‘It seems we are at an impasse,’ he said after a moment.

‘Indeed,’ the robber replied laconically, not appearing the least bit concerned. ‘Still, I am sure we can reach an understanding.’

He marvelled at the steadiness of her aim. It was no simple feat to keep a pistol firmly trained for any length of time. Nevertheless, he had little doubt he had the advantage. He heard a moan from outside, no doubt from his servant reviving. Surely she realised there was no way she could win this standoff? And yet she sat there calmly, apparently unconcerned. An ‘understanding’. An outrageous idea flickered through his mind. The giant groaned at his feet. Obviously, he had not hit him hard enough. The man must have a head like a rock.

‘An understanding?’ he queried politely.

‘It is late, sir. I have no doubt you and...the lady...are anxious for your bed.’

Michael’s hand tightened on his pistol at the insinuation.

‘You let my friend go and toss his musket after him and we will let you be on your way.’

‘That is a rather generous hand you are dealing yourself,’ he replied.

‘You have some use for a pre-war musket then, sir?’ she asked mockingly.

He paused, interested in testing this further. The idea had settled like a butterfly on a blade of grass. It was still tenuous, but it had potential.

‘What would you say to another arrangement? You run along and I will keep your big friend. I will even give you a pound for him. You could buy two better highwaymen at the price—’

He was cut off as a bullet tore through the squabs, inches from his head. He had to hold himself back from returning the compliment, with more extreme effects. He kept his arm firm despite the heat of sudden rage that surged through him.

‘I don’t sell out my friends,’ she bit out.

Her voice shook slightly as she swiftly pulled another pistol from her saddle and cocked it. He saw her arm waver again as she raised it. She was tiring, he realised, his calm returning. He had tested her and he should be happy that she had exceeded his expectations.

‘Miss, now be good and take yerself off, as the gentleman said,’ the giant said from the floor, surprising them all.

Michael decided to cut to the chase before they got into further unnecessary arguments.

‘All right, enough nonsense. You, man, get up and step back. The three of us are going to have a little talk.’

The giant hauled himself up and groggily stepped back onto the road. Michael stepped down after him. He knew it was a risk, but he had a feeling he understood the parameters of this particular game. As he descended, he noticed the mangled remains of his coachman’s rifle that lay on the road and his brows rose in appreciation. So that shot had not been mere luck.

‘Higgins, unhook a lamp for me and back on the coach with you. And, McCabe—I want you to pull up the road some twenty yards and wait for me there.’

‘My lord?’ The coachman faltered.

‘I believe I was clear, was I not?’

‘Yes, my lord.’ When he employed that tone his men knew it was best to act swiftly and without argument.

With a lamp in one hand and his pistol in the other, Michael faced his assailants. He surveyed the woman first. She had lowered her firearm and was resting it on the pommel of her saddle. In the lamplight he caught the glint of light-coloured eyes above a black kerchief. He bent to set the lamp carefully at their feet and noticed something else. A small dark puddle on the ground just by her horse. The giant noticed it at the same moment.

‘You’re hit, miss!’ he exclaimed.

‘Not hit. Grazed. I am perfectly fine.’

Michael stared at the rider. Up close he could see she was smaller than he had expected. And she had sat there holding him marked throughout this whole episode with a bullet wound. His resolve grew. This could prove extremely interesting.

‘You should see a doctor,’ he said mildly.

‘Of your offering? Make sure we go healthy to the gallows? No, I thank you. What the devil do you want?’ The veneer of politeness faded and he could hear the edge of pain in her voice. He decided to move quickly to his proposal before she fell off her horse. He had much rather they depart under their own steam.

‘I have no intention of seeing you to the gallows. In fact, I have a business proposition for you, young woman. I would like to offer you a job at a government institution I help operate and where I believe your particular skills may be...useful. It is all above board, if that has any appeal. And with good pay. Twenty pounds a month to start with and more if you prove suitable.’

* * *

Sari stared down at the madman standing before them. Now she knew what they meant when they said ‘mad as a lord’. Or was it ‘drunk as a lord’? And yet he had hardly appeared mad or foxed.

It had seemed endless, but the whole affair had probably not lasted more than a few minutes. The numbing throb of pain in her arm told her she would pay a price for her bravado in holding her ground. This man had knocked out George and taken his shot with a speed that had completely taken her off guard. If it were not for George’s relic of a firearm, they would both either be dead or be on their way to the local magistrate. The thought sent a chill through her. Not merely for them, but for her brother Charlie.

From her limited experience, she’d thought of all aristocrats as indolent—men more concerned with cravats than with fighting skills. This man was probably an officer from the wars. Trust her to hold up someone of his calibre.

She inspected him more carefully. Until now she had focused on him so intently she had hardly registered anything about him apart from the most crucial facts such as his firm aim. Now she could see he was tall, a few inches short of George’s six and a half feet. In the half-darkness she could only make out the main lines of his sharply cut features. The lamp at their feet accentuated deep-set eyes, a tight mouth and clearly defined chin and cheekbones. She tried to lock all of those into one image, but it escaped her. She knew she was tiring. The throb had spread to her fingers and deep into her chest. She wished he would go so she could get home and lie down.

But a job, above board, with good pay. Offered by a man, a lord according to his servants, whom they had just tried to rob and whose carriage now sported a bullet hole courtesy of her pistol. He was clearly demented. She decided to humour him. Anything to get rid of him.

‘It sounds most appealing...my lord,’ she added as a slightly mocking afterthought.

Ignoring the nervous movement of her gun, he reached into the pocket of his coat.

‘This is my card. I am usually in during the early morning. And you may bring your...friend here if you feel the need for protection,’ he offered drily.

He moved to hand her the card, then with a glance at the rigid way she was now holding herself he handed it to George, who took it promptly.

‘I am quite serious about this. If, however, you decide not to accept my offer, I hope you have memorised the coat of arms on my carriage as I would rather not run into you two again.’

The smile he gave them made Sari’s hand clamp on to her pistol more firmly. It was neither pleasant nor unpleasant, but it was unequivocally a warning.

* * *

‘What on earth were you doing? What if they had killed you?’ Alicia demanded as he re-entered the carriage.

Michael gave her a reassuring hug and settled back into the relative warmth of the carriage. He didn’t envy the poor devils. Highway robbery was cold work.

‘I do not think they were intent on blood.’

‘Not...not intent on blood? What on earth is that then?’ She indicated the hole by his head.

‘That, my dear, is ventilation,’ he said lightly, but he relented as she began to splutter. ‘It was a good foot from my head, as it was meant to be. I thought them quite...interesting. I merely wanted to find out more. And you still have Mama’s brooch, which, if you do not mind, I will put in a nice deep safe at my bank.’

Alicia turned away with a huff, her beauty marred by the petulant moue on her lips. She had not even been ten years old when he had left to join the army and he sometimes felt he didn’t really know her. He sighed and turned his mind to the two highway robbers. It was about time the Institute recruited a woman. He would discuss it with Anderson when they met for their game of chess the following day. His lips curved in anticipation of his friend’s response. Poor Anderson.

Chapter Two

‘By all that’s holy, Michael, you were lucky to have escaped with your lives!’

Michael frowned ruefully across the chessboard. He had tried to keep the story to the barest minimum, but perhaps it was the fact that Alicia had been with him in the carriage that had shocked Anderson. He was well aware that his mild-mannered friend was becoming increasingly enamoured of his spoiled little sister. Under other circumstances he would have been delighted at the connection. John St John Moncrieff Anderson, or Sinjun to his friends, was possibly the best man he knew, but his sweet temper might not be the best match for Alicia’s wilful nature.

He and Anderson had been friends since going up to Eton as children and they had both served in the army, though in very different capacities. Anderson had been one of Field Marshal Wellington’s aides-de-camp, and while he had witnessed much of the carnage of war at the great commander’s side, unlike Michael he had not participated in its bloodier aspects. It was precisely for this reason that Wellington, aware of the connection between them, had asked Michael to take a role in setting up the ‘Institute’ for the War Office.

‘I’ve been campaigning for thirty years now, Crayle, and I’ve no stomach for another war,’ Wellington had told Michael. ‘You know what I mean more than Anderson would. He’s a good man and one of the best minds for organisation I’ve had the pleasure to work with, but I need someone on the spot who knows what it means to get over rough ground as lightly as possible. I know you have other fish to fry now you’ve decommissioned, but this new venture needs everything you learned with the Ninety-Fifths. You’ve always been able to get your men to follow you into the mouth of hell, the devil knows how, and some of the men you’ll be recruiting won’t be easy to manage. Will you do it?’

Faced with this direct approach, Michael had found it impossible to say no. He sympathised with Wellington’s wish to avoid future wars more than he would have admitted to the commander he admired so much. He was still paying a heavy price for going into those mouths of hell, as Wellington had called them. The thought of being responsible for other men’s lives again, and the inevitability of failing them, was something he preferred not to contemplate. The nightmares had mostly faded, but not the memories. He had consoled himself with the thought that this was a substantially different battlefield.

He shook off these thoughts and inspected the chessboard. Apparently Anderson had been even more distracted than he.

‘Pay attention,’ he remonstrated. ‘You just left your poor bishop completely exposed.’

‘Never mind the bishop! You might have been killed!’

‘For heaven’s sake, Sinjun. I told you they had no intention of shooting anyone. They were damn amateurs.’

‘It didn’t sound so amateurish to me.’

‘Not in execution, perhaps, but I would have heard, and so would you, if there was a woman highway robber on the North Road. They cannot have been at it long.’

‘Well, from what you said, she was not the one who was supposed to be doing the talking. For all we know she may have been at it for years...’

‘Unlikely, but still, that is beside the point. We both agreed after the Varenne incident that you could use some females at the Institute. She is perfect for our troop of spies.’

‘Agents, not spies,’ Anderson corrected absently as he withdrew his bishop. ‘And I was thinking along the lines of an actress available for the odd job and so were you. What the devil will we do with a female criminal?’

‘The same thing we do with the male criminals. Train her and use her.’

‘They are not all criminals!’ Anderson protested. ‘And...hell, between setting up the Glasgow office and taking care of that business in Birmingham we’re too busy and shorthanded to deal with new recruits anyway. And now we find out from the Foreign Office that two Austrian mercenaries are apparently on their way to London. You yourself said that finding out what they plan to do here is a top priority.’

‘Any more information from the Foreign Office or from the ports?’ Michael glanced up from his inspection of the intricately carved wooden pieces.

‘None. Stimpson assured me he has his best Austrian contacts on alert for information, but all we know is that they are being sent on behalf of one of Metternich’s closest friends and that they are to receive their orders from someone in London. And he said it was the merest chance they found out even that much. Apparently someone is being very careful.’

‘I don’t like it. Junger and Frey are the best, or the worst, of their lot. We need to find out why Metternich is sending particularly vicious mercenaries onto English soil and who they are working with here. I came across Junger’s work in France once and it wasn’t pretty. The thought that they might even now be in London... We need to find out what they are here for. And who on our side of the channel is paying their shot.’

‘Well, you see why we can’t be distracted just now,’ Anderson said, almost imploringly.

‘Well, with any luck, she won’t show up,’ Michael said reassuringly and drained his port. ‘Come, it is no fun winning when your mind isn’t on the game. We need to leave anyway or we’ll be late for our meeting with Castlereagh.’

Anderson stood up swiftly, clearly happy to dismiss the thought of being saddled with a female highway robber.

* * *

Sari would have been happy to dismiss the idea as well, but the throbbing of the bullet graze to her arm was a constant reminder. George, too, had become uncharacteristically obdurate. He had placed the lord’s card prominently on the single table in the seedy rooms they could barely afford at the poorer edge of Islington and for two days she had done little but stare at the stark black letters proclaiming ‘Michael Julian D’Alency Alistair, Viscount Northbrook, Earl of Crayle, of Grosvenor Square, London’. The name had begun to take on a singsong quality in her mind. It was madness, she told herself. They would probably find it was a hoax at best, a trap at worst.

George had disagreed. Two evenings after their failed escapade, he had come home from his job at the hostelry and had sat with her and his wife, Mina, at the table as they mended their well-worn clothes to the accompanying noise from the tavern next door.

‘I’ve done some asking, miss, and he’s solid. I know it’s not what your ma would have liked, but she never thought we’d find ourselves in such a tangle, neither.’

Sari felt the familiar mix of guilt and panic rise up in her again like a sickness. She let her throbbing arm rest for a moment before picking up another shirt from the pile.

‘If only Papa had lived, we might still have been able to earn enough to get by.’

‘Aye, and I’m sorry Mr Trevor’s gone, but he never was the same after your ma passed. I’ve as much reason as anyone to be grateful to him and your ma for taking me in all those years ago, but I call a spade a spade and he had no business leaving the work and the worry to you all those years while he drank himself and his money under every night. He should have at least seen you married and then you might have had a husband’s helping hand with Charlie.’

She smiled somewhat crookedly.

‘To be fair, he did try when we returned to England after Mama died. We have it on excellent authority that I’m not marriage material.’

Mina snipped a thread and reached for another pair of socks from the pile before her.

‘Mrs Ruscombe and her kind are no authority you should be listening to, Miss Sari,’ she said in her soft voice. ‘Now put that down and let your arm have a rest, do.’

Sari shrugged and laid down her sewing thankfully. ‘Everyone else listened. Hector certainly did.’

‘Moresby was a weak young fool,’ George said roughly. ‘And your father was an even greater fool for not taking him to account for shying off instead of having at you for not being more ladylike like your ma.’

She flinched. Even four years later, the memory of that confrontation still hurt.

‘It wasn’t completely his fault. He was...still upset about Mama.’

Mina, usually taciturn, surprised her by looking up with unaccustomed fire in her brown eyes.

‘Don’t wrap it in clean linen, Miss Sari. He was dead drunk most days and nights and feeling sorry for himself. If anyone had the right to feel sorry for themselves over your ma’s passing, it was you, miss. I’m as grateful as any for what your pa did for my George, but it was the outside of enough watching him neglect his duties and you having to do all them translations when it should have been him all along. You are more a lady than that snooty Mrs Ruscombe ever was, even when you was in breeches and going on about politics and the like with your pa’s cronies in the desert. Your ma knew that well enough. No one knows better than me she wanted back to her life in England, but I know she was prouder of you and Master Charlie than of anything on this sainted earth and never regretted a moment of what she had with you two. And if that Mr Moresby was fool enough to have his mind made up for him by the likes of Mrs Ruscombe, well, good riddance, I say. So!’ she finished, plunging her needle into the pincushion with alarming violence.

George grinned appreciatively at his beloved’s outburst.

‘That’s right, love. You have at them.’

Sari wiped away the tears that had welled up. She hated crying, but she was just so tired. She knew George was right—she had to do something. George’s meagre pay as an ostler was barely enough to cover their living expenses and certainly not enough to continue to fund Charlie’s schooling. Whatever his commitment to her and Charlie, Sari knew it was not fair to expect George to support her and her brother indefinitely. The headmaster of Charlie’s school had agreed to give her more time to cover his fees ‘in consideration of Charles’s significant intellectual promise and personal integrity’. But he had made it clear there was a limit to his generosity and they were fast approaching it. There would be no choice now but to default. Charlie was old enough to work, but Sari felt sick at the thought of him having to give up his dreams. She knew he would never blame her, but she couldn’t stand failing him like this. She wanted so much for him.

It was not that she herself had not tried to find employment, but no one was willing to trust a mere woman with the translations her father had undertaken. Her claims that it had been she and not he who had actually done the work had been greeted with amused incredulity. And the employment agencies had been quick to point out that she had none of the skills required to be a governess—she could not sketch, or embroider, or play the harp or pianoforte. It appeared they shared Mrs Ruscombe’s doubts as to her suitability as a lady of quality.

It had been desperation bordering on lunacy that had made her suggest highway robbery as a means of survival. More proof that Mrs Ruscombe and her friends had probably been right about her—no matter if her parents had once been, she wasn’t quality. Certainly no young woman of quality would contemplate such an offer as the one made by this peculiar Lord Crayle. But twenty pounds a month seemed like a fortune to her after these lean years; it was more than most servants could make in an entire year and much, much more than she could ever dream of making as a governess. It would mean Charlie could stay at school and she could even afford to help Mina and George...

‘All right, George. You’re right. We’ll go to London tomorrow and hope our luck takes a turn for the better.’

George smiled.

‘It will, miss. I feel it in my bones.’

Chapter Three

Lord Crayle had just sifted through his morning mail when his butler knocked gently at the library door.

‘Two...ah, individuals to see you, my lord,’ he announced calmly, staring at a point beyond Michael’s left shoulder, a clear indication that these visitors were slightly out of the ordinary, but that he was well accustomed to his lordship’s sometimes peculiar choice of guests.

Michael nodded absently.

‘Show them in, Pottle.’

At first Michael just stared at the couple that walked in, perplexed. If not for their relative sizes he might not have made the connection with his Hampstead Heath assailants. Michael was above average in height and breadth, but the man who stood crumpling his cloth hat nervously easily outstripped him.

Despite the giant’s size, it was the woman who captured his attention. At the moment she looked like a slightly dishevelled schoolmistress. Her pelisse was ridiculously outmoded and, contrary to convention, she had removed her simple straw bonnet and held it dangling by its ribbons. She might at one point have been wearing her hair in a bun, but the golden-brown hair appeared to have rebelled and unwound, and was now held back tenuously with a ribbon. It looked surprisingly lush against the drab grey pelisse and it framed an unusual, heart-shaped face with a determined chin. But her eyes were her most arresting feature. They were gently slanted beneath arched brows and a strange mixture of blue and green. Right now they were narrowed as she seemed to be caught between apprehension and nervous amusement.

Michael realised his guests were becoming increasingly uneasy at his silence and he waved them to the two chairs that faced his desk.

‘Please sit down. I trust your arm has healed?’ He turned to the woman, one brow cocked.

Something flashed in her eyes, but she smiled politely and took the seat he indicated.

‘Perfectly. I thank you for your concern.’

He ignored the slight sarcasm in her tones and focused on the voice. His memory had not deceived him. It was deep and cultured. Without the asperity it could be seductive. It was hard to reconcile her obviously high-bred tones and perfect posture with the highway robber who had placed a bullet a whisper away from his temple. But it was most definitely she and she was turning out to be better than he had expected.

‘Good. I am glad you decided to accept my offer. I admit I was not certain you would.’

‘We have accepted nothing yet, my lord. You were rather sketchy about the details...’

He almost smiled at her haughty tones.

‘I can see this may be as arduous as it was back on the Heath. I apologise if I am being difficult,’ he said with mild amusement.

To his surprise, instead of raising her hackles further, she appeared to relax.

‘Surely, my lord, you can appreciate this is a rather...uncomfortable situation for us? Perhaps if you told us what you want, we could all proceed more quickly?’

Very good, he approved silently. Perfection, down to the faintly coaxing smile that tilted up one corner of a rather pleasing mouth. Not a bad little actress at all.

‘Very well. My offer is simple.’ He continued, ‘I am part of a government agency and we need a woman in the ranks. I think, given your skills, you might be suitable.’

‘What precisely would I be required to do?’

‘You would take part in certain official operations aimed at protecting crown and country. We will obviously train you and develop the necessary skills, but most importantly, you would be expected to follow whatever directives your superiors give you. If you accept, I will provide more details. Until then I am afraid you will have to take my offer at least partly unseen, as I am accepting you rather on the same terms. Which reminds me, I would like to know your names. Your real names.’

He saw the hesitation in her eyes.

‘My word on it that I have no intention of handing you over to the authorities.’

He met her probing gaze evenly, watching as doubt changed to resolution in the peculiar green-blue depths. But as she still hesitated, the giant leaned forward and spoke for the first time since they had entered.

‘My name is George Durney, my lord, and this is Miss Sarah Serena Trevor, but we have only ever called her Miss Sari.’

Michael smiled at the annoyed look the young woman shot her companion. Obviously she would go by nothing as commonplace as merely Sarah and Serena was as inappropriate a name as he could imagine for such a mercurial creature.

‘What if I agree, but you then decide I’m not suitable for this...agency?’ she asked abruptly.

‘If we decide at any time during your initial training period that you are not suitable, we will give you three months’ salary and part ways.’

‘And the pay?’

‘As I mentioned before, twenty pounds a month to start, including whatever costs you incur as part of the job. You should find accommodation close to the Institute...’

He paused, wondering if they might be lovers. He didn’t know why that possibility had not occurred to him before. The man was older, but probably no more than forty. It was possible.

‘Is it just the two of you?’ he asked brusquely.

‘Also my wife, sir, and miss’s younger brother, but he’s away at school,’ George stated.

Michael ignored his faint relief at the giant’s response. He noted the woman’s change in expression, her shoulders pulling downwards, as if the weight of responsibility was physical. Her lips parted slightly, but she said nothing and he noticed for the first time the soft fullness of her lower lip. He shifted slightly in his seat, annoyed by the sudden tension in his body. He was assessing her as agent material, not as a potential mistress.

‘Very well, the pay should be enough for all of you. If...’ he deferred to her with a faintly sardonic bow ‘...you decide to accept our offer.’

* * *

Sari forced herself to straighten in her chair, inspecting the man facing her. In the dark, with her nerves singing with fear and pain, he had appeared to be a giant and a devil. His size was still formidable, but in daylight his threat was more refined.

Firstly, he was too handsome...no, perhaps handsome was not the right word. In the dark the shadows had painted his face in harsh angular lines. The full light of morning streaming through the windows only softened those lines a small degree. His eyes were deep-set and glinted with a strange grey she found hard to identify. His mouth was tightly held, the tension apparent in the grooves that bracketed it. He had a perfectly sculpted nose and cheekbones, the only features that she could actively label handsome. The rest of him was far too forbidding, too challenging.

His black hair was cut short and simply, unlike the artfully curled fashions that were now common, and his clothes were equally subdued and tasteful. There was no ostentation about him or about the room in which they were seated. It was blatantly his space. The walls were lined with books, but there was none of the haphazard air that had characterised her father’s studies. Apparently he controlled his environment with as much rigidity as he held himself. A sudden twinge of pain throbbed in her arm. Seeing him in the light of day made her all the more aware that he could have killed her that night.

‘Had I not been a woman, would you have taken that second shot?’ she asked suddenly.

‘Yes,’ he replied, his mocking air disappearing instantly, his eyes unequivocally telling her the same. Their colour was not as dark as she had thought. A rim of slate grey held in a paler ice. The combination was disconcerting, almost feral.

Sari shifted back slightly in her chair, removing herself from the intensity of his gaze. She rather thought it was not the smartest thing to do, putting her fate in his hands. He would use her thoroughly for his own purposes with little thought to the consequences. He was a man with an agenda and she was merely a small means to his ends.

Still, what option did she have?

‘Very well.’

He lifted one eyebrow at her laconic response. Then he half-smiled and pulled a sheet of paper from his desk.

‘Good. I will give you an address. Arrive on Monday morning and ask for a Mr Anderson. He is responsible for the new recruits. Meanwhile, here is a draft on my bank for twenty pounds.’

It was Sari’s turn to raise an eyebrow—she was surprised he trusted them not to simply disappear with his money. Then she saw the faintly disdainful look in his eyes, as if he knew precisely what she was thinking. Her sense of helplessness and fear shifted into a surge of anger at this cold, unyielding man who dangled salvation with little concern whether she took it or took herself to perdition.

A perverse, rebellious demon took hold of her and she stood up and strode briskly to the desk. Even as she saw his disdain turn to wariness, she extended her hand, the abruptness of her gesture making a mockery of its polite antecedents.

‘A pleasure doing business with you, my lord,’ she said.

Michael stood up, unhurriedly, inch by towering inch, making her hand look very small indeed. Just as she thought she would have to withdraw it, he reached out and grasped it in his. A rush of heat rose up her arm and she was peculiarly aware of the texture of the large hand that held hers; it was firm and warm and calloused and it seemed to engulf more than her hand. She was swamped by the same mixture of fear and anticipation that had rushed through her on the Heath. She tried pulling away, but he did not immediately let go. Finally, he released her hand slowly, and she felt each finger as it grazed her palm.

Despite the fact that she stood closer to him now than she had ever been, his voice sounded distant.

‘As you said: a pleasure.’

Sari breathed in deeply, picked up the address and draft and strode out without another word, followed by George.

* * *

Michael remained standing after the door closed behind them. He flexed his right hand. That had been a mistake. He had merely been responding to her aggravating bravado, but the moment he had grasped her hand every nerve-end had gone on alert. He had felt for a moment just as he had before a battle, every sense and instinct ready, focused on danger and survival. It was a ridiculous response to a mere handclasp.

He had a premonition that perhaps this was not his best idea. She was too independent for their purposes. They needed someone who could follow orders. Then he remembered her stone-cold focus as she had aimed the pistol at his head, even as blood dripped down her arm. He had to face the fact that she was as good as they were going to find. The fact that she brought out the worst in him and that she clearly disliked him was beside the point. After all it was Anderson who was primarily responsible for new recruits, not he. Hopefully, by the time she went through her training she would have learned some discipline. He turned back to his correspondence. He would keep an eye on this experiment. Just enough to make sure she didn’t turn the whole Institute on its head.

Chapter Four

That evening he found Anderson at Brooks’s Gentlemen’s Club, lounging behind a newspaper in his favourite chair in a quiet corner by the tall windows overlooking St James’s Street.

‘My highway robber paid me a visit today, Sinjun,’ Michael said casually as he sat down next to him.

‘You sent her away, of course,’ Anderson said hopefully, folding his newspaper.

‘Not at all. We are to expect a visit this Monday morning. Unless she absconds with my twenty pounds.’

‘Michael, you cannot be serious. What on earth are we going to do with her? I thought we agreed it wasn’t suitable.’

‘We agreed to no such thing. I merely said that with any luck she would not show up. It seems your luck is out. Don’t be so negative, Sinjun. She might prove useful.’

Anderson leaned his forearms on his knees morosely, and Michael tried not to smile. Unlike Michael, Anderson had no sisters and he had always been diffident around women. Though he had frequently professed to being in love with some pretty girl or other in his youth, he conducted his liaisons the same way most men dealt with the nursery—he enjoyed himself once he was there, but usually found an excuse to postpone his next visit.

‘Then you take responsibility for her,’ Anderson said finally. ‘You always seem to know what to do with women...and stop grinning, that’s not what I meant. I mean they’re always comfortable around you and you just don’t seem to care.’

Michael’s grin widened.

‘But I care a great deal, Sinjun. That’s why they are comfortable with me. And I don’t know why you say you don’t know what to do with them. I seem to remember you falling in and out of love with some fair maiden or another every term whilst we were up at Oxford.’

It was Anderson’s turn to grin.

‘Everyone was falling in love then. Except you—I remember how offended I was when you told me to stop making a fool of myself and just go and get the job done.’

Michael laughed.

‘Well, it was damn exhausting, listening to you go on about Jane, or Sophia, or Anthea or whomever. I was trying to study and you’d be reading your maudlin poetry out loud. You were lucky you were too timid to ask any of them to marry you, otherwise you’d probably have at least ten children by now.’

‘Anthea! I’d forgotten her. Lucky is right. She’d have made my life a living hell. But I still want to get married. Do you really not want to?’

‘Thankfully, I don’t need to, now that Chris has two healthy sons. He’s much better suited to managing Crayle Hall anyway. He lives and breathes estate management. If the estate and title weren’t entailed I’d hand them over without a qualm, except that he’s too proper to consider such a flouting of convention.’

‘For heaven’s sake, one doesn’t marry just to produce an heir. I mean, there’s love, and companionship...and I don’t mean the kind of companionship provided by someone from the muslin company,’ he added with asperity.

Michael smiled affectionately at his friend.

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about when you talk about love. And frankly neither do you. I would wager you can’t even remember the names of all the women you’ve been in love with. It’s just a fancy name for unrequited lust.’ The smile faded. ‘And when it’s something more than that it’s usually destructive. My father was in love with my mother and look where that got them. All I can remember was his jealousy and her misery. You saw what it was like when they came to the Hall. Sometimes I think you had the best of it with your parents being away in India for all those years. You only had to see them once a year.’

‘If that. I much preferred spending the school holidays with you lot, though I do admit your parents did put a damper on our fun when they would come down from London. I never understood why your father always was so jealous. She was far too sweet and timid to ever stray.’

‘They were both fools,’ Michael said dismissively. ‘Thankfully they rarely stayed for long.’

Anderson laughed suddenly. ‘I just remembered how he used to line you and Chris up the first day they arrived and quiz you about your achievements at school like a drill sergeant. No wonder you always excelled. I was always terrified he would put me in the line, too.’

‘If we’d had any courage we would have told him to go to hell,’ Michael said with a self-deprecating smile.

‘Well, you did eventually, I suppose. Enlisting in the army amounted to the same thing. It definitely wasn’t what he planned for you. But that’s not the point. Not every marriage is like your parents’. And even if you don’t believe in love, then what about children? Isn’t that a good enough reason to marry?’

Michael could indulge him no longer.

‘It was bad enough being responsible for Letty and Christopher and Allie or for my men during battle, but at least they are their own masters in principle. I’ve done my share of being responsible for other people and a damn poor job of it too often. I have Lizzie and my father and more of my men than I care to count on my conscience and I don’t need any more opportunities to let people down, especially not those who are wholly dependent on me for their survival and wellbeing.’

Anderson gaped at him.

‘Good God, Michael, your father had a heart attack and overturned his curricle with Lizzie in it. If anything, it’s his fault that your sister broke her back in the accident. You weren’t even there!’

‘I might as well have been. He was so furious when I told him I was joining the army that if he could have disowned me he would have. He made it clear that if I left I wasn’t to come back. Don’t tell me the fact that he had a heart attack the next day was unrelated.’

‘It’s still not your fault. And as far as I can remember he’d already had one heart attack years earlier and the one that killed him in the end happened much later when you were already in Spain. Were you responsible for those two as well?’

Michael shrugged. Even with Anderson he had no intention of touching this particular wound. He had already said too much.

‘We are straying from the point, which is that there is no reason why you can’t deal with Miss Trevor. In fact, she might be just what you need.’

‘You make her sound like a medication, or a trip to Bath to take the waters.’ Anderson grimaced.

Michael laughed. ‘I hope it’s not as bad as that.’

‘Fine. At least tell me what she is like. Big and vulgar?’ Anderson asked despondently.

‘Not at all. I would wager she is a gentleman’s daughter, though I haven’t the faintest idea how she ended up on the wrong side of the Heath. I will leave the family history exploration to you. I have a feeling she will answer your questions more readily than mine since she and I did not exactly hit it off. As for size, she is a small thing, a couple inches shorter than Allie, I would say.’

He sipped his whisky, watching with amusement as a faint bloom of colour spread across Anderson’s cheeks at the mention of Alicia. He wished his friend had more stomach when it came to women so he could follow through on his obvious attraction. No wonder he was horrified at the prospect of being saddled with Miss Trevor. Michael wondered how he could make her sound more acceptable, then decided it was best for Anderson to be forewarned.

‘She is quite pretty which could be useful. Very direct—in fact, painfully direct. A bit of a shrew, I think, but clever and quick to grasp what is good for her. From her behaviour on the Heath she appears to have an inordinate amount of loyalty for her silent giant friend. I have no idea how they ended up working together in such dubious circumstances. Another piece of the puzzle for you to uncover...’

Anderson sighed. ‘I hate puzzles.’

Chapter Five

Sari stared at the neo-classical grey building with its simple entrance. There was no distinguishing plaque. Just a number—eleven—by the wooden door. She glanced up at George who stood beside her, hands on hips.

‘I’ll go in with you, Miss Sari.’

She patted his arm. ‘No, George. If this is the place, I’m going in alone. I won’t have you be late for work. It’s a long way back to Islington.’

George frowned down at her, wavering.

‘It’s all right, really it is,’ she said with much more confidence than she felt. ‘You can wait here and see me safely inside, but it is about time I stood on my own two feet.’

Without waiting for his response, she crossed the narrow empty street and pulled at the bell pull by the door. The door opened so promptly Sari took a step back in dismay.

A very tall, elderly man inspected her, not unkindly.

‘Ma’am?’

‘I...I was told to come... My name is Sari Trevor and...’

‘Ah, of course, Miss Trevor. Do come in.’ He stood back, indicating a long corridor. Sari glanced over her shoulder, sending George a quick smile before stepping inside with an assurance she was far from feeling.

‘My name is Penrose, ma’am. If there is anything you need, you have only to ask.’

‘I...thank you, Mr Penrose.’ Sari smiled nervously at this rather sweeping statement.

‘Here is Mr Anderson’s office.’ He knocked on the door and opened it. ‘Mr Anderson? It is Miss Trevor. And Lord Crayle asked to be informed if she arrived. I will go and fetch him.’

Even in the midst of her confusion, Sari noticed he said ‘if’ rather than ‘when’. Clearly the earl had not completely trusted her not to just disappear with his money. She took a deep breath and tried to focus on the man who had stood up from his desk. She had expected someone like the earl, but he was almost his antithesis. He was good-looking, but in a pleasant, unthreatening way, with kind blue eyes and very light brown hair. He did not look at all like a government agent.

‘Thank you for coming, Miss Trevor. Please sit down. Did you have any trouble finding us?’

‘I... No, we found it quite readily.’

‘Ah, good. Very good.’

He hesitated, and Sari realised in surprise that he seemed as nervous as she. Her own thumping heart calmed slightly and she smiled encouragingly.

‘It was a bit of a leap of faith. I was afraid I might arrive and there would be nothing here.’

He gave a short, surprised laugh, visibly relaxing, and sat down again.

‘A leap of faith indeed, then. Knowing Michael... Lord Crayle, I assume he was less than forthcoming with details?’

Sari smiled at the understatement. It was a relief that this man was so different from the earl.

‘He mentioned something vague about being agents for crown and country—’ she replied hesitantly and broke off as the door behind her opened and Lord Crayle stepped into the room. She straightened slightly and nodded at him.

‘Lord Crayle,’ she said properly.

A faint look of amusement glimmered in his eyes as he came to lounge against the bookcase by Anderson’s shoulder. Then the light from the window was behind him, encasing him like a dark monolith.

‘Miss Trevor,’ he responded with equal politeness.

Anderson cleared his throat and smiled.

‘Good. Well, let me be a bit more explicit. First, what do you know about the state of Continental Europe today?’

Sari gathered her thoughts. Growing up in politically sensitive parts of the Continent and the Levant had made her very politically aware and she hoped she was not too far out of touch with Europe’s rapidly changing landscape.

‘It seems rather chaotic to me at the moment. Napoleon is still causing trouble, even from St Helena. The Bourbons are struggling to make believe they control France. Metternich is playing the Prussians against the Russians. And Tsar Alexander is hoping to transform Russia into a linchpin of the Continent’s security through a Holy Alliance. And we in our turn have our finger in every pie, trying to make sure none of them succeeds in their attempts to run the show.’

Sari saw Anderson cast a quick glance at Michael but his friend’s gaze was on her, inscrutable.

‘That is a pleasantly concise and accurate summary of our murky political environment,’ Anderson said appreciatively. ‘Part of our role here is to help nip in the bud any attempts to foment trouble on British soil by any of these European powers. Now that it is no longer so clear who the enemy is, some of our statesmen are becoming easy prey to manipulation for one cause or another. Our role is to identify potential troublemakers and limit the damage.’

The significance of what he was saying, of what she was being offered, hit Sari with almost physical force. She hadn’t even known such things existed. Compared to the possibility of being part of such an organisation, her wish to become a governess seemed hopelessly tepid. She had no idea yet what might be required of her, but she wanted to be part of this with an instinctive passion. She had always wanted to do something significant, meaningful, but it had never seemed a feasible possibility. And now, in a mere few sentences, a whole world had opened up before her and she knew her life was never going to be the same. She stared at the sweet, soft-spoken man offering her salvation and bit her lip against the surge of unaccustomed joy that was thrusting up from inside her like a butterfly struggling against its chrysalis.

‘Now, why don’t you tell me something about yourself? A bit of family history and how you ended up robbing people on the Heath?’ Anderson continued. There was no condemnation in his tone, and Sari, still caught up in wonder at the gift that had descended on her, was surprised by her willingness to answer his question.

‘There is not much to tell. My father was an orientalist and we grew up travelling between antiquity sites in the Levant. We were supported mostly by another orientalist, Emilio Cavalcatti, a Sicilian who used to be a successful mercenary. Emilio and my mother both died during a typhoid epidemic when I was sixteen and my father, my brother and I returned to England. My father took in translations for a while. He...died three years ago. By then there wasn’t much left. We sold what we could, and George worked, but it wasn’t enough for us all.’ She dropped her gaze as shame dimmed her excitement.

‘It might seem strange that I...that I allowed George to support us, but he and Mina have always been family. He was part of a robber gang when he was a boy and it was thanks to my parents that he escaped that life and met Mina. He and Mina insisted Charlie remain in school, no matter what it cost us. And I did try to find employment, but I was unsuccessful. But matters... Anyway, we were about to sell a few of our last belongings, including the pistols Cavalcatti had given us, when I told George we could make more money using them than selling them. After all, he already knew what to do... I know it sounds mad and immoral, but we were desperate. It actually made sense at the time. That is all.’

She ended her story and glanced up. Anderson’s kind blue eyes were full of compassion, and she ducked her head again for a moment, feeling suddenly weary and close to tears. Anderson extended a hand as if to comfort her but withdrew it as Lord Crayle moved closer to the desk.

‘What skills do you have?’ he asked abruptly, and she drew herself up.

‘Skills? I... Well, I can’t embroider or play an instrument if that is what you mean.’

Michael laughed. ‘Drawing-room accomplishments aren’t quite what we are looking for here. I meant anything that might be useful. I already know you are a decent shot. Anything else?’

‘I believe I am more than a decent shot, my lord,’ she stated with some hauteur, and his smile deepened for a moment. ‘Aside from that, I am very good with languages and I can fence...decently.

‘I can pick locks, too. I suppose that may be useful?’

‘Very useful indeed,’ Anderson replied faintly.

‘Where precisely did you learn those skills?’ Michael asked levelly.

Sari wished he would move away from the window so she could make out his expression. He was hard enough to read as it was, but standing there like a shadow only made him more intimidating. She was used to reading people, but she had no idea what he was thinking.

‘Mostly from George and Signor Cavalcatti. Cavalcatti taught us all how to fence and how to pick locks. He had a Smith-Caldwell safe he would travel with and we practised with that. It was a bit smaller than yours, Mr Anderson,’ she added with another mischievous smile.

Anderson sat back in surprise.

‘How did you know...?’ He glanced from her to the bookcase that hid his safe.

‘You didn’t secure the bookcase fully. I can see the gap reflected in the window behind you. Cavalcatti had a safe with just that distinctive grooved dial with the silver rim.’

* * *

Michael considered Anderson’s clearly admiring gaze. Given his initial reluctance, he had fully expected to have to ease his friend’s way through this interview, but he had clearly underestimated her. He wondered if her behaviour was calculated. If it was, it was brilliant—that mixture of forlorn waif and mischievous young woman was very effective in exciting Anderson’s protective instincts. Calculated or not, objectively she suited the Institute’s needs. But her disclosures were highlighting some serious problems as well. Despite her rather peculiar upbringing and unconventional skills, she was clearly less experienced than her performance on the Heath had seemed to indicate. Her obvious intelligence might also be as much a drawback as a benefit. But it was more than that. Something less tangible was bothering him. There was something too intense, too driven about her.

Out of nowhere he remembered a children’s book he used to read to his brother and sisters. It had been about the adventures of a young page, Cedric the Small, an unlikely little hero whose determination to save his family from the evil Knight Mercur led him both into and out of trouble. It was a classic story about brain over brawn, but it had been Cedric’s mix of warmth, vulnerability and mischief that had made him so appealing. Miss Trevor was like a female version of Cedric. And Cedric got into trouble as often as he managed to get out of it.

‘So you think you can open the safe?’ Michael asked curtly, forcing himself back into the moment.

‘Yes. I would need a glass, preferably crystal. Would you like me to try?’

He smiled slightly at her defiant confidence. And at the fact that he believed her. He doubted she would promise what she didn’t feel she could deliver.

‘Not at the moment. Deakins for one will be delighted to meet you.’

‘Who is Deakins?’

‘He’s one of the instructors here. He specialises in all sorts of less-than-legal skills. In fact, I think the two of you will deal admirably.’

Anderson shot him a quelling glance, but Michael ignored him.

‘Perhaps we should tell you what you will be doing over the next few months. Before you become an operative agent, you will undergo a schedule of training, including a physical regimen, politics and a variety of other topics. If you complete your training to our satisfaction, you will join the others on whatever mission is assigned. Are you still interested?’

Sari nodded, trying and failing to keep her mouth prim. She didn’t even trust herself to speak yet, she was so excited.

‘Good. Anderson will take you around to meet the instructors. And I believe I mentioned that you should find accommodation not too far from the Institute,’ Michael added practically. ‘Penrose can help.’

‘Thank you, I will keep that in mind, Lord Crayle, but George knows London quite well.’

‘Will you come with us?’ Anderson asked him as they stood up.

‘No, I have some matters to attend to. I just received the latest reports from Denby and I want to review them. Come by when you’re done, Anderson. Enjoy your tour, Miss Trevor.’

She nodded hesitantly as he walked out. She was almost relieved he wasn’t coming with them. It was hard to be natural under the scrutiny of his cold grey eyes. Or rather, it was hard to be unnatural. She wanted so much to present herself as competent and worthy, but somehow she felt too...exposed when he was watching her. It would be easier to concentrate with just Anderson there.

* * *

An hour later Anderson entered Michael’s office, and Michael glanced up from the documents he was inspecting.

‘Well?’ he asked, taking in his friend’s relaxed smile.

‘Well, you were right and I was wrong. I think she’ll do just fine. I’ll work on a schedule for her as of next week. Give them time to find accommodation and settle in the area first. What an extraordinary young woman...’ He trailed off.

‘A nonpareil,’ Michael said drily after a moment. ‘So, what training are you considering?’

‘Well, given our experience in the Varenne case, I thought she should brush up on her social skills. She’s not completely green—she spent three years in country society out near Oxford, but she was never in London society, so the finer points of Almack’s are lost on her. Albermarle will be happy to have someone to train aside from the usual roster of ruffians as he calls them. Paretski on politics and Antonelli will start her on a physical regimen including fencing. And Deakins, of course.’

‘Of course. Sabotage.’

‘All right, Michael, what’s wrong?’ Anderson asked with uncharacteristic bluntness. ‘This was your idea, but you’re about as enthusiastic as mud.’

Michael considered his words carefully.

‘I’m not sure we can trust her.’

‘If you don’t trust her, then why the devil did you recruit her?’

‘That is different. I trust her to carry out whatever mission you impose in full faithfulness to you and King. I do not trust her...motivations.’

That was not quite the word he was looking for. In fact, now that he thought of it, he could not completely pin down where his feeling of unease stemmed from. Perhaps it was the undefinable quality of his discomfort that bothered him most about her. He preferred to know where the threat was coming from.

‘I think you’re just miffed she almost put a bullet through you.’ Anderson snorted.

‘You’re probably right,’ Michael conceded with a self-deprecating smile. ‘What a blow to my self-esteem!’

‘She’s meeting Antonelli at ten o’clock next Monday morning,’ Anderson said after a moment. ‘You should come by and have a look.’

Michael felt a surge of affection for his gentle, always-conciliating friend. It was a constant wonder to him that someone so averse to discord could derive such pleasure from managing a band of spies.

‘I will be there.’

Chapter Six

The following Monday morning Michael closed the door of the salle d’escrime quietly behind him. Both Antonelli and Sari were completely concentrated on each other and the clash of their foils. Antonelli was clearly a master fencer, guiding and correcting without a word or a discordant gesture. What surprised Michael was that the young woman was good, if unorthodox in her style.

She wielded her foil like a sabre, with long smooth strokes, coming in from irregular angles and forcing Antonelli to adjust in ways Michael knew must feel unnatural for him. What was most surprising was that the old master had not pinned her down, disarmed her and given her an earful for not respecting tradition. He had certainly done so to Michael during their first encounter some twenty years ago. Where the devil had she learned this?

Finally, Antonelli took the full offensive, drove her back off the strip and flipped her foil out of her grip with a powerful lunge.

‘Touché, et bien touché.’ She saluted with a breathless laugh, her cheeks flushed.

Antonelli gave a slight bow, his greying hair still almost perfectly coifed. Only the faintest sheen on his face denoted he had exerted himself at all.

‘Et bien joué,’ he returned. ‘But you need a firmer grip, signorina. And there is too much swing in your arcs. Each should be an inch shorter; do not waste energy slicing the air. Fluide, mais courte.’

She stood to attention as Antonelli rattled off his criticism, fully focused, her hand unconsciously responding to his comments. Michael smiled. So far it seemed the only person who brought out her prickliness was himself. He took a couple of steps forward away from the door and they both looked up in surprise.

‘Michael!’ Antonelli exclaimed, using the Italian pronunciation, Mee-ka-el. ‘But how wonderful! You are neglecting me, my friend.’

‘Not intentionally, Marco. I have been busy up north.’ He took Antonelli’s hand warmly.

‘Always busy. It is not good for the soul, young man.’

Michael smiled at Antonelli’s mode of address. He had never stopped calling him young and he wondered what it would take for him to change.

‘Well, I’m willing to make amends, if you have the time. And if Miss Trevor hasn’t worn you out, old man.’

Sari was startled into an involuntary gurgle of laughter at the mock concern in the earl’s tone.

‘I tried. Desperately,’ she said. ‘I think Signor Antonelli could have disarmed me in his sleep.’

‘I sympathise,’ Michael replied. ‘For the first year I trained with this taskmaster I don’t think he looked up once from the book he was reading except to tell me the session was over.’

Sari laughed and Antonelli shook his head, smiling indulgently at them.

‘It was surely a very enthralling book...’ she offered as palliative, but Michael shook his head.

‘I appreciate the attempt at redemption, but it was no such thing. I didn’t even rank above Reverend Trull’s Sermons on the Decay of Modern Morals.’

The absurdity of Antonelli being engrossed by such a book was clearly too much for Sari, and she burst out laughing. Antonelli chuckled.

‘Enough of that, you two. Now, signorina, you had better run and change if you are not to be late for Mr Deakins, he of the gunpowder and smoke. It would not do to upset him.’

* * *

Sari was reluctant to leave, but she smiled at the two men and left the salle. She was intrigued by the change in Lord Crayle from her previous encounters. It was hard to reconcile his light hearted self-deprecation with the tight control or the watchful disdain that had characterised their previous meetings. She wondered which of these personas reflected the real man.

Certainly she knew he was anything but inept at fencing. Anderson had casually mentioned that Lord Crayle was one of the country’s finest fencers. She had the instinctive feeling that although he might laugh at himself, it was because he could afford to. He might not be as forgiving towards himself if he were to fail in earnest. She would do well to remember that under his unexpected and disquieting charm was the cold and ruthless focus she had witnessed back on the Heath.

She shook her head, as if to free it of these thoughts. This was her first day at the Institute and she needed to be focused. She had to keep reminding herself this was real. From the moment she had returned to tell George and Mina that she had indeed secured employment, everything had been a slightly unreal whirl of activity. George had done them proud by using his contacts at the hostelry to find a lovely little house for rent in Pimlico with one room for her, one for George and Mina and another for Charlie when he would come to London for the holidays. The sorry sum of their belongings had not taken up half a cart, but Mina had inspected their new rooms with a sweeping martial gaze. When she was armed with a fistful of coins, Sari had full faith it would not take Mina long to turn the modest furnished house into a warm home.

But perhaps the most rewarding moment had been sending off the letter to Charlie’s headmaster, including the arrears in fees, and another to Charlie himself telling him of their new direction. She had never told him how low they had sunk and she was not going to tell him how they were now evading debtors’ prison. She wanted him happy and safe and unworried. For the first time in years she felt a return of optimism.

* * *

Back in the salle, Antonelli stood by as Michael prepared for their practice.

‘Strange things wash up on your shores, young Michael,’ he observed after a moment. Michael looked up from the foils he was inspecting. Strange was one way of putting it. The way Sari swung between that impulsive, uncalculated charm and a mix of hauteur and bravado was disconcerting.

‘Stranger than even I thought. What did you learn about her?’

‘She said a Sicilian had taught her to fence many years ago. Along with a few other tricks, I would hazard, knowing Sicilians. She has grace and daring, but not much method. It will be a challenge to discipline her.’

Michael wondered if her good behaviour would survive the test of time once the word discipline was mentioned.

‘Good luck. She may be more intractable than first impressions indicate.’

Antonelli dipped his head to one side, considering. ‘Perhaps, and yet I think she will meet me on this. It will be interesting to see what differences there are between men and women...’ He paused as Michael faintly quirked a brow in amusement.

‘Now, now, none of that nonsense,’ Antonelli admonished. ‘However, my friend, I am also wondering what will happen when the men notice a young and most attractive female is wandering the corridors?’

Michael frowned. ‘I hadn’t considered that. Perhaps we should keep her schedule different from the others. All these young fools need is an object on which to focus their bravado and easy infatuations and we will have mayhem on our hands.’

‘I seem to remember a time when you, too, were young, my friend,’ the older man pointed out mildly.

‘A long time ago. Still, that is why I know the danger we may be stirring by dropping an unsuspecting female into the middle of this pack of wolves. And I have a feeling she is definitely unsuspecting.’

Michael picked up one of the foils absently, weighing it in his hands. The more he learned about this woman, the less comfortable he became. When he had thought she was clearly a criminal of sorts, making use of her seemed acceptable. Now that it was becoming clear she was just a young woman forced to desperate measures by circumstance, the thought of placing her in compromising or dangerous situations was less palatable. He was surprised that strait-laced Anderson, of all people, wasn’t objecting on the same grounds.

‘I hear she might be a good shot,’ Antonelli said, interrupting his thoughts. ‘Will O’Brien be training her in the gallery or will you?’ he continued as they took their places on the strip.

Michael glanced up with some surprise. He hadn’t considered the possibility. O’Brien usually trained the men when they first arrived in the rudiments of shooting while Michael did training outdoors with the most promising of the lot. Still, if she was as good as her shots on the Heath had indicated...

‘I don’t know yet,’ he answered evasively. ‘We’ll see. En garde.’

Antonelli echoed his salute and Michael cleared his mind of anything but the other man’s sword.

Chapter Seven

Stepping out of Deakins’s class on the fourth day of her training, Sari was forced to admit the earl had been right about her and Deakins. He was her favourite instructor thus far, only after Antonelli. She loved his lab of chemicals, lock picks and trunks of disguises. There must be more of the lawbreaker in her than she cared to admit. She headed towards the clerk’s office, wondering what other training had been assigned for her that day.

Penrose glanced up as she entered his small room by the main door.

‘Ah, miss, follow me, if you please,’ he said pleasantly.

Sari followed. She knew part of her role in the Institute included not asking where she was being taken or what she was expected to do, but as Penrose led her through a door and down a set of winding stairs, she began to feel slightly uneasy. They descended farther and farther, and she had the slightly hysterical thought that perhaps they were going to dispose of her in some underground dungeon.

‘Almost there, miss,’ Penrose said as the stairs ended and they proceeded along a narrow corridor. Rather than echoing, his voice became peculiarly muted. Finally, they reached a broad door and he motioned her ahead of him.

She entered and her mouth opened in awe as she realised she was in an underground shooting gallery. Three long lanes stretched some thirty yards up to a well-lit wall where life-size dummies were propped up on posts.

‘Thank you, Penrose; you can return upstairs now.’

She whirled around in surprise. She hadn’t noticed before, but at the back of the room there were several tall cabinets, and Lord Crayle stood beside one, pulling a wooden case from one of the shelves.

Alone with the earl, Sari stood waiting uncertainly. He didn’t address her, just placed the case he held on a long table by the wall and opened it. Inside was small elegant pistol in dark wood and brass.

‘This was designed for the Cavalry, so it is light, easy to reload and not likely to go off if it’s jarred. Here, it’s loaded and cocked. Just try not to shoot at me this time,’ he added with a sardonic half smile as he handed it to her.

She took the pistol gingerly. She felt unusually nervous holding it. Perhaps it was because she had never been to a shooting gallery before. With Cavalcatti they had always practised outdoors. More likely it was because she suddenly felt painfully nervous around the earl without someone’s mediating presence. Their light-hearted interchange in the salle seemed very far away, almost as if it had taken place with someone else, and now here again was the same man who had faced her across the desk in his study. Hard and watchful and knowing.

She tried to ignore his presence at her back and concentrated on the pistol. It was light and smooth and the brass moulding on the handle was cold. She raised it and sighted the dummy at the end of the lane where she stood. Then she took a deep breath and let it out slowly as she aimed, just milking the trigger the way Cavalcatti had taught her. She took her shot. There was a muted explosion and the dummy jerked with a disconcertingly lifelike movement.

‘I thought it would be louder,’ she said, lowering the pistol.

The earl was looking towards the dummy with a slight smile.

‘Deakins designed special walls to absorb the noise. Right in the chest. Not bad for a new gun. So you did miss me on purpose that night; I was wondering.’

‘That was the first time I actually shot at someone,’ she said.

‘Lucky you. I hope you never have to do so again,’ he said lightly, but there was something in his voice that made her look up sharply.

‘Shall I clean and reload it?’ she asked to break the silence.

He nodded and watched as she skilfully cleaned and reloaded the pistol. Her next practice was speed-shooting at a target marked with various coloured circles. After each reload he stated a colour and she took her shot as quickly as possible. Lord Crayle watched without comment. Then, after five circles he took the pistol from her and handed her a different one.

‘Here, try this on the dummy. This is one of Joe Manton’s finest. It’s weighted at the tip so there is less recoil.’

‘Is this a duelling pistol?’ she asked, forgetting her nervousness slightly. He smiled, amused by her patent awe.

‘Similar. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but there aren’t many duels nowadays. Mostly it is just shooting at wafers.’

‘I’m not disappointed,’ she replied, returning his smile. She took the pistol from him. The barrel was longer and she could tell it was built for accuracy. ‘I never understood why men would consider honour worth risking their lives for. Shooting at wafers makes much more sense.’

She aimed at the centre of the dummy’s head and took her shot.

‘I like this one better,’ she said as she lowered the pistol.

‘It obviously likes you just as much,’ he responded, his eyes narrowing as he took in the damage to the dummy’s head. ‘I was intrigued to see just how good you were after your performance on the Heath.’

‘And...?’ she asked, raising her chin slightly. At least in this arena she knew her worth.

‘Passable.’ He shrugged.

‘Passable!’ she exclaimed, offended and annoyed, and he laughed, his face lightening.

‘You’re an excellent shot and you know it. You don’t need me to tell you that.’

She flushed in pleasure at the compliment.

‘May I try another?’ she asked diffidently. She did not want this particular session to end quite yet.

He hesitated, then shrugged.

‘Fine. But we need to correct your stance. You may not approve of duelling, but whoever taught you clearly did; that’s a duelling stance. Standing sideways makes you a smaller target, but it’s not always as effective for aiming, especially for long-distance shooting. Here, take this and come over here.’

Sari took the pistol he handed her and followed him to the second lane.

‘Now aim as usual.’

She raised the pistol and waited, trying to stay calm. She felt the warmth of his body behind her and flinched slightly when his hands grasped her shoulders, moving her so that her body faced more squarely down the lane.

‘I know this will feel strange to you,’ he said calmly. He was so close she could feel his breath warm against her nape. His hand moved to her upper arm, closing on it gently, urging it back.

‘Move your right foot forward just a bit and lean your shoulder back. Your arm should be at an angle to your body, like this.’

She obeyed, but she could feel her arm starting to shake, and she took a deep breath, trying to focus on nothing but the pistol.

‘Relax.’ His voice was soft and low, soothing. ‘Remember, this is easy for you.’ His hand moved down her arm slightly, steadying it. His hand felt warm through the thin fabric of her dress. He was mere inches behind her now and the contrast between the coolness of the underground cavern and the warmth radiating from his body was disorienting.

‘Breathe and take your shot.’

She closed her eyes briefly, trying to clear her mind. Then she sighted and shot. She wasn’t used to the stance and didn’t hold her ground as well as usual when the recoil propelled her back. She came up hard against the earl’s body and he steadied her, one hand on her waist and the other on her outstretched arm.

‘He only lost some hair,’ he said with a low laugh that flowed over her, mixing with her thudding pulse. ‘It will be easier next time. You need more weight on your lead foot.’

Sari didn’t respond and didn’t move. She knew she should say something. Or step away. Anything. She wet her lips and waited.

The silence stretched on for a moment, then his hand slid down her arm, brushing over her hand as he grasped the pistol and pulled it away. Then he stood back and turned away.

‘That should be enough for today. Do you remember how to get back upstairs?’

She nodded.

‘Thank you,’ she forced herself to say.

‘There is no need to thank me. Practise that stance until it feels natural.’

She nodded again and turned, heading for the stairs. She needed air.

* * *

Michael took out the gun-cleaning kit absently and began cleaning the pistols with the ease of many years of practice. At least he now had an answer of sorts to Antonelli’s questions. Training women was distinctly different to training men.

If he had needed any further proof of her lack of experience, he had found it in the unconscious way she had accepted his touch. A more experienced female would either have made a show of modestly demurring or made the most of the situation. He almost wished she had done one or the other.

In some respects, training her had been easier than he would have thought. As she had been with Antonelli, she had been attentive and immediately responsive to his corrections. It wasn’t until the recoil had knocked her back against him that he had realised he had been far too comfortable touching her.

With his hand on the warm curve of her waist there had been a moment when it had seemed natural to pull her back against him, lean in and follow the faint, exotic scent of jasmine he could detect beneath the acrid smell of gunpowder. It had only been for a moment, but long enough to convince him he had been right—she was trouble. The fact that she was innocent trouble only made it worse.

Chapter Eight

Towards the end of Sari’s second week at the Institute her muscles were protesting after the unaccustomed exercise of daily fencing practice and her mind was crammed with assorted chemical formulas, social dictums and political doctrines. But she didn’t regret a second of it. For the first time in her life she felt a real sense of purpose. She told herself it was ridiculous to feel as if she truly belonged in this strange environment after little more than a week, but she just did.

She could hardly believe that a few weeks ago she had been drowning in fear and poverty and now her life had taken on a whole new glow of hope and purpose. Every evening she, Mina and George would sit in the small parlour of their new lodgings off Wilton Street in Pimlico, revelling in its cosy warmth. She had even allowed herself to buy two new books. She loved seeing the pleasure Mina derived from her new sewing basket and the relaxed smile on George’s face as he watched his wife stitching, his newspaper in hand. She only wished Charlie could be there with them, but at least when the school holidays arrived they would have a safe, warm home waiting for him. Every now and again the amazed realisation would bubble up in her—for now her family was safe and cosy and content. She was so happy it was almost suspect.

The only faint cloud on her sunny horizon was one she would hardly allow herself to consider. Every day as she entered the Institute and reported to Penrose for her daily schedule, she indulged in the guilty hope of another summons to the shooting gallery. When none came she told herself firmly that it was better that way. She needed to be focused and confident, and as much as she enjoyed the shooting range, there was something about the earl that left her raw.

Other than that, she was increasingly comfortable with her instructors and their strange whims, but Antonelli and Deakins were still her clear favourites. Between her other assignments she spent every moment she could in the salle or in Deakins’s lab. Therefore in the break between her classes that Thursday she entered the salle as usual to see what Antonelli was doing. She almost withdrew when she realised Lord Crayle was fencing with O’Brien, one of the senior agents, while Antonelli and another agent, Morton, watched. The two men fencing didn’t notice her as she entered, but Antonelli smiled and motioned her to silence as she leaned back against the wall to watch.

They were both skilled, but Crayle was clearly a fencer of a higher order. His moves were economical but powerful and within the first few minutes it was clear O’Brien would lose the encounter. Antonelli kept well back, not making his usual comments.

Sari was enthralled by the grace of the game. It was obvious Crayle could end it when he wished, but he withdrew from each potential hit, allowing O’Brien to recover. His skill matched even Antonelli’s, who had been fencing for over thirty years. And yet there was something more dangerous in his swordplay, a contained force that threatened to break through with each riposte, all the more formidable for being held in check.

Their shirtsleeves were rolled up and Sari could clearly see the muscles of the earl’s forearm tense and flex with each strike and parry. From watching the foil she found herself drawn to the dance of shadows along his arm. It glistened with perspiration, its firm lines cording as he drove his opponent back. It was as if she had never seen a man’s arm before, had never realised it must have a unique texture with the unyielding muscle, the smooth glide of warm skin and silky dark hair.

A peculiar heat rose in her, just skimming the inside of her skin and leaving her strangely cold outside. Her gaze was glued to the fluid, brutal moves as O’Brien was consistently destroyed, stroke by methodical stroke. She held her breath as Lord Crayle pushed O’Brien back almost to the edge of the strip. Then suddenly, with a slight flick of the earl’s wrist, O’Brien’s foil went flying and landed with a clatter at Antonelli’s feet.

O’Brien leaned over, resting his hands on his knees as he drew breath.

‘Damn you for a pitiless bastard, Major.’ He chuckled breathlessly as he straightened, pushing back a damp lock of hair from his forehead.

‘You asked for the meet, O’Brien,’ the earl pointed out with a smile, leaning the tip of his foil on the strip and flexing it.

‘So I did. Never did have an ounce of sense in this Irish brain of mine,’ O’Brien returned good-humouredly as he bent to pick up his foil. ‘Here, Jack, care to try your luck?’

‘No, thank you,’ Morton answered with a slow smile. ‘I’d rather go and swim in a peat bog.’

The two men had turned to Morton and noticed Sari.

‘What are you doing here?’ the earl asked, clearly surprised by her unexpected appearance, and Sari pushed herself away from the wall nervously.

‘Nothing. Just watching.’

‘Shouldn’t you be in some lesson or another?’ he asked, slipping his foil back into the rack.

‘I am between lessons, my lord,’ she answered, somewhat offended by his indifferent tones. ‘I am not playing truant if that is what concerns you.’

‘I see no harm in the signorina observing, Michael,’ Antonelli interjected mildly.

‘There is harm in her wandering around the Institute at will,’ Michael replied, a hint of impatience entering his voice. Sari felt strangely hurt.

‘I was not wandering around,’ she replied. ‘Signor Antonelli said I could watch the other men fence if I wished. There is nothing wrong with that.’

He didn’t even turn to acknowledge her comment, but continued to address Antonelli. ‘You shouldn’t encourage her to come in here at any time other than for her lessons. For her own protection.’

Sari felt a humiliated blush wash over her and tried to salvage some dignity.

‘If you have issue with anything I do, you may direct it to me, my lord.’

Michael turned to survey her.

‘May I, now?’ he asked with deceptive smoothness. ‘Very well, Miss Trevor. I have issue with you entering the salle at any time other than for your lessons. Or frankly going anywhere in the Institute except where you are expressly directed to go.’

Sari knew she should not react. The three other men were watching the exchange with interest and her sensible side told her the best thing to do would be to accept his rebuke and leave. But the gap between his behaviour towards her in the shooting gallery the previous week and his current dismissal hurt more than she could understand. Perversely, a wave of angry resentment bubbled up inside her.

‘I hadn’t realised I posed such a threat to the Institute’s well-being. Should I be flattered?’

She almost quailed under the sudden blast of anger that appeared in his eyes as he moved towards her but she stood her ground. As he drew closer she could see how his damp shirt adhered to the muscles of his broad shoulders. The same peculiar feeling licked at the edges of her stomach again. She really was not comfortable with him being this close.

‘I am not sure you quite understand the terms of your employment here, Miss Trevor,’ he said silkily as he stopped a mere couple of feet from her, forcing her to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. ‘I distinctly remember saying that you are here to follow whatever directives your superiors give you. That means when you are told to decamp, you decamp. Is that sufficiently clear?’

Sari squared her shoulders.

‘Quite clear, my lord. However, you did not tell me to decamp.’

‘Did I not? I would have thought the sentiment expressed with sufficient force. However, since you seem to require it made explicit, I am telling you to do so now.’

Sari raised her hand in mock salute.

‘Right, Major. One decampment coming up.’

She turned on her heel and made sure she closed the door very quietly behind her, despite the urge to slam it.

Michael turned back to the room and the three other men pulled back their grins.

‘You were trifle harsh on the signorina, Michael,’ Antonelli expostulated.

‘She can take it,’ Michael replied.

‘Sure and she can.’ O’Brien chuckled. ‘There must be some Irish blood in the lass. She gives as good as she gets, that one.’

‘You must be more forgiving with her, Michael. It takes time to adjust to this place,’ Antonelli said.

‘I make no demands on her above what any one of us would make for any other recruit,’ Michael retorted curtly, pulling another foil from the rack. ‘Antonelli?’

The old master shrugged and took his place on the strip opposite him.

‘As I understand it, the purpose of the Institute is to train our agents to be as effective as possible. I do not personally believe the best way of achieving that is browbeating a young woman into obedience.’

Michael flicked his foil through the air angrily. She had them all wrapped around her little finger. And in a mere couple of weeks. Why the hell was he the only one who realised this was a problem?

‘She is miles away from obedience, Antonelli. And without a more serious measure of it she will be of no use to us at all. En garde.’

Fencing with Antonelli always required all his attention and the session helped to clear Michael’s mind and focus it back on the most important matter facing the Institute at the moment. Their contacts at the ports had reported that both Frey and Junger had been sighted arriving in London, but discussions with the Foreign Office had yielded no more intelligence about the reason for the presence of the two Austrian mercenaries on English soil. There was some conjecture that they had been hired to protect the personal interests of an Austrian banker based in London, but Michael was unconvinced. He knew they had to intensify their efforts to find out what the two were doing in the city.

* * *

After the fencing match he went in search of Anderson and tracked him down outside Deakins’s office.

‘I want to update you on our two Austrians. Is Deakins in there?’

‘I... Uh, no... I just saw him upstairs with Morton. Why?’

‘Inside.’

Anderson followed him inside Deakins’s office and closed the door, his brows raised.

‘I met with Castlereagh and Wellington last night to discuss the business we just concluded up in Birmingham and we touched on Junger and Frey. They aren’t convinced the two are here for political purposes, but they agreed we should investigate them in case Metternich is using that Austrian bank business as a cover. I asked O’Brien to investigate and he tracked Frey to lodgings above the Black Dog in Southwark last night, but he couldn’t find Junger. I have put Morton on to tail Frey tonight while O’Brien goes down to the docks to dig for Junger. We need to know where he is and what he’s doing.’

Anderson nodded. ‘Fine. Let’s hope they’re right and this isn’t political. From what you told me about Paris, I’d rather their business isn’t ours.’

* * *

Sari stood silently by the closed door of Deakins’s laboratory. After her encounter with the earl she had retreated to her other safe haven at the Institute, well ahead of her lesson with Deakins. She had not meant to eavesdrop on their conversation, but once she had recognised their voices on the other side of the laboratory door, she hadn’t had the nerve to call attention to herself.

In fact, within minutes of her defiant retreat from the salle she had been swamped by a familiar rise of panic. The Institute was becoming more than a means to an end, a source of the salary that kept Charlie in school and might even allow George and Mina to start the family she knew they wanted. This was something she wanted for herself. She had never felt such a sense of...rightness in her life. She knew the earl had his doubts about her and her behaviour back in Antonelli’s salle had probably only added to his reservations. She had to prove herself, and quickly, or they might decide she was more trouble than she was worth.

Perhaps if she could help find this Junger, they might keep her, she thought. Whatever the case, she had best do something soon. She moved to inspect Deakins’s closets of disguises. She would need to be inconspicuous and she would need to protect herself. She pulled out the street-boy’s coat Deakins had shown her, with its cleverly concealed pockets hiding lock picks and a thin, deadly dagger. It was so much easier being a boy...