My Lord and Spymaster

doing, and set the cup in front of her.

She saw no guile in the old man. No meanness in the old woman. She might not be the steel-trap judge of people Papa was, but she would have built houses on that assessment. Whatever it took to send Englishmen to their deaths for money, it wasn’t in them. If Kennett was Cinq, they had no part in it. That made it worse, knowing she’d be bringing shame and disaster on them, and they’d have no warning.

The man nudged the cup toward her.

Tea. Yes. She could drink tea.

It was South China, good enough in its way. She was used to Russian tea, smoky from being heated over charcoal and blunt-flavored from a caravan trip across half the world. She had a taste for it after living in St. Petersburg so long. Papa always kept a supply.

Her stomach would stop being sick and cold if she put tea into it. Maybe her head would stop aching. She’d take a few sips of tea, and thank them, and leave. And there was something polite she should be saying. Lord, all the money Papa’d spent on governesses, she should know her manners.

“Thank you for taking me in.” She put both hands around the cup. They were right. Hot tea was good to hold on to. “I’m sorry to impose myself on you this way. It’s . . . I’m not sure what happened, exactly. There were men after me, I think. And I fell. I was standing in the rain, thinking I might get myself hurt . . . And then I did. Get hurt. I’m not sure how.” It occurred to her she was babbling. “Sorry. This isn’t coming out right. My head’s not working well.”

“Of course it isn’t.” A capable hand, thin-skinned, marked with brown spots from age, closed over hers. “You will stop hurting soon. I’m Eunice Ashton. You are not to worry about anything.”

“I don’t remember it all, you see.”

“Of course not. One doesn’t, I believe, after a blow to the head. You met with some accident by the docks, and you weren’t in any state to tell us where to take you. Where can we send word you’re safe? They must be frantic, looking for you. What’s your name, child?”

But no one was looking for her. Not a soul. If she didn’t show up at Meeks Street, Papa would just think his jailers were keeping her away. Pitney knew she’d gone hunting Cinq and where, but he wouldn’t expect her at the warehouse today. Kedger would worry when she didn’t bring him his piece of kipper this morning, but a ferret couldn’t precisely raise the alarm, now could he? Nobody else would notice if she dropped off the face of the earth. Gave her a chill, knowing that.

She swallowed. “I’m Jess. Jessamyn Whitby. There’s nobody looking for me.”

The old woman’s eyes were wise and unreservedly kind and very practical. “Well then, Jess, you shall drink your tea, and we will decide what is best to do about this.”

“Lady Ashton . . .” Or is it Lady Eunice? Or something else? Lady Standish? Sometimes it’s nothing at all. They don’t make it easy.

“Eunice, dear. Just Eunice. Or Mrs. Ashton, if that makes you feel more comfortable. And I will call you Jess, if I may. Really, the most useless and unpleasant people seem to have titles. So much simpler to discard titles altogether and be just a Jess and a Eunice, don’t you think? Have you read Lalumière’s Ten Questions?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Or An Enquiry Concerning Political Justice by Godwin? Well, I suppose not. I’ll lend you a copy when you’re feeling better. So eloquent and lucid.”

That sounded like books on philosophy, and one of them by a Frenchman. It was probably a mistake to read too many books like that. You believe what they put in books, and who knows what you’ll do.

Kennett probably read philosophy if his aunt was fond of it.

Lady Ashton . . . Eunice . . . poured tea and started after the milk jug, murmuring, “Rousseau, perhaps.” Strange as three-toed snakes, some of the gentry. What an odd conversation she was having. “Well. Yes. All right.”

The old man gave a shy, rather sweet smile. “She won’t make you read today. Or do anything else you don’t want to.” The book propped in front of him had a German title that translated to A Study of Striation Patterning in the Milo-Archaic Pottery of Bavaria, which explained the pots cluttering the place. Over the top of the book, his gaze focused on her with a startling intelligence. “You don’t have to be worried. Eunice will take care of everything.”

“Of course, Standish.” Eunice tapped the plate beside his book. “You have toast.”

Jess could feel herself relaxing, muscle by muscle. Even her sinews and bones knew these were good folks. No wonder Kennett made houseroom for thirty thousand pots and a battalion of rescued harlots. If she’d had an uncle and aunt like this, she’d have let them keep elephants.

Before Standish got a bite of toast, the door of the parlor slammed back to the wall, shaking every pot in the room. A skinny, untidy maid stood in the doorway. “That professor fellow’s brung a bunch of them bleeding great boxes. You want ’em put upstairs?”

Crikey. She’d forgot. The foyer could be three-deep in crates for all the use she was. She clattered cup into saucer. “Oh Lord. My fault. I opened the door. I was supposed to tell you—”

“Excellent. That’ll be Percy at last.” Standish used the toast to mark his place in the book. “Pots from Glamorgan. Excuse me.” He kissed his wife neatly on top of her head and stalked out like a long-legged wading bird in search of fish.

“More pots,” Eunice said. “And not another square inch to put them in.” She rose as she spoke. Lightly, she put her arm around Jess. “We’ll manage somehow. Now, tell me what has happened to you and why there’s no one who knows or cares where you are. That seems a very melancholy state of affairs, if true.”

Being held by Eunice Ashton was like having sunlight wrapped around you. She closed her eyes. “It’s not like that. My father’s careful of me, generally. It’s not his fault.”

“Where is your father?”

She could say anything to this woman, anything at all. It was no secret, anyway. Half the port knew by now. “They arrested him a couple weeks ago.” Hurst arrested him. Even with everything that happened, I thought he was Papa’s friend.

“Good heavens.”

“It’s not Newgate or the Tower. They haven’t even laid charges yet. It’s not that bad.”

“It sounds very bad indeed.”

“He’s ‘detained for inquiry,’ whatever that means.” She was pulled close and held, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world. Cold spaces inside her opened to let the warmth in. “I try and I try, and I can’t shake him free. I go to our friends and they try, but nothing works.”

“Is your father Josiah Whitby? The Whitby who owns those warehouses and the ships? Whitby Trading?”

“That’s him.”

“Then he should be taking care of you, arrested or not. He hasn’t left you on your own, has he, with no one looking after you?”

“I take care of myself, mostly. I do a better job of it, generally. ”

“I’m sure you do. That doesn’t mean you should be left alone.” Eunice sounded tart, and that was comforting, too. “You must be very frightened.”

Frightened? Oh, that hit the nail on the head. There was no end to how frightened she was. Oceans of fear stretched out on every side. She was scared when she jerked awake before dawn, and scared in the office. Scared when she pounded her brains all day, tweaking out the patterns that might show her Cinq. Scared when she went to see Papa in that discreet, sneaky house at Meeks Street. She was scared when she lay down at night, not sleeping, her hands clenched in the sheets, hour after hour.

“I go to Papa every day at teatime. He worries . . .” Then somehow she was talking about the house at Meeks Street. How they listened to her, behind the walls when she was with Papa. How he was acting so bloody calm and cheerful it set her teeth on edge. How she was looking for Cinq.

She was saying things she hadn’t said to anybody else. By the time she explained that the British Service wasn’t feeding Papa properly, and he didn’t look well, not at all, she was doing it all muffled into the cotton print Eunice wore.

“You will solve this. I think you must be very good at solving problems.” She felt Eunice wipe tears off her