The Garden Intrigue

been eager enough to talk when it involved his emotions.

Augustus stubbed his toe on a bit of loose gravel and cursed. It did little to relieve his feelings.

The graveled circle in front of the house was crowded with carriages in various stages of unloading. Servants swarmed over them, disentangling the luggage that had been roped to the roofs, handing down boxes and trunks, while the aristocracy of the serving world—ladies’ maids and manservants—hovered to ensure the correct dispositions of their masters’ belongings, complaining loudly about clumsiness and protesting as trunks came tumbling down. Farther along, empty conveyances were being led down the trail to the carriage house, the horses to be unhitched and taken to the stable for grooming and feeding. It was a scene a world removed from the genteel gathering in the gallery, nosy, boisterous, busy.

Augustus paused in the lee of a miniature potted plant, watching, as from a world away, the bustle in front of him.

What if, just what if, the reason she hadn’t wanted to talk about it was because she had meant exactly what she said?

Two unpleasant facts impressed themselves upon his consciousness.

Item the first: He had kissed her. They could quibble about accidents and chance encounters and primal instincts and so forth, but when it came down to it, his lips had been the ones to seek hers.

Item the second: She was the one who had called halt. He hadn’t been thinking terribly clearly at that point. Blame it on fatigue, blame it on emotional exhaustion, blame it on the rain in Spain; whatever the cause, he would have been happy to go on kissing Emma indefinitely. And by kissing, he meant…well.

Until she had kindly but firmly put him back in his place.

Friend.

“Aaarrghh!” Augustus let out a strangled cry as a vise slammed down on his throat.

His soles scuffed against gravel as he was yanked backwards, ineffectually scrabbling for purchase against the sliding surface. His fingers fumbled at the bar hampering his breathing. He stamped down with one foot, but missed his target. Instead, his heel caught fabric.

There was a tearing sound, and the weight abruptly lifted from his throat.

“Really!” said Miss Gwen. “Was that entirely necessary?”

Augustus clutched his aching throat and turned to glare at the older woman, who was regarding her torn hem with a frown of displeasure. The instrument of torture, her parasol, dangled from one hand.

“Was that necessary?” he choked out. He was going to have bruises for a week.

Miss Gwen examined her skirt and dismissed the damage with a sniff.

Sod her skirt, what about his vocal cords? He had never so deeply regretted that his costume didn’t allow for a cravat. At least it would have provided a little extra padding.

“Shoddy, Whittlesby, shoddy,” she said smugly, tapping with her parasol against the ground for emphasis. Augustus prudently took a step back. “If I were an assassin, you would be dead by now.”

Augustus tilted back his chin. “Here’s my throat. Care to finish me off?”

Miss Gwen emitted one of her infamous “hmph” noises. “There’s no need for melodrama, Mr. Whittlesby. Just see that I don’t catch you daydreaming on the job.”

“I wasn’t—”

Oh, hell, what was the point? Just as there was no point to reminding Miss Gwen that, in point of fact, she was more likely to work for him than he for her. Augustus had his appointment directly from the War Office. Miss Gwen was a country spinster turned spy, a hobbyist who had got lucky. She had a bit of nerve lecturing him.

It didn’t help that she was right.

“Was that the sole purpose of this exercise,” Augustus asked coolly, “or did you have something you wished to say to me?”

“Hmph. Not everyone pants after a ruffled shirt, young man.” A fact for which Augustus could only be grateful. “While you were wandering about in poetic reverie, I was doing what you were meant to be doing.”

“Which is?”

“Listening!” Augustus jumped as the parasol landed dangerously near his left foot. “In case you haven’t noticed, we have a number of new arrivals, including”—Miss Gwen’s steely eyes glinted in the torchlight—“Mr. Fulton.”

“We knew he was expected,” said Augustus. “How is that news?”

“A day early?” countered Miss Gwen. She played her trump card. “He was asking after a crate.”

“Emma’s wave machine,” Augustus said shortly.

“Emma, is it?” Miss Gwen’s eyes narrowed speculatively, but she forbore to comment. For the moment. “As it happens, Mr. Whittlesby, you are wrong. Quite, quite wrong. Mr. Fulton was most specific about it. There is a second crate.”

“A second crate,” Augustus repeated. From far away, a very long time ago, he remembered the deliveryman mumbling something about the ruts. No, the rest. If he hadn’t been so busy being lovelorn, he would have noticed. He should have noticed. “Another device?”

“That would be the logical conclusion,” said Miss Gwen crisply. “Another device. One he doesn’t want anyone to see. But someone knows about it.”

“The Emperor, presumably.” And most of the naval higher-ups. Assuming this was the device they sought. Assuming such a device existed.

“Livingston,” said Miss Gwen, with relish. “The younger one. He came out asking after it.”

“What did he say?”

Miss Gwen looked mildly miffed. “I couldn’t hear,” she admitted. “There was too much noise. It’s over to you now.”

“To me?”

“Where is your brain, young man? Have you been playing the idiot for too long? Think!” Thump. “Who would know what Fulton and Livingston have been planning? Who has access to both?” With withering sarcasm, she added, “I assume this is why you’ve been frittering away your time dallying with the Delagardie chit.”

“I wasn’t—” Augustus broke off. “You, of all people, should know how important it is to win a contact’s confidence.”

Miss Gwen looked skeptical. She generally preferred more direct methods. Her interrogation techniques were of the Torquemada variety. Had Torquemada been in possession of a large collection of parasols.

She poked him with the point of her parasol, herding him beneath the striped awning at the entrance and into the house. “You’ve done with winning. From what I’ve seen, you’ve won it. Now use it.”

Not use it. Use her. Augustus had never scrupled to use any means at his disposal to get information. He had dallied, he had flirted, he had even feigned passion when the situation required it. But Miss Gwen’s blunt directive left a nasty taste in his mouth.

“What makes you think she knows?” he hedged.

“I’m not the only one,” said Miss Gwen portentously.

Her heels echoed against the black-and-white tiles of the front hall. Even with the candles lit, the room looked gloomy, the light reflecting dully off the porphyry columns, like a muddy lake by moonlight. The classical statues on either side of the glass doors onto the garden looked down their marble noses at them as they entered.

Miss Gwen looked superciliously down her nose at him, and said, in the hectoring tones of a governess, “If you don’t get the information out of her, someone else will.”

She didn’t need to specify who the “her” in question might be.

Augustus unclenched his hands, finger by finger, each one a slow, deliberate act of will. “What do you mean?”

Miss Gwen nodded towards the French windows. Augustus could see the shadows of their own reflections, his and Miss Gwen’s, like ghosts in the window. Beneath them, though, if he squinted, he could make out other forms, just beyond the French doors, on the wide bridge that spanned the moat at the back of the house.

It was the man he saw first, or rather, the gold epaulettes on his shoulders, the insignia of a colonel, glittering in the torchlight. The woman with him seemed insubstantial in comparison, the filmy material of her gown