furniture was dark, tall, and heavy, nothing like the airy style in the rest of the house, the wallpaper only slightly brightened by the lighter shades of pink in a pattern that tended closer to red. My trunk hunched neatly at the foot of an enormous canopied bed, thick with fringed hangings, the noise of a French gilt clock on the chimneypiece rather loud in the silence. A small pile of papers sat beside the clock, pinned beneath a stack of French books that looked like fairy tales. A note in Mr. Babcock’s hand was propped upright on the top. I snatched it up, squinting in the dim.
I traded the note for the papers and flipped curiously through the stack.
Documents of differing sizes, all French, with various inks and signatures, gold foil emblems, official-looking insignias, and embossed shapes on each. I dropped onto the rose velvet chair beside the hearth. The word
I bit my lip, water stinging just behind my eyes. Mr. Babcock had done this. He thought my search for Lane foolish and hopeless, and yet he had done this. For me. Such an obvious show of trust and affection was almost puzzling to me, would probably always be puzzling to some deeper part of myself, while at the same time a very different something inside me had been set loose, taken flight, and soared. My way was clear, the road smoothed. I would start as soon as I could be certain my uncle was settled. I riffled through the papers again, wondering if any of these places might be within walking distance of Rue Trudon. If I could only get a map of the streets, I could …
And then I froze. For the first time in many hours my mind went to the time before my uncle, to the man slouching against a streetlamp, and the short walk home that had become a chase. I’d been so distracted, so preoccupied, I hadn’t even mentioned the man to Mary or to Mr. Babcock. And where were they now? The clock on the chimneypiece ticked in the silence. I leapt from the chair, dropped the papers where I’d been sitting, and hurried to tug the drape back from a window that was nearly twice the height of my head. I jerked open one tall, louvered shutter, and a watery, gray light half lit the bedchamber.
The houses across the street were nearly identical to one another, only an extra space between window rows showing their delineations, and I saw a flower seller hurrying past, pushing her brightly laden cart at a trot beneath the heavy sky. Everyone was scurrying down the street or along the narrow sidewalks, making for the nearest shelter. All except for one. The man in the blue vest leaned against his lamppost, hands in pockets, unmoving, watching the doors of my house.
I stepped back, out of sight, the fear of the night before crashing down so that I could hardly stand. I whirled, ready to run down the stairwell, vaguely planning to yell until I found Mary or Mr. Babcock, but I stopped short, one hand jumping to my throat, only just holding in my gasp. A tall, thin shadow stood stock-still in my doorway. After a moment, the silhouette stepped forward, and the pale face and severe hair knot of Mrs. DuPont came into the window light.
“What are you doing here?” I snapped, a bit too loud.
Mrs. DuPont took another slow step into the room, black eyes sweeping over the still-made bed, my untamed hair, the muddy and wrinkled, garden-stained dress that I’d obviously slept in. Her sharp gaze lingered on my face and the hand on my throat went quickly to my cheek, feeling the soreness beneath my fingers. I’d forgotten the blow from the wrench. I wondered if I had a black eye. I dropped my hand and clasped them both behind me, returning Mrs. DuPont’s stare.
“Your pardon, Mademoiselle,” the woman said, expressionless. “Mademoiselle said to come to her at half past ten, so this is what we do. I have come to tell Mademoiselle that we wait for her in the salon.”
Rain struck suddenly on the window glass behind me, and I clasped my hands harder. I’d completely forgotten my meeting with the DuPonts, though I saw no reason for her to know it. “Yes, thank you. I will come as soon as I am ready. Our meeting will not take long. Until then, please remain on the ground floor. On the ground floor only, please,” I said again, for emphasis. “And, Mrs. DuPont …” I lifted my chin. “… I do prefer to be called ‘Miss Tulman.’”
She met my gaze, and a strange, miniature war was waged then, a silent battle as we stared. I had not the first notion what we were fighting about, but it didn’t particularly matter; this unpleasant woman would be dismissed as soon as I could go downstairs. Mrs. DuPont ceased fire first, and had just deigned to nod when my brows came down.
“Who let you in the house this morning, Mrs. DuPont? I’m certain I instructed you to leave your keys.”
Her corpse-like face almost seemed to smile. “There was no need of the letting in,
I would have said something further had she not at that moment been nearly run down by Mary, who came careening into the room with a tea tray. They circled each other, and Mary waited until Mrs. DuPont had glided away like a bird of prey before plunking the tea things on the table and looking me up and down.
“Well, Lord, Miss, what a mess you’re looking and no mistake. You could’ve been rolling in the gutters, as my mum would say. Is …” She gave a quick glance toward the open door and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Is Mr. Tully waking? I’m guessing he ain’t or you wouldn’t be down here. Have a cup a tea, Miss, till you’re giving them DuPonts the boot, then we —”
“Where is Mr. Babcock?” I asked.
“Here, my dear.”
Mr. Babcock appeared in the doorway, red-faced, winded, and in a frock coat dotted with rain. His short arms were stretched wide to each side, holding up a large, wooden crate that was obviously crushing his round middle. I allowed my curiosity free rein for about one second before blurting, “Last night the door was locked and a man chased me down the street and into our courtyard. He was here yesterday, when we got out of the carriage, and he’s outside now, watching the house.”
Mary turned from her progress toward the door, mouth open as Mr. Babcock gave me a sharp look. “Chased, you say?”
I nodded and he sighed once before he set the crate down with difficulty in the hall, coming into the room with a careful step, as if an improper haste might mar the sanctity of Marianna’s bedchamber. He peeked around the shutter. The windowpanes were running with rain.
“I noticed our new friend just this morning, I’m sorry to say. But the rain seems to have driven him in. For now.” Mr. Babcock blew out a breath. “I am not so much surprised by the event as the speed in which it has happened. He could be an agent of Wickersham’s, which would be the most logical, though if so he seems remarkably indiscreet. But we must also consider the possibility that this man could be visiting us on behalf of the French.”
I frowned. “But to be here before we even arrived, Mr. Babcock? How is that possible?”
“I think we must assume, my dear, that just as Lane was in France —”
“
“Your pardon. Just as Lane Moreau is in France, passing information to the British, one could assume that there are his counterparts in London, passing information to the French.” Mr. Babcock closed the shutter and shook his head. “He could also be nothing more than a common footpad, waiting for a young lady of means to step away from her door. It is a possibility.” None of us believed it. “Well, well. Until we know more, I think the wisest solution is to do nothing of interest on which he may report. And I must insist that neither of you young ladies
