Mr. Stanley rose from his chair, his hands raised placatingly. “Now Miss Bennet, please set that down.”
“This is ridiculous,” said Mr. Withrow, taking a few steps closer towards her. “You will hurt yourself.”
“We have no intention of harming you in any way,” said Lady Trafford.
The poker shook in Mary’s hand. “You are going to kill me.”
“That would be quite counterproductive,” said Lady Trafford. “We do not want to kill you. We want you to work with us.”
“I would never work with you,” said Mary, pointing the poker towards Lady Trafford.
“This has gone on long enough,” said Withrow as he approached her, anger in his eyes. “Put the poker down, Miss Bennet.”
“No!” She swung the poker at him.
To her surprise, he lunged into her swing. He caught the poker with his left hand and her wrist with his right. His right hand slid up to her shoulder, and suddenly there was pain in her arm and he was twisting her—spinning her faster than in a dance.
He set her on the floor on her back and pressed his knee against her head. She gasped for breath. He stretched her right arm up towards the ceiling, applying pressure in a way that made it so she could not move it. He wrenched the poker from her hand.
“You are quite lucky that I do not intend you any harm, Miss Bennet,” Mr. Withrow said in a gruff voice, “or this would have ended much worse for you.”
Withrow stepped up and away from her, leaving her on the floor. He kept the poker in his hand and paced a few feet away from her, always keeping his eyes on her. Stanley also stood on the alert, and, despite how he had complimented her earlier, seemed disinclined to do anything to assist her.
Mary stayed there, staring at the ceiling, unwilling and unable to move. Her heart pounded in her chest and her fingers trembled. She had never felt so helpless in her life. She was the mouse, and she had been cornered by the barn cats and stood no chance against them. It had taken Withrow only two, maybe three, seconds to disarm her.
The door to the library opened and then slammed shut with great force as Fanny ran into the room, shouting. “Miss Bennet has been spying us. I found Mr. Holloway’s missing notebook in her room. She tricked me, and I think she may have reported Colonel Radcliffe to Sir—”
Fanny stopped as she noticed Mary on the floor and Withrow with the poker in his hand.
“It appears I’m late to this discussion,” said Fanny. She walked over to Lady Trafford, handed her Mary’s spy book and Mr. Holloway’s notebook, and took a comfortable chair, crossing one leg over the other.
“Not too late,” said Lady Trafford. She set down the books Fanny had given her and reached out her hands to Mary. “Come, Miss Bennet, let me help you to a more comfortable seat.”
Mary resisted Lady Trafford’s assistance at first, but Withrow glared at her, so she allowed Lady Trafford to help her to her feet and guide her to a large sofa. Lady Trafford positioned her in the middle of the sofa and sat at her side. Mary felt limp, like an old rag doll, unable to do anything against the capricious nature of its mistress.
“Stanley, more tea,” Lady Trafford directed. “This time, chamomile.” She set her hand on Mary’s knee, but when Mary flinched, she withdrew it.
Mary folded her arms across her chest.
“My dear Miss Bennet, let us start again, as if the past few minutes had not occurred.”
Mary did not feel Lady Trafford’s remark merited a response and had no interest in what Lady Trafford might have to say.
“I think—yes, a story will be just the thing,” said Lady Trafford. “Let me begin at the beginning. Or, perhaps more accurately, my beginning. When I was fifteen years of age, my older brother was killed by the French during the American War for Independence. It was due to faulty information planted by an enemy spy. I was angry, and I wanted to do anything I could to protect our country and our people so others would not lose a loved one the way I had. I spent years writing letters to different members of Parliament, and eventually I was recruited by the government.”
At this, Mary looked up.
“The British government. I work under King George III and the Prince Regent. Not directly, of course, but as part of—”
“You have said too much,” said Mr. Withrow. “She has not sworn an oath of secrecy.”
Lady Trafford waved her hand at him in a dismissive manner. “I work as a spy, as part of a network that seeks to fight against those who, knowingly or unknowingly, would undermine our country.”
Mary rubbed her neck. Lady Trafford was not the first person to claim to be a spy, or to claim to need Mary’s help. “You are a spy?”
“Yes, the mysterious trips, the midnight visitors, inundating myself with the local gossip—it is all part of my work.” Lady Trafford took another drink of tea. “And you, Miss Bennet, are clearly also a spy, but you do not yet have any loyalties.”
“That may not be accurate,” interjected Fanny. “If you read Mary’s book, it appears that Monsieur Corneau recruited her to spy for him, but then she grew to distrust him.”
“Is that correct?” asked Lady Trafford.
Mary nodded. “I see no reason why I should trust you either.”
Lady Trafford shook her head in disapproval. “I knew Corneau was still angry at me, but I did not believe he would do such a thing.” She opened Mary’s spy book and spent several minutes reading its pages.
Mary’s eyes darted to the
