existed. She knew Gerald worked very hard to forget him. Though they’d never talked about it, she knew he’d still not come to grips with the man he was now. Just as she was sure he’d still not found his wizarding limit. And that frightened him. It frightened Monk, too. He’d never said it aloud, but she’d caught him looking at his best friend once or twice… and in his guarded eyes there’d been a deep unease.
But it’s the hidden, dangerous part of him that Sir Alec wants. He needs it. And he has no compunction about using it, either. Not when lives and secrets are at stake.
More than anything, she wished she could dislike the man for that. But she couldn’t. Because once upon a time she’d had a brother called Lional.
Cool and remote, almost a stranger, Gerald nodded at his boss. “You want me to come now?”
“There’s no time like the present.”
“Do I need to go home and pack?”
Sir Alec shook his head. “There’s a bag in the car for you.”
“Large or small?”
“Sufficient,” said Sir Alec, a sardonically appreciative glint in his eyes. “I’ll give you a moment to make your farewells. But only a moment. Time is a factor.”
“Thank you,” said Gerald. “I’ll see you downstairs.”
Sir Alec picked up his briefcase and offered the smallest of bows. “Ladies. Always a pleasure.”
“Ha,” said Reg, staring down her beak at him. “Speak for yourself, sunshine.”
At the door, Sir Alec hesitated and turned back. Looked at Bibbie, no warmth at all in his eyes. “Miss Markham, a word to the wise which you might like to pass along to your brother.”
Bibbie’s bright smile was the equivalent of a cocked pistol. “Which one?”
Sir Alec’s answering smile was razor-thin. “Guess. Then tell him this: bravado is an admirable trait on the sporting field. Elsewhere, however, it more often than not backfires. Tell him he might like to practice discretion for a change. Doubtless it will have all the charm of novelty.”
“You know, Gerald,” said Bibbie thoughtfully, as the door closed behind him, “I could probably dislike your boss without much effort at all.”
“Don’t be silly, Bibs,” Gerald said, surprisingly sharp. “He’s the best friend we’ve got.”
Bibbie lowered her gaze, looking hurt.
“Reg,” said Gerald, and crossed to the filing cabinet. “Stay out of trouble, will you? At least till I get back?”
“ Me?” said Reg, with a valiant attempt at outrage. “That’s rich, that is, coming from you.”
Reaching up, he dropped a brief kiss on the top of her head. “I’ll be fine. Home by tomorrow night, I’ll bet you five field mice.”
She sniffed. “You know perfectly well I hate field mice, Gerald. They taste like cow poop. I was just twisting his tail.”
“And a champion tail-twister you are, ducky,” he said. “Melissande-”
She wasn’t going to cry. She wasn’t. Gerald Dunwoody was a trained secret agent with more wizarding power in his crooked little finger than any other First Grader in the world. There was nothing to worry about. He was going to be fine.
“Good luck with Mr. Frobisher,” he said, and brushed his fingers down her arm. “Don’t take any nonsense from the silly old fart, even if he is an old family friend of Sir Alec’s.”
She tilted her chin at him. “As if I would. After a lifetime of Lord Billingsley? Arnold Frobisher doesn’t scare me.”
He kissed her cheek. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Good luck, Gerald,” said Bibbie, admirably composed. “Bring us back a souvenir.”
Gerald’s smile wasn’t quite steady. “I’ll do my best, Bibbie. Tell Monk to keep his nose clean or I’ll kick his ass when I get back.”
The door closed behind him and immediately the sunlit, crowded office felt cold and empty.
Bibbie fished a hanky out of her pretty new reticule and savagely blew her nose. “I have an influenza,” she said, stabbing Reg with a baleful glare.
“Did I say you didn’t?” Reg protested. “Blimey. Don’t take my head off, ducky, it’s not my fault he’s gone.”
Melissande finished blinking back her own tears and pushed away from the filing cabinet. “It’s not anyone’s fault,” she said, going to her desk. “He works for Sir Alec. He only pretends to work here. And since that was never a secret we can’t moan about it now.”
Reg heaved a sigh. “His first assignment without us. You realize he’s going to go ass right over elbows.”
“He’ll do no such thing, you revolting old hag!” Bibbie snapped. “He’s Gerald Dunwoody.”
“Yes, ducky, I know,” said Reg, giving her a look. “Which means on the way home one of us better light a candle to Saint Snodgrass.”
“ Anyway,” said Melissande, before the feathers started flying. “We’ve got horrible Arnold Frobisher arriving any tick of the clock. And then what do we do with ourselves for the rest of the day?”
“Mount a prayer vigil at the church,” said Reg. “That boy’s going to need all the help he can get.”
“ Once, Mel,” said Bibbie, her perfect teeth bared in a snarl. “Let me hit her just once. She’ll only be unconscious for a minute. I promise.”
“No!” she said, and banged her fist on the desk. “The only person doing any hitting around here will be me, and that’s only if Arnold Frobisher pinches my behind again.”
“Now, now,” said Reg, scolding. “Hitting’s hardly royal behavior.”
Melissande rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. You want to poke him in the unmentionables. And I suppose poking men in the unmentionables is royal, is it?”
“Ha,” said Reg, her dark eyes wickedly gleaming. “Royal? Bugger that. It’s the most fun you can have with your clothes on, ducky!”
Sir Alec handled his government-issue car with a quiet efficiency that wasn’t the least bit surprising. The shock would have been if he’d driven any other way.
“So, Mr. Dunwoody,” he said, as they reached the lightly populated outskirts of Central Ott and turned onto Greater Flushcombe Road. “Any questions?”
Gerald looked out of the window at the passing semi-rural countryside. Wherever they were headed, he’d not been there before. In fact, this was his first trip out of the city in months.
“No, Sir Alec. I think I’m clear. Once I reach my destination I’m to take a room in the Grande Splotze Inn, using the name Barlowe. As soon as the dining room opens I’m to take the small table under the stuffed moose head with the chipped left antler, making sure to wear the yellow cravat that’s been provided for me, and wait until my contact stops to tell me I should really try the elk stew. Overcome by his kindness I’m to invite him to join me for supper, over which he will-if we’re very lucky-tell me some interesting things about a certain black market wizard we’re anxious to meet.”
Sir Alec nodded. “Exactly.” Then, glancing sideways, he added, “And if you’re going to snigger I suggest you do it now. Sniggering in Grande Splotze might easily get you killed.”
Damn. “I’m sorry, sir. But honestly-it is rather like something out of a bad cloak-and-dagger novel.”
“I don’t read bad cloak-and-dagger novels, Mr. Dunwoody,” Sir Alec said coolly, “so I’ll have to take your word on that. As for your arrangements, they were made by the man you’ll be meeting over the elk stew. Given the risks he’s taking I’m not inclined to criticize. Are you?”
“No, sir,” he muttered, and hunched a little in the uncomfortable passenger seat. Nobody could make him feel small the way Sir Alec could. “Sir-”
“When you come back,” said Sir Alec, slowing the car to take a sharp left-hand turn onto a road that looked to be taking them into deep rural territory, “and you’ve been fully debriefed, I suggest you take a day for yourself and catch a train to the seaside. Alone. It’s my experience that fresh salt air and solitude do wonders for one’s perspective.”
This was about Monk again. He knew it. “Sir-”
“I’m doing my best, Mr. Dunwoody,” said Sir Alec. “And so is Sir Ralph. But unless your clever young friend starts helping himself not even his uncle and I will be able to save him.”
