My Lord and Spymaster

“Papa never came out and told me you worked for the British. Not till the end. I don’t know why I didn’t figure it out.”

“You were very young, devochka, and you didn’t want to know about it. I ran the entire British Service operation for Russia out of your kitchen. Every so often your father’s spies and mine would bump into each other in the hall. You have something in your eye, I think.” He handed her a handkerchief.

It was the kind he’d always had. He bought them in Jermyn Street—cambric, dead simple, fine sewing, and the hem deeper than usual. She pressed it to her eyes so she wouldn’t cry. When she was twelve she’d have blown her nose in it. She’d acquired all sorts of airs and graces, hadn’t she?

He said, “That last day . . . Josiah wasn’t supposed to get shot. None of that was supposed to happen.”

“Did, though.” She folded the handkerchief up in a square, neat like. “Papa tells a story about the time he was in a storm off Majorca. Every penny he had in the world was tied up in cargo. They were going onto the rocks, so he threw the whole lot overboard, down to the last box and bale. He said it was a sacrifice to the God of Luck. When you call on the God of Luck, you have to scrape down and give up everything, or you don’t get his attention.”

She looked him straight in the eye. “My life’s like that. I keep having to throw everything overboard. Push. Splash. And there goes Hurst the butler. When did the Foreign Office decide they need our depots in the East? About last year, wasn’t it? They’re the ones who sent you after Papa.”

“Jessie—”

“Must have been a year ago they decided to destroy Papa. That’s when the garbage starts showing up in the account books.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t make a sound.

“It’s too bad you turned out to be a spy instead of a butler. You can’t be much of a spy if it took you a whole year to bring down my father. But you were an excellent butler.” She stood up and threw the handkerchief in his face. “Bugger you anyway,” and headed back to hide in the dining room.

Saying all that didn’t make her feel any better. She hadn’t thought it would.

Twenty

SEBASTIAN WAITED AT THE DOORWAY TO THE front parlor in the shadow of a knight’s armor. He’d engineered this meeting. If it was a disaster, at least he’d watch.

“She’s sitting on the floor,” Claudia said. “Like a gypsy.”

He put out his hand before she took off in that direction. “You don’t want to go over there. Let them talk.”

“I rather thought I was rescuing Adrian.” Claudia gave an abrupt, sharp-edged laugh. “Such an intense little tête-à-tête. There’s a history between those two, obviously.”

“Don’t interfere.”

“Your friend and your little heiress. If you have interest in that quarter you should intervene before he snaps her up himself. Are you sure you don’t want me to interrupt?”

“I want you to leave them strictly alone.” There was malice in Claudia. But once upon a time, she’d taught a fithy-mouthed, resentful bastard boy from the docks how to use a knife and fork. She’d had a sharp, nasty tongue then, too.

Quentin pulled himself away from a discussion with two clerks from the War Office and strode across the parlor with the weighty and distinguished tread of a statesman, face serious, his hands clasped behind his back. He frowned upon the pair sitting together on the grand staircase. “I don’t like this. What the deuce is that man doing with Miss Whitby? We stand, as it were, in loco parentis as long as she’s under our roof. He’s upsetting the girl.”

“Miss Whitby is upsetting him right back,” Claudia said tartly. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen Adrian ruffled. I didn’t know he could be.”

There he is, sprawling on the steps beside her. “Whatever her background, that’s ungentlemanly behavior.”

Then Jess got up, grim-faced, and stalked off. Not a successful first meeting. Adrian had been wrong about one thing, though. She didn’t spit at him.

Quentin puffed his cheeks out. “How much do we actually know about this Hawkhurst fellow? He’s a friend of yours, of course. That counts for something. Accepted everywhere. Presents a good appearance. But does anyone know his people? Does he even have people? When one moves, as I do, in government circles, one hears stories . . .”

“They say he’s a Romanov bastard. Perhaps Jess met him in Russia.” Claudia tilted her head. “Look. She’s gone off crying. How very affecting. I feel called upon to offer womanly sympathy.”

The mood she’s in now, Jess will flay you to shreds. “I don’t advise it.”

Claudia said, “Nonetheless . . .” and left.

“I’ll go talk to the girl, too.” Quentin took his watch out and fidgeted with it. “I should drop a hint in her ear. Hawkhurst is exactly the sort of plausible rogue a girl like that is likely to fall prey to. And she is in our house, after all. She’s not in a position to judge a man like that. I can only imagine what he wants from her.” He put the watch away without looking at it. “I hear things, y’know. There are whispers about this Mister Adrian Hawkhurst that are not to his credit. I wouldn’t trust that man. No, indeed I wouldn’t. Not that I expect you to listen to me.” He ambled in the direction of the dining room.

And that was another Ashton, off to track Jess down and harass her.

THE parlor filled up as more and more historians arrived. Coyning-Marsh, Standish, and three dons from Oxford argued, fiercely and volubly, passing a gauntlet back and forth, examining it with a magnifying glass from the library.

“I gather I have you to thank for the latest excitement in my household,” Eunice said. If she noticed Adrian was looking particularly bleak, she gave no indication of it.

“Ah.” Adrian smiled. Quite his usual smile. “You’ve found out I’m supplying Standish with opera girls.”

“Of course I have. How many of the little darlings does he have lately? A dozen?”

“At least.”

“Thank you for having sense enough to send Jess to me. Adrian, what the devil are you about, arresting that girl’s father? I expect better of you.”

“All the evidence says he’s guilty as Judas. Very convincing evidence, some of which your nephew brought me. And Military Intelligence was closing in. I had no choice. If it helps any, I didn’t enjoy it much.”

“I’m sure everyone is very interested in your feelings in the matter.”

“Since you mention it, no.”

“I don’t suppose you could just let him go, could you?”

“Not until someone hands me sole control of intelligence operations at Whitehall, no.”

Sebastian, looking formidable and alert, even in evening dress, stood in the parlor doorway, arms folded, watching Jess. In one corner, Quentin lectured a pretty young girl about heraldry. Jess stood alone at the front window, staring out. Her face was composed and distant, like someone sailing out of a port they didn’t expect to return to. She didn’t once glance at Adrian.

Eunice said quietly, “Do you think they’ll hang him? I very much doubt he’s guilty.”

“We hang innocent men every day in this country.” His mobile mouth twisted. “Right now I am working hard not to arrest his daughter. This is made possible by the War Office’s complete failure to believe she runs the business for him.”

“I see.”

“Eventually, some bright lad from one group or another, very junior, will try to haul her in on some pretext or other. My men will stop him. And the fat will be in the proverbial fire.” Adrian snagged a glass of punch from the tray a sullen, preoccupied maid had maneuvered through the crowd. “Why do I drink this? I know better than to eat