Page 11 of The Spy and the Nightingale
To what uses might such a man be put in peacetime, with international peace uneasily maintained? She eyed Nathaniel speculatively. “I begin to think your interest in Jeremiah Compton is of larger scope than my own.”
If the abrupt change in topic surprised him, he did not show it. He angled his head in such a way as might have been acknowledgment.
By now dawn, weak and grey with clouds, was entering through the two large windows set between the central rafters; despite the thin light, the occasional dust mote shimmered, glitter floating lazily. The windows were perhaps the small garret’s finest feature.
She had not noticed many details of the garret the night before; she made a proper inventory now. She’d had cause last night to observe the interior alcove framed by an open, cased doorway, the bed and crate serving as night table barely fitting the space they occupied. The whole of the garret was perhaps only half the building’s length, with the entry door from the stairway at the far end. There was no fireplace; it must be bitterly cold in winter judging by the chill now in mid-October.
The rough wooden table was against one wall; opposite that was the unpadded settle. A simply carved chest of drawers, walnut or another dark wood, had a pitcher and porcelain basin atop it as well as a small dark bottle—a spirit, perhaps—and a jug of table wine. The dresser was crowned by a mirror edged in dark wood mounted to the wall behind. A folding screen shielded the chamber pot in the corner; she was thankful to be afforded that small bit of privacy as needed. Two open shelves set low beneath the windows contained a miscellany of dishware and glasses, a few books, and some other oddments.
On the table was her glass from earlier, containing a little wine still, and the leather-bound volume she had seen in Nathaniel’s hands. She took a sip of wine and rotated the volume so that she could read the title stamped in gilt lettering on the cover: Rousseau’sJulie; ou, la nouvelle Héloïse.
“You are a reader of novels?” she asked.
Nathaniel shrugged one shoulder. “A friend recently lent it to me to read in Rousseau’s own words. The original is far superior to translations, according to her.”
Who is this friend of his?Not that it was in any way her business. Waking in a man’s bed, however benignly, did strange things to one’s perspective.
But Compton was very much her business. And to find him—and thus Lucy—she could use a man like Nathaniel as her ally. She thought of the small candle, of demonstrating and nurturing trust, and took a steadying breath.
Chapter 4
After the non sequitur about Rousseau’s novel, Isobel fell silent. Nate suspected her mental gymnastics had nothing to do with his taste in reading.
Now that light filled the room, he had his first opportunity to truly study her in daylight. Her eyes were large, uptilted slightly at the inner corners, and an unusual shade of blue just this side of violet. Her hair, which he’d known was dark, revealed itself as nearly black.
“I’ve a small pocket beneath my petticoat,” she finally said. “You missed it last night when you searched me. For which I am grateful, incidentally,” she added, her smile unexpectedly bright, “as it implies you did not rummage so closely about my person as to reveal it. If you will consent to avert your eyes somewhat while I untie it, I pledge on my sister’s life I haven’t any further weaponry concealed beyond what you discovered last night.”
He fixed his gaze on her feet rather than turning away.
He had considered taking her boots from her to lessen the chance of escape but ultimately left them alone after gauging her condition the night before. The sturdy boots looked made exactlyto her feet and intended for walking rather than appeasing the dictates of feminine fashion. She couldn’t have hidden a boot knife in one, else.
The chair creaked, followed by the soft slap of something hitting the table. “There,” she said.
The linen pocket between them was small, intricately embroidered with flowers and animals.
She met his eyes squarely. “My name is Isobel Graham. I am the widow of Captain James Graham of the Scots Greys. My sister Lucy—Lucinda Muir—is nineteen, nearly twenty. She disappeared from London this April.”
She drew a deep breath. “I’ve come to believe she was seduced at the outset, willingly, by a less than scrupulous young man. I’m nearly certain that she did not leave England voluntarily, that she was coerced into doing so. I believe it likely that she travelled to Paris sometime in June or July. And that Jeremiah Compton was responsible.”
Another deep breath. “You may be of help if I am to find Lucy. And if you are to gain a modicum of trust in me, I must share this.” She loosened the drawstring of the pocket and pushed it towards him.
Its contents were a tiny bound journal with attached pencil, a small roll of French and English banknotes, and her travelling papers. Wrapped in a bit of soft cloth were a tiny whorled shell and a delicate silver chain strung with two items: a slender silver knotwork ring and a locket miniature.
He examined the travelling papers first, issued in London in August to Mrs. James (Isobel) Graham, granting her passage to France. They appeared authentic, but papers were easy to fabricate if one had the right connections, his own papers having allowed him to leave England as Nathaniel Beaumont.
He picked up the chain next. “Lucy?” he asked, looking at the portrait.
“Yes. It was painted several months before her seventeenth birthday. Three years ago now, but it is still a fair likeness of her.” Isobel’s mouth turned down at the corners. “Or was, last I saw her.”
Lucy Muir, so painted, was a lovely young woman. Her softly curling ringlets were mid-brown rather than her sister’s straight, nearly black hair. A Cupid’s bow curved in a gentle smile; her expression had something of a dreamy cast to it.
“If this is true to life, you have the look of one another through the eyes,” he remarked. As painted, Lucy’s eyes were very like her sister’s in shape and color.
“Yes. We share our mother’s eyes, although I favor my father more in other respects.”
He set it aside without further comment. The silver ring next, delicate and finely wrought. No engravings inside. “Yours?”
Isobel shook her head. “Our mother’s. Da gifted it to her shortly before I was born. She wore it always.”
