Page 6 of The Spy and the Nightingale
“His regiment travelled to Ghent by way of Ostend after Bonaparte’s return. I was one of the wives allowed along by lottery.”
Scotland.The burr in her voice revealed her origins.
“You remained in Flanders after your husband’s death?”
“Assisting with the wounded, yes.”
“Who was your husband?”
Her face was composed, but even in the dim room her knuckles were blanched where her hands lay clasped in her lap. “A captain in the Second Dragoons.”
The Greys. He hadn’t been at Waterloo, but some credited the Royal Scots Greys with turning the tide of battle for Wellington by throwing Bonaparte’s lead brigade into massive disorder. They took heavy casualties.
He sat back. The widow had yet to touch the food. He nodded towards the plate. “Drink something more if you will not eat. You will do yourself no favors if you pass out again.”
She relaxed her hands but did not otherwise move. “I confess it is rather hard to eat under the circumstances.”
“I have no plan to harm you. Eat something, and then we will continue our conversation.”
“Your interrogation, you mean?” An upward twist of her lips. “You have many questions in thisconversationwe are having but dodge my own. Whatever answers you hope to uncover, my truths are not what you seek.” She picked up a chunk of bread. “And my identity can be of no true consequence to you.” She made careful work of chewing one corner of the crust.
“All the same, I would have your name.”
Her shoulders tensed when he leaned forward, relaxing marginally when he came up with a piece of bread for himself. Stale, as expected, but he’d not intended to dine here tonight, let alone with an unplanned guest.
“I suppose my name cannot matter much. Isobel. My name is Isobel.”
The omission of a surname was undoubtedly intentional.And likely all you’ll give me right now.
“How did you come to be at Pont Neuf yesterday?” he asked after both of them had eaten in silence for several minutes.
“I presume you wish to know for what purpose I was there, and not my mode of transport.” Her face was turned towards the bread in her hand and partly in shadow, but he caught her mouth curving at the corner. “Perhaps I was admiring the great bridge?” The breath of a laugh. “No doubt I was there for much the same reason you were. I caught sight of Compton, and I followed him.”
“Why are you tracking his movements?”
“I believe he knows the whereabouts of someone dear to me. Or did, at one time. Now...” She compressed her lips, going silent.
“A friend? A lover?”
“My younger sister.”
“And that is your only interest in him?”
His words touched a nerve. “It may seem little enough to you,” she said, words brittle and precise, “but she is everything to me.”
He tamped down a flicker of guilt. “Is she an associate of his?”
“No!” The denial was immediate, followed by a sigh. “That is to say, I do not believe she went willingly into his company. But I cannot be certain.”
He finished off his wine. She took another sip of hers.
“I assume you will not tell me whatyourinterests are in Compton’s activities?” she asked. “How am I to knowyouare not his associate? Did not your companion in Dover call him an acquaintance?”
Grady had said it ironically. “Compton is a criminal scoundrel,” he stated flatly. “You may be assured I’m not in league with any of his schemes. What do you know of Guillaume Dubois?”
“Nothing. I do not know that name.” Nothing on hercountenance suggested it was prevarication. He’d been studying her long enough now to have a sense for how she wore emotions.
She rested her head against the settle’s back, closing her eyes.
