Page 7 of The Spy and the Nightingale
“You are worn to the bone,” he observed. “In the morning we will discuss further your pursuit of Compton and his whereabouts.”
“But not whatyouknow of him, I take it.” The corner of her mouth lifted slightly as her eyes opened. “What do you plan to do with me in the meantime?”
“There is a bed through there; you may use it if you wish.”
She looked warily at him. Deciding if she could trust him.
Certainly he’d made little effort up till now to set her at ease. “You’ve nothing at present to fear from me.”
“Ah yes. Whyever would I fear you?” Sardonic. “I don’t know your true name or anything of your purpose. Now I’m to trust that you mean me no harm even as you went out of your way earlier to imply it might be otherwise.” There was no heat in the words. In the main she sounded utterly weary.
“I will remain out here during the night.”
“I do not suppose you will return my boot knife?”
“No. And make no attempt to leave.”
“I’m not a fool,” she said with some asperity. “Merely extremely uneasy and justifiably so.”
She rose to her feet with an admirable degree of dignity. She was steadier than earlier. She pulled her coat about her and curled on her side atop the blankets, facing the outer room. It was not long before sleep claimed her.
Once he was certain she slept and was not merely feigning it, he unlocked the drawer containing her possessions to examine them at leisure. The boot knife was small and appeared relatively new; the dirk was older but well cared for. He did not recognize the maker’s mark on either.
The contents of the valise were neatly and compactlyorganized; it would have done any man on campaign proud. On top, wrapped in oilcloth and tucked inside a gown—the one from Dover, if memory served—was a Manton pocket pistol, unloaded, with a box of cartridges and cleaning kit. A bit of a surprise, that. She’d travelled light if the valise was all she had with her. A rough jacket and skirt of French make, similar to her current attire. Some undergarments and stockings. A few toiletries. Several handkerchiefs. A small mending kit. A silver hairbrush of finer quality than matched the clothes. He tilted the filigreed handle towards the lamp, examining it.
He replaced everything in the valise and secured it again. Nothing disproved what she’d thus far told him about herself, but by the same token, nothing corroborated it. No travelling papers from England, which she’d have needed at Calais. No French internal passport; she’d have needed one for the passage to Île-de-France. Those documents were either hidden yet on her person or she had belongings elsewhere.
Or she isn’t truly on her own as she claims.The leather purse contained only coin enough for a few days’ lodging and food. Certainly there was not enough for an extended stay in Paris, let alone a return trip to England.
Of a certainty, he needed more answers from her, although he believed she had answered his questions honestly thus far, omissions notwithstanding. His gut told him she’d been truthful with him, although he would remain vigilant. While logic prevailed, he’d also learned since coming into his current work that instincts counted for something, just as they had during his time soldiering.
The question of what to do with her remained. If, as he was inclined to believe, she was not a confederate of Dubois or someone else’s operative but was tracking Compton’s whereabouts for her own ends as she claimed, she might have insight into Compton’s activities.If she cooperates, it could prove profitable.
He couldn’t in good conscience allow her to independently pursue her own agenda, innocent or otherwise. If he had noticed her, others would as well. Harm coming to her sat ill with him no matter who she proved to be. Ensuring her safety—or preventing her flight—presented various difficulties, none insurmountable. Amélie was one solution, perhaps; he’d consider that after further conversation in the morning.
He looked towards the widow’s recumbent form. She posed little flight risk tonight, exhausted as she was. He could just discern the pale oval of her face, her lips slightly parted in sleep, dark hair sliding across one cheekbone and loose along her side.
Who are you, Isobel?
He adjusted the wick on the lamp, dimming the flame. After a day spent in cold rain, his body made slight protest at the prospect of spending the remainder of the night upright in the chair. The old wounds sometimes pained him when the weather turned.Not getting any younger, am I?Still, the chair was nothing next to sleeping rough on campaign.
He permitted himself the stillness of half sleep.
Chapter 3
There were too many people in between. Lucy would never hear her at this distance.
Muscles tight, heart accelerating, she sought Lucy. Lucy was ahead, oblivious to the danger. She must warn her!
The crowd was so dense. Her legs were leaden. So long she’d been struggling forward, making no progress. No matter how she hurried, she couldn’t catch up. She tried calling Lucy’s name, but no sound emerged.
A faceless gentleman turned, extending a hand towards Lucy.
No! “Lucy.”Finally, she’d forced air enough into her lungs for sound to pass her lips.“Lucy!”
Lucy turned, fading into nothing . . .
Isobel woke gasping, mouth dry, heart pounding hard enough to split open her chest. Awash in terror, she could not make immediate sense of her surroundings. Instinctively she cringed from the dark figure in the doorway.
