Page 82 of The Spy and the Nightingale
Miss Muir took up a bonnet from beside the door. “I’ve eaten already,” she said without looking directly at either of them. “I have matters to attend to elsewhere.” And with that, she left.
Isobel looked after her, a fond smile on her face. “She hasperhapseaten, but her only business is absenting herself so that you and I might talk without her here.”
“Has my arrival distressed her, do you think?” How could it not?
“I cannot say if it disturbs her, but she has left you alone with me. I think she doesn’t mistrust you, at the least.”
“And what of you?” he asked quietly. “Does it disturb you that I’ve come?”
She did not immediately offer either denial or affirmation. And then her lips curved up, enough to reveal the dimple that had so snared him in France. “It does disturb my peace of mind some,” she said wryly, “but I am glad all the same. Here, please sit.” She gestured just as he started forward; their fingers brushed. Her eyes met his and fell away. “You are staying in Auchencairn?”
“Aye, at the Arms. I arrived late yesterday. I was uncertain how long it might take to locate you.”
“Those sources of yours did not place me down to the very patch of earth?” she asked, smiling again.
He shook his head, feeling his mouth quirk.
“That does surprise me.” Her tone was light, teasing; she might as well have run a finger along his neck. “How long will you stay?”
“I have nowhere I need to be for a time.”
“Are you not still doing your previous work?” The force of her blue eyes was tactile. She’d read more in his words than he’d said aloud.
“I requested an end to field assignments, although I’ve not closed the door on future diplomatic work.” The Foreign Office was reluctant to entirely cut loose someone with his skill set.
She toyed with her knife. “Why did you leave it? Your work.”
He could hardly say aloud that it was the only way he’d have been free to make the lengthy journey here. How did she even feel about him turning up six months later? Had it only been a flash in the pan, that week last October?
Isobel was watching him. He felt naked. He had no idea what showed on his face; he’d been too distracted for a moment to guard it. With difficulty he recalled her question. “I was ready for a change.” The truth, if not all of it.
After Compton’s death, which had come not quite at his hands but close enough as made no difference, he could no longer reconcile the work he did with who he wanted to be or what he wanted for himself. She was an elemental part of that. He’d had a glimpse with her of whatcouldbe, not whatwas.
“You’ve come to tell me some of what happened after Lucy and I left Paris?”
He nodded curtly, not trusting other words.
“Let us move to the parlor,” she said. “I keep the whisky there.”
Isobel poured them each a tumbler of whisky nearly to the brim. She had the sense they might both need it.
Nathaniel moved to stand near the solitary window. “I cannot tell you all of what came to pass. Many details are still privileged even with the matter resolved.”
“I understand. Tell me whatever you can.”
“Has your sister spoken of any of it?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. Not even what she spoke of to you that night. I know little more than I did in Paris.”
He drank before responding. “Basics, then. The baron was not a mastermind in any of it. Dubois and Compton were using him for his social connections and his money. Some of what your sister knew about Cuvelier gave us the leverage we needed. Once the two of you were safely away, Cuvelier found it in his best interests to answer our questions.”
There was perhaps violence implicit in that phrasing. She found she didn’t much care. She had no sympathy for Cuvelier.
“He’s paid for his crimes,” Nathaniel continued, “such as they were, with loss of social status. He’s no longer welcome in Bourbon France.”
She took a large sip of her whisky, letting it burn her throat and nose, before she was able to ask, “What became of Dubois?” More than Compton, it was Dubois who featured in her worst memories of France.
“Cuvelier had many tales to tell. Compton and Dubois thought him only a wealthy inebriate—which he was—but he understood more about their scheming than they realized. Between what your sister knew from her relationship with Compton?—”
