Page 7 of A Spy’s Guide to Seduction

It had been some time since Lynley had thought of Russia as his enemy. That thinking belonged to a foolish boy unable to distinguish between the one man who had injured him, and a whole nation. Still, the case revived the old enmity he’d felt against his mother’s lover.

Just weeks earlier the club’s former spies, Hazelwood and Clare, had managed to snare the Russian Count Malikov with incriminating documents in his possession. Malikov, who wasn’t talking, now languished in a cell pending the outcome of negotiations between his government and England’s. The English were quite willing to let the count rot there until Lynley could find Malikov’s source.

Several links in the chain forged by Malikov to convey documents from Lord Chartwell’s office to St. Petersburg were broken, but somewhere in London was that cache of leaked letters.

Part of the puzzle was how such an extensive collection of papers had gone missing. Goldsworthy reasoned that whoever had the letters must be eager to get them to the Russians, who paid well for information, and very uneasy about being found with the incriminating documents. Suspicion had turned, fairly or unfairly, to Lady Ravenhurst’s husband, a devoted Foreign Office drudge, as the source of the leak. In the weeks before his arrest, Malikov had often been a guest of Lady Ravenhurst’s. Goldsworthy was keen to show Lynley the layout of the lady’s house.

When Kirby released Lynley from the fitting, promising to have the coat ready for the evening, Goldsworthy unrolled a floor plan of the Ravenhurst house on the tailor’s cutting table. “Usually, we’d put Wilde on the staff, to help you out, but with the boy’s arm in a sling, we can’t use him for a week or so. You’ll be working alone tonight.”

Working alone suited Lynley just fine. He studied the floor plan. The house was grander than most London row houses, with five windows across the front, but it was easy to see how the position of the stairs and doors made Ravenhurst’s library vulnerable from the entry hall and the grand dining room.

Lynley pictured the guests moving through the evening ahead, from the arrival and greeting, to the supper that would confine them to the dining room for hours, through the traditional interlude of separation between the ladies and gentlemen after the meal, and finally to the dancing. Somehow in between the rituals that punctuated the flow of a London evening, he would have to search the house. The trick for Lynley would be to make himself invisible to his hosts and fellow guests long enough to determine how someone might have stolen the documents.

Goldsworthy rolled up the house plan and gave Lynley a clap on the back like a cricket bat connecting with a ball. “Good to have you on the case, lad.”

Lynley shook off the big man’s hearty approval and returned to the coffee room and his favorite sofa. As he sank into its comfort, the copy of the Times rustled under him. He pulled it out, drew a lamp near, and began to read. Emily Radstock had written concerning the recent death of the elephant Chunee at the hands of his caretakers.

Sir:

The facts in the death of Chunee are so well known as to need no recounting. Thousands in London have seen the prints depicting his cruel slaughter. His agony at the hands of those on whom he long depended for his sustenance and whose pockets were lined with the proceeds of exhibiting him to the public is indefensible.

His handlers’ inability to consider his needs and to foresee a time when distress of body and spirit would render him a danger to himself and others and to plan accordingly for his care and ultimately for his end brings into question the fitness of human persons for keeping any wild animals in captivity, confined against their nature in cages, to be stared at by the masses with no freedom to act in accord with the promptings of their natures.

It is time to close the Exeter Change and all similar institutions whose indifference to the well-being of their charges is a stain on the honor of our city.

I am, Sir, your obedient servant,

E. Radstock

Every sentence rang with fierce conviction and independence of mind. He admired her stand against cruelty. But it was her contempt for the betrayal at the heart of the elephant’s suffering that made him shake his head as he folded the paper and tucked it back into his coat. She spoke of agony, but what, after all, did she know of the pain of betrayal?

He recognized her spirit though. She was the sort who thought the world could be a better place, who believed in noble sacrifice, who thought she could make a difference. As a girl she had probably nursed butterflies and kept hurt birds in boxes in her room. To care about caged elephants and the weak and the vulnerable was to risk great heartache.

He would wager the price of a good horse that she knew nothing about having fun. Few people knew how genuinely to enjoy themselves. They were always doing their duty. As for saving the world, or even saving England, that was for other fellows. He needed an adventure, and if the British government wanted to house and feed and clothe him while he had his adventure, and compensate him for it in the end, he was fine with that.

And along the way, he might teach Lady Emily Radstock what it meant to have fun.

Chapter Three

The husband hunter may expect the announcement of her betrothal to be met with surprise, curiosity, and even genuine delight. What she must not expect is that such an announcement will be met with tact. Whether the news bursts upon her acquaintance at a ball, whether it is the whispered gossip of a morning call, or whether her neighbors and friends see the printed notice in the paper, everyone acquainted with either party will have an opinion as to how deserving each is of the other, and few will resist the temptation to comment.

—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London

Within a few moments of entering Ravenhurst House, Lynley had a fair idea of how carelessly his host and hostess ran their household. Unconventionally, Lady Ravenhurst mingled with her guests in the marble entry chamber. Servants rushed from guest to guest, collecting coats and hats and pointing the way to the stairs. It was the sort of din and confusion in which pickpockets thrived in marketplaces all over the world.

Lady Ravenhurst fit Goldsworthy’s report of her. She was a deep-breasted golden beauty, who appeared to be of a restless, impatient disposition. Seven years into her marriage to Ravenhurst, she had a reputation as a dashing hostess. Her laugh had a brittle edge as she flirted with a pair of younger gentlemen.

Lynley turned from his hostess to make note of servants passing in and out of an open closet in front of him and the entrance to Ravenhurst’s library opposite the grand stairway. As he slipped Lady Emily’s black satin cloak from her shoulders, he thought he’d fumbled the simple gesture. Her outer garment fell away, and she appeared dressed in a shroud of deep ebony. Very little of her person was visible.

She turned to him with a guileless smile. He handed her cloak to the waiting footman, making no sign of anything out of the ordinary in her dress, as if going to a fashionable dinner with a woman dressed like a hearse horse was an ordinary occurrence. Clearly, his betrothed was up to something.

He offered his arm, and her touch sent a current of sensation through him. How carefully she’d planned her surprise. She had been cloaked and ready to meet him at her father’s door, and she’d kept her hair simple. Nothing in her outward appearance had prepared him for what she’d been hiding under that cloak. He led her toward the stairs.

“It is customary for a gentleman to offer a lady some compliment on her attire,” she said.

“Is it? I must be out of practice.” He resisted the kick in his pulse at the thought that she had been thinking of him as she dressed, standing before her glass in a shift and corset. She was testing him, daring him to react, inviting him to play a game.

They passed from the top of the stairs into a great room already set up for dancing with the rugs removed and the furnishings pushed to the perimeter. Lynley noted a small dais at the far end with chairs for musicians and a potted palm at the edge that concealed what might be a useful door.