Beauty and the Spy (19 page)

He paused a beat. "No father is listed, Susannah," he said gently.

She disliked the gentleness, and the implication.
Perhaps you were born on the wrong side of the blanket, Susannah
.

"Perhaps my father was killed in the war!" she said indignantly.

She doubted anyone had ever said that sentence quite as hopefully. Kit looked at her askance.

"Susannah Smith… Susannah Smith…" she tried out the name. "It's rather nice, don't you think? I wonder who my father was?"

"One hopes his last name
was
Smith," Kit said dryly. Clearly he was slightly less romantic and optimistic man Susannah. "It rather sounds like an alias. Now on to the deaths."

"But we've only just discovered I was actually born! Can I not savor it a moment?"

"And also have you home in time for your supper, Susannah? I think not I won't have your aunt worrying about you. Deaths it is."

Twenty minutes later they'd discovered that no Smiths had expired in Gorringe, at least none that were recorded in the church registry.

Susannah was giddy with possibility; her name was a brush she could use to paint her whole life over. "What if… what if they're still alive? What if… James Makepeace kidnapped me, and my parents couldn't meet the ransom, and—"

"Then Makepeace decided to keep you, as, after all, he'd always wanted a daughter with very expensive tastes, and your parents gave up, because they couldn't afford to keep you in dresses?" Kit suggested. "One thing at a time, Miss Makepeace. We know that you were born here; it appears as though your parents neither married nor died here, though we can explore the cemetery if you wish. But we can move on to our next task: Trying to find someone in the town who may have known Anna Smith. I know just the place to start."

This tavern was thick-timbered, dark, scented with a few hundred years of wood and cigar and cooking smoke. Two men were leaning across the table over a rough-hewn chessboard and chess pieces smooth with use and age. It looked the sort of establishment that welcomed both men and women; it probably served a decent supper, Kit surmised. As it was the middle of the day, a few men were sprinkled about the tables enjoying a lunch of sausages and potatoes and ale. They looked up and continued looking, though not in any hostile sort of way, when Susannah and Kit walked in.

Kit steered Susannah directly to the bar. "Good afternoon, sir."

"Good afternoon, to you, sir," the barkeep, a wiry man with thinning hair, volunteered cheerily. "Name's Lester. What can I do for you today? Good meal? Ale's good. My brew is famous."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Lester. I am Mr. White. I was wondering whether you knew this woman, sir. She lived in Gorringe some years ago, 1802 or so. We think her name is Anna Smith."

He held out the miniature, and the barkeep perused it with the squinting frown specific to those who would soon need spectacles to read anything at all. "Anna Smith… Anna Smith…
Frank
!" Mr. Lester bellowed. Kit winced and Susannah jumped a little. "He's hard of hearing, ye see," he apologized to the two of them. One of the men playing chess turned slowly around.

"D'yer ever know an Anna Smith? 'Round about… 'oh-two, ye said?"

"Wasn't she the gel what 'ad a brother come to visit now and agin? Fine cattle—remember that 'orse, Bunton?"

The other man lifted his head from the chessboard. "Oh, that
was
one fine animal! Nivver saw the likes in these parts. And he come in that fancy contraption sometimes—"

"That open coach, like—a broosh?"

Ah, men
, Kit thought, amused by his own gender.
Can't remember a man's name, or a woman's name, but they'll remember a man's horse and barouche for decades
.

"I recognize 'er face, guv—'ard to forget a face like that, ye see—but I saw 'er but a few times. Kept to 'erself, like. Dinna know who else might have known 'er. She lived at the end of town. But you know who did know 'er?" He paused and glanced sideways at Susannah, then gave Kit a long meaningful look, which Kit interpreted correctly: He didn't want to repeat it in front of the lady. Intriguing. Kit nodded almost imperceptibly, giving permission to say it.

" 'er name's Daisy Jones," he said sotto voce.

Good Lord
. Kit was impressed. "
The
Daisy Jones?"

The man nodded vigorously. "Lived 'ere in Gorringe before she made a… a… name fer 'erself."

"Who on earth is Daisy Jones?" Susannah was impatient.

The men ignored her. "Last I 'eard she was in London."

"Oh, she's still in London, all right," Kit confirmed. The men exchanged wicked, manly grins and Frank turned back to his chessboard.

"
Who
is Daisy Jones?" Susannah tried again, the irritation amplified.

Kit pretended not to hear her. "And did you by any chance know of a woman named Caroline Allston? Was here about fifteen years ago? Dark hair, dark eyes, pretty—"

"Difficult to forget," Susannah interjected crossly. "Once you see her—don't forget to tell him that."

The barkeep gave Kit a commiserating look mat said:
Women
. "Can't say that I did, guv. Sorry about that
Frank
," he bellowed again. Kit winced.

Frank turned around again at a leisurely pace.

"D'yer know of a woman name of Caroline Allston?"

"She was
very pretty
," Susannah supplied, loudly, for Frank's benefit.

Frank ruminated on this for a time. "Can't say as I did, guv," he said. "'Nuther cove were in 'ere t'other day askin' the verra same question."

Kit was fairly certain he knew the answer to this question, but he thought he'd ask it anyway. "This cove—do you remember his name?"

"Didna say, guv. Handsome, though. Fine figure of a man."

The men at the other tables broke into jeers of laughter at this. " '
Fine figure of a man!'"
they bellowed, slapping their tables.

"I'm only
sayin
'," Frank muttered defensively.

John Carr
, Kit thought with resignation. He'd somehow followed Kit's leads about Lockwood to Gorringe.

"Thank you, sir. You've been most helpful." Kit proffered a few coins to the barkeep.

The man waved the coins away. "Oh, no need, no need. But I'll take yer money if I can give yer wife and yerself some lunch."

Wife
! The word was so jarring that Kit pulled back his handful of coins in confusion.

Susannah was smiling, pleased at his discomfiture. "Give the man his money, dear."

Clunk. Clunk.

Two plates of sausages and potatoes and two tankards of foaming ale were deposited with some ceremony on the table in front of each of them. Susannah stared at her plate, men gave the sausages an experimental poke with her fork. She'd never before eaten in a pub; she'd never before been treated to a tankard of ale, for that matter. She peered into it. It was certainly pretty: dark golden, with a pale silky head.

Kit was watching her poke at her meal. "You put them in your
mouth
," he explained. "I recommend cutting them into pieces first" In direct contrast to his recommendation, he stabbed his sausage with his fork and bit off the end of it.

She gave the sausage another halfhearted poke.

"You're not hungry, Miss Makepeace?" he asked, when he'd swallowed.

"It's just…" She couldn't eat until she knew. "Confound it who is Daisy Jones? You
must
tell me. If she knew my mother…"
And who is Caw
? But she hadn't the courage to ask mat question yet again.

Kit took a long quaff of his ale, as if fortifying himself, and leaned back in his chair, studying her, his face lit with some secret amusement. She heard the click of chess pieces being knocked off the board behind them in the silence mat followed.

"Daisy Jones…" She could almost hear Kit sorting through a selection of words in his mind. "… Is an opera dancer." He was struggling not to smile.

Susannah narrowed her eyes at him. "No, she isn't She's something much worse, isn't she? I can tell."

"Or much better. I suppose it all depends on whether you're a man… or a
clergyman"
He was laughing silently now.

"It's not runny! If my mother was the friend of an opera dancer…" She trailed off when a suspicion struck. "Are
you
friends with opera dancers?"

"It's difficult
not
to be friends with opera dancers. Opera dancers are very friendly."

She almost laughed. But men she thought of what he might
do
with opera dancers… and an astonishing pair of feelings reared:

Jealousy that someone else would be able to freely touch him.

And an extremely perverse wish that she might, for even a moment, be an opera dancer, so that she could freely touch him, too.

Oh God, she now knew it was almost certainly true: Her mother must have been an opera dancer. For no one but the daughter of an opera dancer would have those sorts of thoughts. She'd almost certainly inherited her "passion," such as it was, and all these wayward impulses, from her mother.

"What if my
mother
was… was an opera dancer?" she said it in a whisper.

Kit stopped chewing. "Well… would it matter to you? Would you still want to know about her?"

She thought about this. "Yes. It would matter to me�how could it not? But yes, I would still want to know."

"All right, then. Eat your lunch." He resumed devouring his own.

She watched him eat for a moment, fascinated. There was nothing fastidious about the way he ate; it was purposeful and practical and astonishingly fast, but not the least bit untidy. He ate as though it were his last meal.

"Would you be shocked?" she asked him.

"If you ate your lunch? I might be."

"If my mother was an opera dancer."

"On the contrary. I'd be
delighted
." He looked up and smiled at her expression. "Come now, Miss Makepeace. Very little shocks me."

"Except the word 'wife,'" she said tartly.

He stopped chewing; regarded her across the table with that vivid blue stare. His expression was difficult to read, but it was definitely not what she would have called warm. More… considering. Specifically, as though he were considering whether or not to spear her with a fork.

It's your fault
! she wanted to blurt. He was forever coming at her with all his little challenges and feints, which worked to shake her more controversial thoughts loose, and then out they came.

She supposed, however, if he could do that so easily, she was engaged in far too many controversial thoughts.

No doubt because her mother
had
been an opera dancer.

"Are you going to drink your ale?" he said finally.

"Some of it," she said airily. She lifted it up, took a long sip, and then coughed until her eyes teared.

With dignity, she brushed her hand across her eyes, then pushed the ale across to the now smiling viscount. And then she cut the sausage in half, and deposited hah?

on his plate. He looked as pleased as if Christina's had just arrived, which for some reason pleased her just as much.

It had been some time since Kit had done anything quite so ordinary as promenade on a beautiful day with a pretty girl.

"Give me your arm," he said to Susannah.

"Why, your
lordship
—" she teased.

He frowned darkly at her, which made her bite back a smile, and she tucked her gloved hand into his arm. He felt faintly ridiculous and smug all at once; it seemed right, oddly peaceful—a pub lunch with a lovely girl, a stroll after it. The crowds were thickening at this end of the street; a summer fair was in progress, and stalls offering ribbons and sweets and games were lined up on the cobblestones, cheerful attendees jockeying to get a look at them. He wished they had time to linger, to poke about It had been ages since he'd lingered anywhere purposelessly, ages since he'd wanted to, really.

Their carriage was just coming into sight when Kit saw the man coming toward them, head lowered, moving at a casual clip like everyone else in the crowd, his head turning about aimlessly, admiring booths, deciding where to linger, perhaps.

As he drew closer to Kit and Susannah, he glanced up from underneath his hat, slipped his hand inside his coat.

And the world narrowed to a glint in the man's hand.

Kit twisted his body in front of Susannah before the knife struck. He flung his arm up to block the blade, felt the bite of it through his coat across his forearm and bicep, and kicked out, hard, catching the bastard in the knee. But the knife flashed up again as the man crashed to the ground, and Kit dropped and half-rolled to the side to duck it.

In the moment he'd looked away, the man had slipped off into the crowd, dodging, weaving neatly and quickly, never really breaking into a run, never causing more man a head or two to turn in his direction. In other words, he wasn't new to this sort of thing. He was a professional.

Kit sprang upright, reached out for Susannah, closed his hands over her arms and pulled her soft body into his chest so tightly he could feel the hammer of her heart against his ribs. She was white-faced, but not in shock; the color was even now returning to her cheeks.