Outside the breakfast room, I stopped, smoothed back my hair, straightened my spine, leveled my chin, and glided into the sunny yellow room with as much dignity as Anne Boleyn on her way to the chopping block.
“Good morning, Miss Fitzwilliam.” Miss Stranje’s lips twisted in a mocking smile. “Nice of you to join us via the customary route. I’d rather expected you to pop in through one of the secret passages. Heaven knows, there’s bound to be at least one that leads to this room. What say you, Tess? By my reckoning, you’ve explored most of our hidden tunnels.”
Tess stopped scooping eggs onto her plate and glanced guiltily toward a bank of cupboards on the south wall, giving away the answer.
“Ah, yes, through the cupboard. I’d forgotten.” Miss Stranje nodded and pointed to the trays of food on the sideboard. “Do help yourself to kippers and eggs, Georgiana. We’ve much to discuss this morning.”
My stomach growled enthusiastically at her suggestion, thus thwarting my desire to remain dignified. I hurriedly filled a plate with several slices of hothouse oranges, three sausages, a serving of curried eggs, and a whortleberry scone dripping with butter and honey.
The tantalizing smells nearly drove me to madness. It had been a full day since my last real meal. Forgetting my manners altogether, I dove into breakfast with the enthusiasm of a stable lad. Only after several mouthfuls did I regain sanity. They were all looking at me. I rested my fork properly and dabbed at the berry juice and butter on my lips. “Lovely scones. Quite good.”
“I shall convey your praise to Cook,” Miss Stranje said coolly, and turned her attention to the other girls. “You may all attend your various pursuits this morning. Except you, Jane. The steward would like a word with you, something about which fields ought to remain fallow.” She waved her hand airily, dismissing the details.
Jane simply nodded, as if fallow fields were a perfectly normal topic of conversation for young ladies.
Miss Stranje spread jam on a slice of toast and leveled a scolding gaze at Tess. “Miss Aubreyson, It has come to my attention that you have not been as circumspect during your morning exercise as one might hope. Have you forgotten the terms of our agreement? You are not to be observed.”
Tess dropped her spoon. It clattered to her plate. “How did you find out? He told you?”
“Lord Ravencross? Heavens no.”
“Then how?” Tess collected her spoon and stared at her food as if the answer must be hidden in her curried eggs.
We all leaned forward like eavesdropping Nellies awaiting Miss Stranje’s reply. She took a bite of toast before answering. “You nearly got yourself trampled to death. Did you actually think that fact would escape my notice?” She gazed pointedly at each of us. “As mistress of Stranje House, it is my duty to be aware of all that passes here. All.”
It struck me that Miss Stranje moved about this house with more skill than even Tess. Given the knowing slant of her eyes, I doubted even the secret room above our bedchamber was a secret from her.
The shrewd hawk-like expression evaporated from her features. “I trust you will be more discreet in the future?”
With a terse nod, Tess stabbed a sausage.
Our headmistress read from a note in her hand. “Maya, your music instructor begs leave to arrive a half hour late.”
She set the note on a silver tray bearing several other missives. She sorted through the pile and abruptly snatched one from the bottom of the stack. She broke the seal, quickly unfolded the letter, and read intently. The contents seemed to unsettle her. She said nothing but refolded the paper into a tight square and tucked it in her pocket.
Selecting another card from the pile, she tapped her finger against the gilt edge. “Enjoy your day today, ladies. For tomorrow, it looks as though we must entertain guests. Our neighbor, the delightful Lady Pinswary, intends to pay us a visit.”
Sera dragged a piece of potato around her plate. Maya sighed mournfully. I judged by the tight press of our headmistress’s lips and everyone else’s sagging countenances that Lady Pinswary was not actually delightful.
“Here’s another treat for you, a visit from friends your own age. She will be accompanied by her daughter, Miss Pinswary, and her niece, Lady Daneska.”
Sera winced.
Maya heaved an even deeper sigh.
Jane pushed back her chair, and brushed against Tess as she rose. I would’ve sworn she whispered into Tess’s ear on her way to the sideboard where she scooped another kipper onto her plate.
“I saw that, Jane.” Miss Stranje frowned and tossed the card onto the tray. “Really, my dear.” She sniffed. “A little subtlety would not go amiss.”
Jane’s shoulders straightened and she spun around. “My apologies. It was clumsily done. I shall endeavor to improve.”
Tess set down her cup with a jarring clunk. “Jane has a point. She wonders why you’re allowing them in the house? Frankly, so do I. Especially that conniving little traitor. Why don’t you tell Lady Pinswary and her devious niece that we are not at home? Countess or not, you know Daneska is trouble.”
The force of Tess’s outburst shocked me. I expected Miss Stranje to fly into a stern rebuke, or Madame Cho to thrash Tess with her stick. Instead, everyone in the room just sat there looking glum. Everyone except our headmistress.
“I can think of three very good reasons why that tactic would be a mistake.” Miss Stranje cracked the shell of her boiled egg with a swift whack of the spoon. “Seraphina, would you care to speculate as to my reasons?”
I popped an orange slice into my mouth, thinking that it wasn’t difficult to guess. She couldn’t very well tell a countess to go away. It simply wasn’t done. Even I knew that much.
Sera quietly set her fork on her plate. “One,” she stated matter-of-factly, “if you do not allow Lady Daneska to visit she will assume it is because you have something to hide. She will double her efforts to find out what is afoot.”
“Precisely. And?”
“Two. By allowing her to visit you have an opportunity to misdirect her.”
Ah-hah! Misdirection. So that’s how our headmistress kept her treatment of young ladies a secret from the authorities for so long. I might find an ally in our visitors. This Lady Daneska must’ve gotten wind of Miss Stranje’s methods.
“Go on.” Miss Stranje scooped out her egg and salted it.
“Thirdly. During the conversation, it may be possible to trip her up, perhaps lure her into a slip of the tongue. She might unwittingly disclose some tidbit that would be…” As if embarrassed to continue, Sera glanced sidelong at me. “Um … useful.”
Useful for what? Did Miss Stranje collect gossip with which to blackmail her neighbors—more infamy to hide her despicable behavior?
Sera did not stop at only three reasons. “It would also prove illuminating to ascertain the purpose of her visit.”
Miss Stranje tilted her head with something akin to respect in her expression. “Yes, and what purpose do you suppose she might have?”
“I suspect Lady Daneska has several objectives.” Again, Sera looked sideways at me, this time she did not appear embarrassed or guilty. “Not the least of which is curiosity about your new student.”
“Well done.” Miss Stranje whisked out the folded note again and read it silently.
“Your last assumption is impossible,” I argued. “I only arrived night before last. No one even knows I am here.”
“Oh, she knows.” Jane spoke this to a spoonful of peaches laced with cinnamon. “She probably knew you were here before your coach turned down the drive.”
Tess nodded.
“Without a doubt.” Miss Stranje smiled with a wickedly arched brow. “You all know what this means, don’t you?”
The others nodded.
“Disarm them.” Jane forced a smile. “Make them excessively comfortable.”
“Play the innocents,” Sera whispered to me.
“Yes,” our headmistress confirmed. “To that end, before Lady Daneska’s arrival tomorrow, please assist Georgiana in selecting more appropriate attire.” She flicked her hand in my direction. “See if you can do something with her hair.”
I shrugged, all too accustomed to my appearance being a source of consternation.
Miss Stranje tapped the note against the table and studied me. “We shall be serving tea to our guests. I trust your mother instructed you on the proper behavior for such occasions?”
Oh, yes, my mother had instructed me on proper behavior while taking tea, proper behavior at dinner, at soirees, assembly rooms, and even at card parties. Mother had instructed me over and over, but on every occasion found me clumsy, ugly, and socially inept. I answered Miss Stranje with a fraudulent smile, “Yes, certainly.”
“Excellent.” She stood abruptly. “Now, if you’ve finished your breakfast, Georgiana, come with me. It is time we attended to your studies.”
Tess and Maya looked askance at each other. Were they worried?
My studies?
I followed our headmistress into the hall feeling certain her use of the word studies was a euphemism for torture. She meant to punish me for last night’s behavior. Clearly, Miss Stranje’s educational theory relied heavily on pain. No doubt she was planning to whip the stuffing out of me until I dared never disobey her again. She would do all this under the guise of turning me into a more pleasing daughter for my mother.
Go ahead. Torture me. I will never become a simpering, pudding-headed, marriageable Miss. Never.
I clamped my lips together in absolute defiance, but my clammy palms spoiled the effect. So, I wiped them against my skirts and marched onward to my doom.
We had descended the main staircase before I realized the discipline chamber wasn’t in this direction. Unless Miss Stranje possessed two torture chambers, I might not be getting stretched on the rack this morning. Confused, I tried to guess my fate.
Attend to my studies …
If she meant to stick me in a room with that dragon, Madame Cho, and force me to learn Chinese history, I would leap out of the nearest window, cut off my hair, don boy’s clothing, run to the nearest port, jump aboard a frigate, and join the crew. Not a perfect plan, I’ll admit. But surely it would succeed better than last night’s escape.
My studies?
Miss Stranje’s task was to reform me into a biddable young debutante. What studies did that require? Oh, please God, do not let it be a dancing master. I could not bear the humiliation of crippling another skinny Frenchman. Monsieur Fouché had howled louder than a cat with his tail caught under a chair when I tromped on his ankle. Mother had to pay him double his fee just to get him to stop squealing.
I slowed my pace, from a resigned march to slow plod. Not dancing. Please, not dancing.
“It isn’t dancing, is it? Because I simply won’t—”
“Heavens no.” Miss Stranje led us through the foyer into the west wing corridor. I breathed a sigh of relief and picked up my stride to match hers. With a slight sniff and a no-nonsense tone she said, “Dancing class is on every other Thursday. Next week we will be mastering German folk dances.”
I groaned and slowed my steps again. We passed a gallery of family portraits, unmistakably Miss Stranje’s relatives. Their sharp-beaked features did little to cheer up the dark-paneled hallway. I shivered, unable to escape their uncanny lifelike stares. They glared down at me as I walked beneath them, judging, though they were long cold in their graves.
“Do stop dawdling, Georgiana.” She waited beside a door at the far end of the hall. I caught up as she pressed a key into the lock and turned the handle. She stood back and pushed the door open.
The ancient floorboards creaked as I stepped inside. Mullioned windows allowed in ample light and yet there was a row of lamps dangling from the ceiling so the room might be used after dark. A stillroom lay before us—unlike any stillroom I’d ever seen. Filled with wonder, I stood with my mouth hanging open like a stunned codfish. I couldn’t stop myself from rushing across the room to a long worktable set with the most amazing equipment I’d ever seen.
I had only dreamed of such contraptions. I’d read about equipment like this in Antoine Lavoisier’s chemistry books. But to see them, not in a drawing, but in real life—I could scarcely breathe.
I touched my finger to a set of brass measuring scales. They bounced in reaction. I jerked my hand back and inspected a distillation tube connected to a copper beaker atop a heating platform. The damper on the small oil burner could be opened or closed to perfectly control the heat. Remarkable.
Miss Stranje stood at my elbow. “The copper tubing can be removed,” she said, and pointed to the clasps on the rim of the beaker.
“Where did you get it?” I marveled.
“A gypsy caravan came through last month. Their tinker did respectable work so I commissioned him to make that and some of these other devices.”
“But why?”
She pointed to several small glass beakers. “These I procured from a glass blower in London.” She pointed to a bank of small drawers on the side wall. “You’ll find the bins filled with various minerals. I wasn’t certain which you needed so I ordered an assortment.”
I rushed to the small drawers, pulled several open, and couldn’t believe my eyes. Sulphur. Magnesium. Saltpeter. Copperas. Precious cobalt.
“This was my grandmother’s stillroom.” Miss Stranje inhaled deeply. “The smells never fail to remind me of her. I still remember her teaching me to distill rose oil and make almond extract.” She picked up a worn marble mortar and pestle. “This was hers.”
I pulled open a bin marked “mollusk shells,” fine iridescent shells that could be ground into purple powder. How did she know they were a component in so many dyes? Then, I spotted my books stacked on a small desk beside the cabinet. My books! The History of Persian Alchemy, a treasure my brother had procured for me, and Lavoisier’s Manual. Even my notes were laid out, unwrapped, unpacked from my trunks—without my permission.
“Why!” I spun around. “Why have you done this? My parents hired you to purge this sort of thing out of me, to rid me of my, my…” I was going to say defects.
She watched me, waiting without mercy to see how I would describe that which my mother hated in me.
My stomach twisted into a sickening knot just as it had last night. Except, this morning, it tightened around sausages and curried eggs. I refused to get sick. I would not humiliate myself in front of her. So, despite the squeezing knot in my belly, I clamped my lips together and swallowed hard. If only I could run from the room and curl up in a corner somewhere. Maybe then, I wouldn’t feel like retching. But my stern headmistress stood between me and the door, searching my face for weakness, waiting for me to say those torturous words. My defects.
I would’ve preferred the rack. Thrusting my chin into the air, I said, “My eccentricities.”
“Eccentricities?” The corner of her mouth angled up slightly. “Is that what you call it? I should rather have thought of it as the workings of a brilliant mind.”
I blinked. No one, except my brother, had ever said such a thing about me before. Wary, I edged away. “I saw your torture chamber. I know what you do in this school.”
“Do you?” She feigned innocence.
“Yes. Everyone knows your reputation. I daresay there are hangmen considered more merciful.”
Her shoulder lifted in a minuscule shrug.
“I saw with my own eyes. Bruises and cuts on the other girls. Manacles. Whips. Jane locked in a spiked mummy case.”
She squared her shoulders. “The chamber has its uses.”
“Oh, yes, I imagine so.” My chest heaved with indignation. “Useful for reforming brilliant minds into unexceptional ones. For ridding your students of their eccentricities.”
“Do you really think such punishments could accomplish all that?”
Her question caught me off guard. I drew back. It wouldn’t work on me. I would rather die. “No,” I admitted.
She waved her hand at the laboratory equipment. “And this? Do you think this is a devious plan to rid you of your eccentricities? A clever ploy—if you are free to experiment, science will lose its appeal?” She waited for me to respond. When I didn’t, her mouth twitched into a smirk. “Of course, if you’d prefer to have a go on the rack, I’ll simply have to oblige you.”
I blinked, unable to find my bearings with her.
“Come now, Georgiana. Do you want to work on your formula, or not? It occurred to me that with the proper equipment you might not burn down any more stables.”
True. With proper equipment, that fire would never have happened. Was this another tactic? Apparently she was quite fond of misdirection. “I know what you want,” I said. “You want me to finish the ink formula for Lord Wyatt and Captain Grey.”
“Yes.” A tiny hint of admiration softened her features. “That is precisely what I want.”
“Why? What makes you think my ink is anything of value?”
“Your mother’s letters were quite explicit about your experiments.”
A lie. “Impossible.” I squinted and crossed my arms. “Until the fire she never cared one wit about anything I did. She wouldn’t know anything beyond the fact that I was working on an invisible ink. Her letters would’ve been full of complaints. Nothing substantial enough to merit all this.” I waved at the equipment.
The intrepid Miss Stranje pressed her lips tight, buying time to construct another untruth. I gave her no quarter. “What does Miss Grissmore have to do with any of this? If you have harmed her in any way—”
“Hardly!” She glanced up sharp at that, like a hawk discovering the mouse in her claws had rather pointy teeth. “Miss Grissmore and I are former schoolmates. She came to me after your parents turned her out without a reference.”
“Oh.” I cooled considerably and turned away, toying with one of the brass weights for the scale. “Thank you for that. She didn’t deserve such poor treatment. Grissy was an excellent teacher.”
Miss Stranje took a deep breath and proceeded with a softer tone. “She speaks rather highly of you as well. She convinced me that you are capable of developing an ink. On the strength of her recommendation I procured this equipment.”
“I see.” Except, I didn’t see. I couldn’t see any more than a blind man in an apothecary shop. Miss Stranje and Miss Grissmore were friends. Impossible. Everything suddenly felt topsy-turvy. My assumptions were all called into question. I kneaded my temple. “Very well, you’ve explained how, but you’ve still not told me why. What do you intend to do with my ink?”
“A prudent question.” This response did not come from Miss Stranje. I spun toward the deep voice. Sebastian and Captain Grey stood in the doorway. The captain approached us. “Well done, Miss Fitzwilliam. It is right that you should ask.” He bowed. “I’m relieved to see you have recovered from your mishap.”
“Captain, how good of you to come.” Miss Stranje met him with rosy warmth. The two grasped each other’s hands as if they were lifelong friends, and just as quickly stepped apart, blushing and awkward.
Miss Stranje tried to hide her reaction by introducing them to me. “Captain Grey, Lord Wyatt, you’ve already met my new student, but under … how shall I say … under less-than-appropriate circumstances. Please, allow me to properly present to you, Miss Georgiana Fitzwilliam.”
I dropped into a curtsey elegant enough to please even my mother, wishing the whole time that my wretched hair did not resemble a stork’s nest smushed into one paltry white ribbon. But it did. There was no help for it, and because there is no sense trying to pretend one is a silk purse, when one is, in fact, a sow’s ear, I quickly dispensed with the niceties.
“Pleased to meet you, Captain Grey.” I intentionally took no notice of Sebastian. “Now, if you will kindly explain what it is you want with my ink, and why I should trust—”
“Georgiana!” Miss Stranje cut me short. “You will not take that rude tone. Captain Grey is a man to whom we owe much. It is only his generosity and goodwill that allows us to live here. This house, the grounds, the cottages and adjoining property, all belong to him.”
The gentleman shook his head. “No, no, my dear Miss Stranje, you must not credit me with such virtues. It is not generosity on my part. You are a most excellent overseer. The estate flourishes under your guidance and your students’ contributions.” He caught his breath and stepped back from her. “By rights the house ought to be yours. Your father would have left it to you, if it were not for that abominable entailment, or if you’d had a brother.…”
He stopped. Warmth colored his cheeks. His mellow voice caught and his easy manner turned awkward and unexpectedly boyish. “It is the least I can do.”
Clearly, generosity had little to do with the matter. Remarkable. Poor earnest Captain Grey appeared to be in love with my scheming headmistress.
“There you have it,” Miss Stranje resumed lecturing me. “Captain Grey deserves our utmost respect. You may not demand answers of him as if you were the local magistrate.”
Oh, if only I were the magistrate. This school and her malevolent discipline chamber would be banished from England. I silenced myself, clamped my lips together, and turned my thoughts to how I might finagle the truth out of them as to what they wanted with my ink.
Captain Grey clasped his hands behind his back and paced a step or two before stopping in front of me. “It is right and proper that you should ask these questions, Miss Fitzwilliam. It is crucial that your formula be guarded. In the wrong hands, it would be a dangerous tool.” He took a deep breath. “I will explain our interest.”
“Proceed cautiously, Ethan,” Sebastian warned. He leaned against the doorpost, his arms crossed over his chest as if he was bored. “She is, after all, a girl. And girls must talk. Incessantly.” He uncrossed his arms and strolled toward us. “They tend to do so without regard for the importance of secrecy.”
Oh, that topped it. I couldn’t keep a secret? Bird’s-nest hair or not, I confronted his high and mighty lordship. “I sincerely doubt the topic of invisible ink will come up while chatting with my friends about how many ruffles to put on my next ball gown.”
Sebastian brazenly perused my sprigged muslin morning dress with so critical an eye that obviously he doubted I’d ever worn a ball gown.
No matter that I hadn’t. I certainly could have, if I’d ever had the slightest interest in such frivolous things. Which I did not. In light of his scorn, I decided to have a ball gown made for me just to spite him. Although, how it would spite him, I wasn’t quite certain.
Oh, confound it all! The man was muddling my thinking.
Captain Grey clapped Sebastian on the shoulder. “In that case, I shall leave the explanations to you.” He bowed to me, a veritable saint compared to his brutish companion. “Miss Fitzwilliam, I leave you in the capable hands of Lord Wyatt. Not only is my nephew an able attaché, he is, like yourself, a student of science. It may please you to know that he is acquainted with the author of one of your books. When Sebastian was a very young lad, he and his father helped Monsieur Lavoisier’s wife smug—” He stopped and cleared his throat. “Pardon me. What I meant to say is he and his father helped her transport out of France some of Monsieur Lavoisier’s writings and equipment.”
Sebastian crossed to the other side of the table and lifted a small glass beaker, turning it round and round in his fingers. “Captain Grey exaggerates my part. I only helped my father carry away a few sacks and provide a diversion. But I remember her. A brave intelligent woman, Madame Lavoisier. Without her, we would know nothing of these instruments.” He set down the flask with a reverence that surprised me. “Nor would you have his notes. After her husband’s capture, the revolutionaries confiscated almost everything. The Republic does not need scientists or chemists, that’s what they said, right before they beheaded him.” He flicked his finger against the flask. “They guillotined both her husband and her father on the very same day.”
We stood in morbid silence. I could not keep from pressing my hand against my throat.
Captain Grey nodded farewell and Miss Stranje took his arm. They headed for the door. Surely she didn’t intend to leave me here alone with Sebastian. It wouldn’t be proper. “You’re leaving?”
“Captain Grey and I have business matters to discuss. You won’t be alone, Miss Fitzwilliam.” She tilted her head toward the corner. “Madame Cho will act as my emissary.”
It was then that I realized Madame Cho had slithered into the room without my noticing. The old dragon sat in the corner watching me with her cold lizard eyes. Sebastian took off his coat, flipped open my Persian alchemy book, loosened his cravat, and rolled up his cuffs.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” He continued to roll up his sleeves. “If you’re not planning to use this equipment, I most certainly will.”
“You can’t simply assume command here. This is my laboratory.”
“Is it?”
Not mine. Not exactly. I spared a covetous glance at the equipment table. “You promised to explain why you want my formula.”
“I did not,” he said, and turned his attention to the Persian book.
“I heard you. You told Captain Grey—”
He scoffed at me. “I know exactly what I said. I told him to proceed cautiously, because girls talk too much.”
I reached over, shut my Persian manual, and clutched the fragile old book to my bosom. “And boys talk too little.”
Obviously, he wasn’t a boy. I had only emphasized the word to annoy him, and it did. He flinched ever so slightly, but enough that it pleased me. He deserved a set-down.
“I suggest you explain,” I said.
If he thought his measly glower would frighten me, he was wrong. My father, with his grizzled skin, lionlike side whiskers, and bulbous nose, possessed a far more terrifying frown. Sebastian had a fine straight nose, a defined jaw, with smooth inviting skin. His eyebrows, although they sat at a wicked brooding slant, weren’t nearly as fierce as my father’s bushy ones. I met his gaze with steady ease. I even managed a triumphant smile.
He exhaled noisily. “How do you expect me to explain it to you? You couldn’t possibly understand.” He waved my bravado away. “Impossible. You’re completely ignorant of world affairs. An innocent.”
He spat the word at me, twisted it, as if being innocent meant I was vulgar and indecent. Suddenly, his hard stare made me uncomfortable in a way my father’s never could. I backed away, brushing against the scales, sending the sensitive trays bobbling noisily. The sound of the clinking brass tumbled through my belly. I couldn’t meet his gaze.
I swallowed and sucked in my discomfort. “Why do you think I’ve been working so tirelessly to find an invisible ink?” I wasn’t about to tell him about my brother’s death. That was too personal for the likes of him. I jutted my chin. “I’m well aware of world affairs.”
“Well aware?” He scoffed. “Do you have any idea what’s happening on the continent at the moment?” He sounded exasperated with me.
I stiffened my spine, as I had seen my mother do a thousand times. “Certainly. Napoleon has surrendered, he abdicated his throne, and they’ve banished him to Elba.”
“Oh, very good. Even a chimney sweep knows that much.”
Madame Cho chuckled softly.
“At least, we finally have peace,” I defended.
He shook his head and muttered, “Peace.”
For no reason at all, I felt like crying. I was not stupid. And this … this boy was not going to make me feel like a simpleton.
“Very well then, if I am so ignorant”—I shoved past him and snatched my manuals and notes away—“so disgustingly innocent, I suggest you enlighten me.”
My cheeks burned. That had come out all wrong. I only hoped he would ignore the more torrid implications.
Madame Cho coughed discreetly.
His lips parted. He stared at me, as if I stood before him as naked as his forearms. I rubbed mine, feeling unaccountably chilled. Silence bristled between us.
With a smirk, he relaxed. “Peace, Miss Fitzwilliam.” He held up his hands in mock surrender. “As Captain Grey explained, I am a diplomatic attaché. The captain and I are charged with protecting certain European dignitaries. We require your ink in order to exchange sensitive messages when the need arises. The old codes and our current ink formulas are too easily detected. There. That should be explanation enough.”
I clutched the books to my bosom. It was exactly what I’d suspected. “So, you are a spy.”
“No. A diplomatic attaché.”
“Which is a fancy way of saying a spy.”
He shook his head. “That bump on your head must’ve injured your brain.”
“Your concern is touching,” I said, pointing out that he hadn’t yet asked after my health. “But you needn’t worry, my brain is quite well. Well enough to deduce the obvious.”
“Apparently not, since you are sorely mistaken. I am a member of the Office of Foreign Affairs, a diplomat, as was my father, and his father before him.”
He explained all this using the same tone and forbearance Miss Grissmore had used when explaining higher mathematics to me when I was only ten. I found his overblown patience both entertaining and annoying.
“As such,” he continued, “I am sworn to protect Britain’s interests and that of her allies. If, on occasion, that means I must go about my task quietly and without drawing attention to my identity, I only do so in order to fulfill my duties as a sworn protector of King and country.”
“Quietly. Yes, I see,” I said, tapping one finger against my lips. “Because, clearly, you are a spy.”
The muscles in his jaw knotted and he drew in a long irritated breath. “And clearly, you lack even the most basic skills in diplomacy or tact.”
My cheeks flamed up again. He’d struck too near the mark. I thrust my chin up proudly, unwilling to tolerate insults from him. “If by that you mean I lack skills in deception and trickery, then you are right. If I possessed those arts I wouldn’t be locked away in this hellish place, would I? And you wouldn’t know anything about my ink.”
“Hellish? Stranje House?” He frowned at me, his mischievousness evaporated. “You don’t know what hell is, little girl. I see no guards at the doors or bars on the windows.”
“No, but you did see daughters of the realm gagged and tied to chairs.”
“That was…” He clamped his lips together. “Ask your friends about that.”
“I did. They wouldn’t say anything.”
“Well, ask again.”
“Are you aware of the fact that Miss Stranje keeps a discipline chamber filled with torture devices?”
“Oh, that…” He caught himself, buckled his jaw, and crossed his arms. “In your case, I suspect a good spanking now and then might prove useful.”
“You’re just like her. Uncaring. Heartless. Arrogant—”
“Enough! If you think this is such a terrible place, why do you not leave?”
“I tried.”
“Yes, and you wreaked havoc on a perfectly good boat. Next time try taking a dryer route. There’s the door. The road is a half mile due north.”
I stepped back, unwilling to confess I had nowhere to go—no one who loved me well enough to shelter me if I did leave. I bit down on my lower lip to keep from betraying myself with angry tears. He was no gentleman to be so cruel.
He swore under his breath. “I’m sorry. That was badly done. Look here, Miss Fitzwilliam, we have gotten off to a bad start. Might we not just begin work on the ink?”
I shook my head, unwilling to look at him until I had my emotions under control. “Not unless you explain. Fully.”
“It is all so complicated.”
I said nothing to that.
“I can’t tell you everything. These are matters of state. What I am at leisure to explain, you could not be expected to understand.”
Wishing to heap burning coals on his foul head, I found the courage to face him squarely. “Then I suggest you put to use all that diplomacy and tact you claim you have, and help me understand.”
He drew back, as if I’d surprised him. That wicked eyebrow of his arched up as he stood there assessing me. After a prolonged and uncomfortable silence, Sebastian’s shoulders relaxed and I saw his resolve weakening.
“I learn quickly,” I offered as a salve. Although, why I should soothe his rude temperament, I didn’t know. I suppose some treacherous part of me wanted to prove my worth to him. He continued to brood in silence. The man stood nearly three feet away from me, yet I could smell the freshly pressed linen of his shirt and, I swear, I could almost taste the damp morning mist that had settled in his hair.
“Very well.” He exhaled abruptly, and his manner softened. “A far cry from peace—Europe is in chaos. So many nobles were executed during the Terror or killed in the war, that much of the ruling class of Europe is either dead or in hiding. Spain, Portugal, Italy, the entire continent is plunged into a dangerous upheaval. Borders are in dispute. Economies destroyed by the war. Europe is unstable—a beast without a head, wounded, thrashing in pain.”
He turned and leaned against the cabinet, staring out the window at the brilliant midmorning sky. A sparrow leaped from the branches of a flowering pear tree and fluttered past, completely unconcerned about the volatility of Europe.
Sebastian glanced over his shoulder at me, sadness darkening his features, and I saw how he thought of me. I was like that sparrow, flittering to and fro, blissfully ignorant of the monstrous happenings in the rest of the world.
“Were you there when they beheaded Monsieur Lavoisier?” I bit my lip. It was a dreadful question. It had nothing to do with the matters at hand, but it sprang from my mouth before I could retract it. Seeing such horrors might explain the hardness in him.
He paced. I didn’t think he would answer, but he stopped beside me and said quietly, “Not Monsieur Lavoisier. I was a child, only five. Captain Grey exaggerates my part in all that. I only helped carry a few sacks and provided a diversion. But a few weeks later, they caught my father and, although he was a diplomat to the French government, dragged him away and executed him for crimes against the Republic. I shouldn’t remember, but how can I forget? The shriek of the blade falling and…” Sebastian stopped and squeezed his eyes shut.
I swallowed, waiting, afraid to breathe, regretting having brought him needless pain.
When he opened his eyes the hardness had returned. “You’ve distracted me with pointless memories. I thought you wanted me to explain why we need your formula.”
I could scarcely move, much less nod.
Squaring his shoulders, he towered over me. “What I am about to tell you must be kept in strictest confidence. You will never tell anyone.” He grabbed my shoulders. “Anyone. Do you understand me? Lives depend on you keeping silent. My life.”
I ought to have felt angry that he handled me as if I were a wayward child. I didn’t. I felt afraid. Afraid, because his touch sent my pulse flapping faster than a frightened sparrow. But, instead of running away, I wanted to draw closer. I wanted to slide my hand over the place that hid his heart and soothe the trouble there. Heat flooded up my neck. I stared blindly at his shoulders, not daring to look up, and yet I couldn’t stop thinking of his face, his searing blue eyes, his mouth so close to mine.
A hundred questions I wanted to ask him. He’d seen his own father beheaded. Why had he been allowed to witness such a terrible thing? Had his mother held his hand as they watched? I inhaled sharply. Or had he lost her, too? How had they escaped France? And after all that, why did he follow in his father’s footsteps? For his sake, I stuffed a fist into the mouth of my curiosity.
“Swear.” He stood over me, waiting, demanding my promise of silence.
“I give you my word.”
He glanced at Madame Cho. “And you.” She looked up from her embroidery and nodded as if such vows of silence were commonplace for her.
Sebastian released me and shifted uneasily. “Rulers and ambassadors from all over Europe are planning to gather for a council, a congress of sorts, in Vienna.”
I’d read something in the London Times about a historic meeting to take place on the continent. I nodded, encouraging him to continue.
“Their goal is to hammer out a course of action to restore order and economic stability to Europe. There is strong disagreement about how this should be achieved. Many leaders are determined to restore the ruling aristocracy and the royal families. You can imagine how this infuriates the populists and revolutionaries, especially those in France.”
He massaged the muscles of his forearms as if it might relieve some of his tension. In a low voice he added, “We’ve heard rumors of a plan to assassinate these heads of state while they are all gathered so conveniently in one place.”
I backed away. “This can’t be true. No one would do such a dishonorable thing.”
“I assure you, Miss Fitzwilliam, it is true. There are those to whom honor does not matter.” His face darkened and his eyes narrowed with anger. “They have banded together, dedicated to one purpose: restoring Napoleon to his throne and uniting all of Europe under one crown.”
My mouth formed an O. Now I understood. “The Order of the Iron Crown.”
He squinted sideways at me. “How do you know that name?”
I pinched my lips together not wanting to admit to eavesdropping. I glanced up to the ceiling and that was clue enough.
“Of course.” He groaned. “The tapestry. You overhead us.”
“Yes, but what’s more important is how did you hear of this plot? Have you told the proper authorities?”
“Slow down.” He warded off my rapid questions. “You already know more than you ought. It’s my job and Captain Grey’s to uncover such plots. All you need to know is that if you give us your formula for invisible ink many lives will be saved. The inks we have at present are too easily exposed by applying heat. Lately, we’ve had to rely on codes—a grave risk. The Order has deciphered several of them. Consequently, men have died. Good men.” Sebastian paused and raked through his black curls, clenching his jaw muscles. “In one case, our man and his entire family were murdered for helping us.”
“I’m so sorry.” I flinched at passing off someone’s life with so light a sentiment. I attempted to change the subject. “I imagine it is extremely difficult to distribute new codes without them being intercepted by your enemies.”
“Exactly.” Some of his ire cooled. “It’s vital to the safety of hundreds of dignitaries, their families, and their entourages, that we have a means of exchanging messages covertly.”
His life hung in the balance as well.
My throat tightened and I had trouble swallowing. We had a very big problem. “You do realize my formula isn’t perfected yet?” My shoulders sagged under the confession of my failure.
“So I heard.” He surprised me with a wry half grin. “An explosion, was it?”
I shrugged, preferring not to think about that day. I wanted to please him and he needed me to succeed. The leaders of Europe were in danger. He was in danger. Dwelling on my past mistakes wouldn’t help any of us.
When he started to chuckle at my embarrassment, I thrust the Persian text at him. Laughing at me wouldn’t help, either. “We ought to get started,” I said brusquely.