Page 10 of A Bride By Morning
“You’re thinking something else now,” Caroline said in interest.
Lydia set down her tea. “A puzzle that I’m interested in solving.”
Caroline’s smile returned. “I adore puzzles, especially when they have to do with foolish men. Tell me.”
Lydia hesitated, but then reached into her reticule for the small sheet of paper. Upon arriving home, she’d quickly noted the symbols that she had seen in Gabriel’s book and then spent the better part of her sleepless night attempting to decode what he’d written.
She unfolded the sheet and slid it across the table. “There. I’ve been trying to solve that all morning.”
With a bemused expression, Caroline skimmed the note. “A cryptogram?” Her eyes touched briefly on Lydia’s. “And this is . . . to do with Monty?”
“It might.”
“You’re being mysterious. The only thing I love more than a puzzle is a mystery.” She considered the symbols again. “This is not common knowledge, but Julian and I used to send notes in code before we were married.” She gave a wistful smile. “He was the first model for my paintings. It would have been a scandal if we were caught.”
Lydia was one of the few people who knew that the Duchess of Hastings was the true identity of famed nude painter Henry Morgan, whose work hung prominently in galleries and aristocratic homes across the country. Her identity as the artist behind the sensual works would create an uproar if it ever came to light.
“Can you solve it?” Lydia asked.
Caroline studied the code with a frown. “I’ll try.” Determined now, Caroline rose from her chair and retrieved ink, pen, and paper from the letter-writing desk in the corner of the room. She resettled in her seat. “Twenty-two symbols. Was M—” She cleared her throat. “The person who wrote this, that is. Were they pressed for time?”
“Yes.” Lydia leaned forward. “Is that relevant?”
Caroline tapped her pen in consideration. “Of course. It reduces the likelihood of code complexity if he used it on the spot. But a crib would speed this along.” At Lydia’s questioning look, she explained, “A word or phrase that we know for certain is in this message. For example, many messages begin withI, but this one starts with a longer word.”
“A name?” Lydia’s heart slammed against her chest. “Coningsby.”
Caroline went still. Then she cleared her throat and said, “Now I’m evenmoreinterested.” Dutifully, she penned the translation onto her paper, solving eight distinct symbols. “Now I can deduce that this word”—she tapped the note—“is ‘days.’ I assume a written number precedes it, and ‘three’ has the distinction of being the only one with the same letter twice in succession. Give me a moment.”
Lydia watched as Caroline quickly usedConingsbyas the crib to solve the rest of the cryptogram. “You arebrilliant,” she breathed.
“I know,” Caroline said with a distracted smile. Then she frowned over one final word. “This is another name, I think. Unless the person Coningsby intends to meet reallyisnamedBear? I assume he isn’t meeting anactualbear.”
Lydia scrutinized the note Caroline had managed to translate swiftly:Coningsby will meet Bear three days hence, after midnight at the Docklands.
Bear. Lydia puzzled over the name as Gabriel’s background continued its realignment. Her mind finally accepted the single-syllable word that daunted her for hours and admitted its truth.
Spy.
5
Gabriel watched Wentworth pace his study.
“What the fuck do you mean, you were seen?” Wentworth snarled.
The spymaster’s whiskey sat entirely abandoned on the mahogany desk as Wentworth, again, traversed the length of the room. Gabriel hardly ever witnessed his superior this agitated; he ordinarily sat calmly behind the desk while they conferred at his modest townhouse near Fleet Street.
Gabriel could hardly blame Wentworth, certainly not when his own composure was so threadbare at the edges. How long had it been since he’d felt so unsteady? Years. Not since Kabul. Gabriel had foolishly believed he was no longer capable of experiencing emotions that threatened his focus—but put Lydia in a room with him, and his control evaporated in minutes.
Now, instead of concerning himself with the knowledge that Medvedev was still alive, he’d spent the entire day picturing Lydia. Lydia in Coningsby’s office, rising to her feet like a valkyrie. Lydia and her eyes that flared hotter than molten steel. Lydia, pressing her hand to his chest—and him, wishing there were no clothes to separate their skin.
Lydia fucking Cecil, his beautiful curse of a girl.
“She won’t say anything,” Gabriel said, sipping his whiskey with an indifference that did not betray his true feelings. But it wouldn’t do to confide in Wentworth just how erratic Gabriel’s thoughts were. Lydia had come back into his life with a destructive force that shattered his equilibrium.
For a spy, that was dangerous.
Hell, it was downright lethal for a man with as many enemies as Gabriel.
