Page 25 of The Spy Who Loved Her
“Is that ‘is name?”
“It’s what he answers to, at least.” Rafe rifled through the papers spread across his desk, selecting one to pass across the desk to Chris. “If you’d like to make yourself useful, here’s a list of books I’d like you to purchase for me. I’d send Dannyboy for them, but he can’t read, and I doubt most booksellers would let a child of his age browse their wares besides.”
Chris accepted the list, scanning the titles and authors scrawled there. “What do you want them for?”
“Emma mentioned that she and Ambrose shared an interest in literature and poetry. Before I left, I made a list of books in his study fitting that description.” There hadn’t been so many of them. Perhaps twenty or so, since the majority of the books had been the sort of heavy tomes that men of business tended to keep in their private libraries to project the image of a learned man, even if the spines of those volumes had never even been cracked. “Likely Emma would have noticed the volumes missing if I had taken them, but it shouldn’t be difficult to track down the titles. They’re not particularly rare; any standard bookshop should have more than a few on offer.”
“I’d say so,” Chris said with a disdainful sniff. “Donne, Byron, Blake, Shakespeare. Staples of any proper English library, I suppose.”
“Just so.” Rafe gestured to the discarded sheets of paper he’d gone through, full of nothing but a random assortment of letters. “I’ve already tried the authors and titles as keys, with no success. I thought perhaps the books themselves might yield better results.” Though it promised to be a frustrating—if not entirely futile—task.
“Could be nothing,” Chris said as he folded the list and tucked it into his pocket.
“Could be something.” What it certainlywouldbe was work. Hours and hours of it, scratching out lines upon paper and cross-referencing letters upon the table that Rafe had drawn up which would, in theory, reveal the contents of the text within Ambrose’s journal. Ifthey could pair it with the key.
But it was, presently, the only lead they had to work from. And from the faintly caustic glance that Chris slanted toward him, he suspected that the man knew it was far from the last call that Rafe would pay upon Emma. The books might well yield nothing at all, but Emma might possess the requisite information.
“Bring hyacinths,” Chris said scathingly as he rose to his feet and headed toward the door. “They’re her favorites.”
Chapter Nine
Dannyboy to see you, my lady.”
Emma scarcely heard the words over the roar of the children assembled at the breakfast table, though she most certainly saw the bundle of flowers that the boy whisked beneath her nose as he arrived at her side.
“My, these are…lovely,” Emma managed, restraining a sneeze at the ticklish sensation of the blossoms beneath her nose. In fact they were not lovely—or at least, they weren’t any longer. Probably they once had been, but the journey to reach her, however long it had been, had not been kind to them. The vivid blue and purple stalks of flowers had been nearly snapped down the middle, half the blossoms crushed from some mishap or other. Carefully she pried them from Dannyboy’s hand and gave them a cursory sniff—as one was meant to do—before she handed them over to Neil to place somewhere.
From her left, little Janet leveled an assessing stare at Dannyboy and inquired, “Is he staying with us, ma’am?”
Dannyboy wrinkled his nose right back at her. “Nah. Jes’ come to deliver the flowers and a note. Oh! Clean forgot.” He thrust one grubby hand into his pocket and withdrew a folded bit of paper, which he extended to Emma. “Got to wait for an answer.”
“Perhaps you’ll take some breakfast, then,” Emma invited as she accepted the note. “There is plenty going spare.”
“I s’pose it couldn’t ‘urt none,” Dannyboy said, stretching onto his toes to peer down the length of the table, surveying the dishes available. “Bloody ‘ell, is that bacon? I’m lucky to nab a bit of toast.”
Yes, she had rather suspected as much. “The children are at their lessons for much of the day,” Emma said. “And such labors of the mind require a filling breakfast. More than simple toast and tea, naturally. Of course, if you would join our table, you will have to mind your manners. That means no foul language of any sort.”
“Foul language?” he asked, his brows furrowed.
“Likebloody hell,” Janet supplied, tipping her nose into the air. “You ought not say such things.”
“That’s not foul,” Dannyboy said with a scoff. “I knowlotsworse.”
Hastily, Emma interjected, “I’m certain you do—however, such words do not constitute amiable conversation at the table. We’ll leave them where they belong: outsidethis room.” She pushed back her chair and stood, gesturing to the vacant seat. “Here, Dannyboy, you may take my chair while I write a response to take to your employer. Neil, would you mind fetching Dannyboy a fresh plate?”
By the bow Neil gave and the tiny nod he offered in addition, she knew he had understood that he was meant to stand guard and to prevent certain indelicate conversation from cropping up in her absence.
Dannyboy was already reaching for the plate of bacon, leaning clear across the table to do so as Emma headed for the door to read the note in private. There was some sort of faint chiding from Neil as the door closed behind her, paired with a snide rejoinder from Dannyboy, and Emma scrubbed one palm over her mouth as she headed for the nearest private room.
At least the boy would have a decent breakfast today. She was certain Neil would be telling himself the same, no matter how many of his nerves Dannyboy managed to fray in the process.
The note unfurled in her hand.
Do not, I beg you, be so foolhardy as to leave your door unlocked a second time. Dannyboy can be trusted to carry a key, should you desire my company again.
- Rafe
Emma choked on a flutter of laughter. Perhaps, she supposed, a keywouldhold up better to Dannyboy’s custody than had a bundle of flowers. After all, they tended to be made of stronger stuff than frothy stalks of blossoms.
