Page 37 of The Spy Who Loved Her
Rafe had been working on the journal for some hours already by the time Chris arrived, though still it had resisted his efforts. The day had waned into night already, and he had hoped to be back at Emma’s before now, but a conversation was in order beforehand. “You came round the back?” Rafe inquired.
“I did. Got yer note. Can’t say I were well pleased with ‘ow it arrived,” Chris said, a scowl etched into his features. “The boy must’ve stomped straight through every puddle betwixt ‘ere and mine. Said ‘e’d been pickpocketed on the way, and was right pleased o’ it.”
“You weren’t followed?” Rafe asked, flexing his fingers to relieve the cramping of his hand.
“Naw,” Chris said. “Would’ve noticed.”
Rafe rubbed at his aching eyes and sighed. “Damn.”
Chris lifted his brows. “Ye wantus followed?”
“No,” Rafe said. “Of course not.” But it was just further confirmation of what he had already learned. “I was followed home from Emma’s this morning,” he said. “I suspect my presence was noted, and whoever was responsible for breaking into her home sent someone after me as well. You’ve sent men to keep watch?”
A brisk nod. “The best I could get,” Chris said. “If there’s someone lurking about, they’ll nab ‘im.”
“Good,” Rafe said, massaging his temples. “You know as well as I that a burglary so soon after the ball cannot be a coincidence.”
“Didn’t think it were,” Chris said. “But to make a try for it so soon—”
“Desperation,” Rafe said. “A rush job, no finesse, no subtlety to it. Whoever it was hoped to be in and out and to disguise their target with a simple robbery.” And it might have worked, had he not lain hands upon the journal first.
“They’ll try again,” Chris said, in a low voice, and his gloved fingersclenched on his knees.
“Yes,” Rafe said. “That’s what I’m counting on.”Set a trap and see who walks into it.“I sent Dannyboy with two notes this morning,” he said. “One was for you. The other was for my inconvenient shadow. I was careful; I didn’t let on that I knew he was there. Instead, I used Dannyboy to divert suspicion. I gave him a note, told him to make a production of having it on his person, in his pocket. To let himself be relieved of it did the man attempt to take it from him.”
“Your shadow took the bait.”
“He did,” Rafe said. “He did—and he did not reappear at my home. Nor yours, it would seem.”
“What was in the note, then?” Chris asked. “The one that got pinched?”
“A deflection, of a sort,” Rafe said. “I addressed it to you. I wrote that I hadn’t found the journal at Emma’s.”
Chris scrubbed a hand across his face. “Christ. You toldyour shadow of the journal?”
“Notably, I told him that I do not have it,” Rafe said. “But the fact that he hasn’t returned—and that you haven’t been followed—has yielded more information than I expected.” Rafe tunneled his fingers through his hair. “Whoever is behind this,” he said, “must be with the Home Office.”
Chris went utterly still and silent, his features freezing in shock. “Who?” he asked. “How?”
“I’ve no idea,” Rafe said. “Not yet, anyway. But just think of it, Chris—my leaving Emma’s house this morning might’ve been a curiosity, but it ought not to have been suspicious. There was no reason to have me followed.”
“But yewerefollowed.”
“Yes. And at the behest of someone with an interest in the journal.” He watched the information settle in, the realization—they had always been so careful, the three of them. They had been matched together particularly because of their differences; they had shared no common friends, they had moved in different circles. Even their friends and family had not had the slightest idea of their involvement with one another. The true nature of their association had been known only to the Home Office, and they had been careful to meet secretly, only in places they would not attract notice.
Slowly, Chris said, “The note would ‘ave been meaningless if ‘e weren’t in search o’ the journal, and ye’d still ‘ave a shadow otherwise. And only someone from the Home Office wouldsuspect ye o’ having it.”
“Just so. As it is, I have redirected the man, given him bad information he’s got no reason to believe is anything but legitimate.” That information would steer him straight into the trap that had been set for him, and keep the journal safe in its present location, free of the risk of burglary. “Best to let him—and whoever hired him—think that the journal is still hidden away at Emma’s. We need time, still, to decipher it. It’ll be safe here, so long as they believeit is elsewhere.” So long as they were convinced that he didn’t have it.
“Christ, what a mess,” Chris snarled. “Any progress wiv it, then?”
“Nothing. You’re welcome to have a look yourself.” Rafe grabbed up the journal to pass it along, and beneath the pinch of his thumb, he felt—somethingupon the page. He rubbed the pad of his thumb across the spot, just there at the very bottom of the page. Nearly invisible, except when the book was held slanted—there was the slightest sheen there, as if the fibers of the paper had been…compacted, somehow.
“Give it ‘ere, then,” Chris said impatiently, holding out his hand.
“One moment,” Rafe muttered. Christ, how had he missed this? “I have…something.” Rifling through the drawer of his desk, he withdrew a pencil. Slowly, carefully, he shaded the area with the side of the point, using only the lightest pressure to color just the unaltered surface, leaving the depression within unshaded.
Chris drew a sharp breath. “What is it?”
