Page 45 of The Spy Who Loved Her
“As it happens, so have I,” Rafe said, and released a great sigh as he sank into his chair. “We didn’t wish to concern you if it came to nothing,” he said, as if it were no great surprise that Sir Roger had learned as much. “I suspect we’ve heard much the same rumors. That Ambrose kept a journal.”
There—a faint flicker in Sir Roger’s eyes. Not only interest, but something more nefarious than that. Easily missed, if one were not looking for it.
Sir Roger leaned back in his seat, folding his hands over the prodigious girth of his stomach. “Well, now,” he said, “You ought to have told me immediately.”
“We would have,” Rafe said, “had there been anything of significance to report. An unsubstantiated rumor has little value, you understand. We thought it best to investigate quietly.”
Sir Roger frowned. Not in the way of an angered superior, but more in the way of a disappointed parent. “I see,” he said, on a long, gusty breath meant to convey some manner of exasperation. “And what have you learned, then?”
Rafe feigned a rueful laugh. “That Ambrose is no writer,” he said, with a shake of his head. “Nothing worth reporting upon. Unless one cares to hear vivid descriptions of the horses he thought most likely to win at Newmarket.”
There; that was relief just at the corners of Sir Roger’s eyes. His fingers flexed and relaxed, and his chair creaked as he leaned back into it, as if he had deflated somewhat. “I’ll admit,” Sir Roger said slowly, “that I had some concerns of it. Given Ambrose’s history, I had thought it might contain some revealing information.”
“So had we,” Rafe said dryly. “But it came to naught in the end.” He paused a moment, and lowered his voice. “Though there is something which does concern me.”
“Oh?”
“Emma’s house was burglarized recently,” Rafe said.
The apples of Sir Roger’s cheeks flushed even beyond their usual floridity. “Was anything taken?”
“Not to my knowledge. Perhaps a few sticks of silver. But the timing is too coincidental. I think it possible—likely, even—that the would-be thief had come for the journal. It speaks to the potential of someone within the Home Office working against us.”
A queer silence drew out, during which Sir Roger attempted to temper his relief at being so informed with the shock he was meant to be displaying. “I see,” Sir Roger said, arranging his features in a bland expression. “This is a serious accusation.”
“One that merits investigation,” Rafe said. “And you are the only man whom I know I can trust implicitly.”
“London can be a dangerous place,” Sir Roger said evasively. “I would not discount the possibility that it is mere happenstance. Of course I shall make some…discreet inquiries.”
More likely he would say nothing and then, at some point in the future, pronounce the matter resolved to his satisfaction. “Thank you,” he said, nonetheless. “Some matters are beyond my ability to resolve.”
“One does what one can,” Sir Roger said lightly. “Now—I have some events that I’d like for you to attend.” He rifled through the papers upon his desk, selecting a list which he passed to Rafe.
“That might also present a problem,” Rafe said. “I can only assume I have offered some insult somewhere. My invitations have slowed to a trickle.”
“Don’t trouble yourself about the invitations. I’m confident that I can secure this much for you,” Sir Roger said, with a magnanimous—and relieved—smile. “Fancy a game of chess before you’re on your way?”
Rafe managed a smile of his own, sufficiently abashed. “All right,” he said. “I suppose I can spare the time for just one wretched loss.”
Sir Roger rubbed his hands together with a chuckle, jovial at the prospect. And when Rafe walked out of the office some twenty minutes later, Sir Roger had indeed scored a magnificent victory. But then, so had Rafe. Sir Roger had been only too eager to swallow down the fiction he’d been presented.
Chapter Fifteen
Chris was waiting for him when Rafe arrived at the tavern late in the afternoon immediately after his meeting with Sir Roger. “Dannyboy’s mum is in better spirits today,” Chris said, nodding to the woman who was busy serving another table. “She embraced ‘im, when ‘e came in.”
“Did she?” Rafe asked as he sank into his chair.
“’E flinched at first,” Chris said, the corner of his mouth turning down into a grimace. “I reckon ‘e don’t know much what to expect from ‘er. A slap or a hug—either’s just as likely. ‘Ow’s Em?”
“She’s got an appointment with her modiste today. Means to get herself out of mourning colors.” He’d told her greens and blues, which would go well with her hair, her eyes. Probably he would never see them on her.
“Get anything useful from ‘er lately?”
“Nothing that has proved helpful in deciphering the journal thus far.” He’d always been subtle in his questions, letting her guide the flow of information. But it had sat increasingly ill with him to attempt to pry information from her, when he had grown only more convinced that she had no such information to give. With one hand, Rafe swiped at his face in a vain effort to relieve the frown that had settled there. “Chris, I can’t do this any longer.”
“What do ye mean by that?”
“You know damned well what I mean.” Rafe hadn’t meant to say the words quite so bluntly, but they had sprung free anyway, forced through his lips on sudden upsurge of shame. “Christ,” he said, in a guttural voice, and admitted to it at last. “I just can’t. I can’t keep concealing the truth from her.”
