Page 13 of The Spy Who Loved Her
She had been. Of course she had been. But she had walked the precipice of ruin until at last the Home Office had conceded on the point of her innocence. And because nothing had happened in the interim—no suspicious figures lurking about her home, no burglaries, nor even the slightest suggestion of nefarious activities in her vicinity—Rafe and Chris had assumed that she would be safe. That if there lurked another traitor, another conspirator who had gone undiscovered, surely there would have been some sign of the man in that time.
But they had never been certain of it.
“We’ll have to take it to the Home Office,” Chris said. “To Sir Roger. He’ll know—”
“No.” The swift denial drew a narrow-eyed stare from Chris. It was second nature now, to be suspicious, in a way they had never been beforeAmbrose. In a way they hadn’t suspected they might have to be. “No. Sir Roger didn’t know Ambrose any better than we did, in the end. He’ll not be able to break the cipher. We keep this between us for now. The fewer eyes upon it, the better.” He didn’t have to mention that neither of them wanted Emma to come beneath such strict scrutiny again, to be thrust once more beneath suspicion. It had been difficult enough to weather the first time around.
Ten years had passed, without incident. But the doubt he’d had over whether they had proved successful in routing Ambrose’s conspirators had never quite abated. It had remained a dim, nagging uncertainty there at the back of his mind.
Emma was safe—only so long as they had, in fact, caught all of Ambrose’s co-conspirators. Only so long as she never mentioned the journal to anyone else, even in passing. Only so long as they could find a way to reveal its contents themselves, before anyone else learned of it.
Neither of them had known Ambrose anywhere near as well as they had thought. But then, Ambrose had concealed his true nature for years. He’d been so damned careful around them, but—
“She was his wife,” he heard himself saying. “It’s…possible she knows something.” Something she didn’t even realize she knew. A word, a phrase. A favorite book or a Bible passage. A childhood pet or a school chum. A preferred meal or dessert, a flower, a scent—anythingmight be the key.
There was a chance, however slight, that Ambrose had not guarded it quite so closely with Emma. She would not, after all, have known what to do with the information even if she did have it.
“You want to go back to her,” Chris said, and there was an edge of a snarl in the tone of his voice, menace in the way he flexed his fingers, cracking his knuckles as he did so. “Did you do it? Did you—”
“Yes.” One word, and one word only, and Chris’ chair scraped back as he rose to his feet, his fist flashing out in a clean strike that might’ve broken Rafe’s jaw had there been just a little more force behind it. Probably it would leave the devil of a bruise anyway.
“You always wanted her for yourself,” Chris said in a seething whisper. “She wants to see you again. And that’s the only damned reason you’re still alive.”
No; he had alwayslovedher. But he didn’t think the distinction mattered much in this moment to Chris, who had turned away, shoving through the crowd of patrons on his way out. This time they had been noted.
They were going to have to find a new tavern.
∞∞∞
Sir Roger Banfield was an affable fellow, the sort that put one in the mind of a kindly old man. With plump cheeks, a plumper frame, a neatly-trimmed beard and mustache, and dark, bespectacled eyes that tended to crinkle about the corners as if he were always on the verge of a laugh, there was little about his manner and appearance that would suggest a master spy.
Except, perhaps, his proficiency in chess.
“What on earth has happened to your face?” Sir Roger asked as he moved his knight, neatly capturing one of Rafe’s pawns.
“Nothing of concern,” Rafe said, though he knew the bruise that marred his jaw must look dreadful. “Chris prefers to express himself with his fists. A minor disagreement, over and done with.” He moved to reposition his bishop; the only safe move he could see at present.
“I see. Careful, you’re going to lose that rook,” Sir Roger warned, though there was a note of delight in his voice as he made his move and ceded the turn to Rafe.
Hewasgoing to lose his rook, Rafe knew, but he had been destined to lose it either way. Furthermore, he was going to lose his king—though not for a few more moves yet. Sir Roger had laid a trap for him and expertly maneuvered him into it. Now there was a bishop open for the taking; a tempting move. But to take it would leave his queen unguarded.
Blast. It was too late for regrets, too late to unspring the trap into which he’d blundered at least five moves ago. He’d lost the game already. It was merely a matter of how many more moves would elapse before his king was felled. He took Sir Roger’s bishop.
Sir Roger chuckled as he snapped up Rafe’s rook in return, and from there the game devolved into a full assault against Rafe’s meager defenses. He had the sense that Sir Roger was enjoying himself a touch too much, taking pieces just because he could when the game itself might have been won moves ago.
“You’re a fine player,” Sir Roger said as he took Rafe’s king at last, holding the piece in his hand like a medal he’d won. “One of the finest of my acquaintance.”
“Not so fine as you, however.” In all the years they had knownone another, Rafe had yet to win a game against the man. Probably Sir Roger had not met the man whom he could not best in exercises of strategy. He had an ineffable aptitude for such things, which had made him amongst the most valuable resources within the Home Office.
“Ah, well, I’ve decades more experience than you have. Perhaps in another thirty years, you might give me a true challenge. Another game?” Sir Roger asked, as he began to replace the pieces upon the board between them.
“Thank you, no. I can stomach only so much defeat in one day,” Rafe sighed.
“Ah, well,” Sir Roger said. “If you’ve not the stomach to entertain me further, do tell me—have you anything to report?”
“Not much. Kerrich is engaged in an affair with Strafton’s eldest daughter”—which, while ill-advised, was somewhat less nefarious than the crime of which he had been suspected—“and from what I have been able to discern, Bathurst’s only crime is dodging creditors. He hasn’t got the blunt to pay for those Hessians he’s so damned proud of.”
Sir Roger’s mustache twitched over his lips. “Pity that your particular talents have been wasted upon things better suited to the scandal sheets than to true intrigue. If only I had gotten you a few years earlier. What a wonder you would have been in the wars.”
