Page 19 of The Spy Who Loved Her
A peevish frown tugged at the boy’s mouth. “Yeah? And what fer, then?”
“To be educated. To become a self-supporting man, when you are grown.” Rafe spread out his hands before him. “She’s had boys who have gone on to be barristers, doctors, clergymen. Men of business and commerce. Gentlemen, no matter the station to which they were born.”
Mulishly, Dannyboy thrust out the coin. “I can support m’self jes’fine,” he said.
“A wise man keeps his options open,” Rafe said. “But a wiserman makes use of the resources available to him. He seizes the opportunities that come his way.” Probably, he thought, Dannyboy considered the promise of a shilling or more each day opportunity enough for him, but then he was still only a boy, and he’d no doubt become accustomed to a hardscrabble sort of life, one in which the security of a coin in his hand nowwas worth infinitely more than the potential of a better life in some distant, unknowable future.
“What’s it to ye, anyway?” Dannyboy asked, squinting beneath the untidy mop of his bangs as if he might peer straight into Rafe’s soul and reveal the blackened thing that it was.
“You’re a bright boy,” Rafe said. “Enterprising. Determined. You couldgo to university someday. Emma would help you, there.”
Dannyboy scoffed. “Don’t need no help.”
“As you like it, then,” Rafe said. “But do keepit in mind.”
Chapter Seven
Monday crawled around with agonizing slowness, one day creeping into the next at a turtle’s pace. Or perhaps it was simply Emma’s mind that worked too swiftly, reeling from one thought to the next like a hummingbird in flight.
Rafe would arrive soon enough, she thought. Night had long since descended, and the house had grown quiet once more now that all the children were safely ensconced in their beds at the opposite end of the house. She had kept herself busy, for her mind tended to wander when her hands were unoccupied—but now, in the silence of Ambrose’s study where she sorted neat stacks of books that had once lined the shelves, her mind wandered anyway.
Couldn’t have none o’ yer own, aye, Em?
It had been true, of course, even if the delivery had been tactless. But then, Kit had never had much tact going spare that he had been inclined to save over for her. Probably he wouldn’t have cared enough even to offer tact, even if he had.
They had not often spoken of that night, she and Neil, in the years that had passed since. She had known only enough to understand that his situation had been dire indeed, and that he did not like to be reminded of the life he had escaped. So she had never insisted upon forcing him to reveal the details of it which might have made him uncomfortable.
He had never told her anyone had been there with him other than Kit. And she had never asked, for there had never been a compelling reason to do so.
And still it seemed…odd, somehow, that the direction of her life had been driven by someone else entirely. Someone she had never met, never known. Someone who had, somehow, known her. Or of her, at the very least. Known enough of her to know that she would not have turned out a child in need.
Known enough of her to know that the mere presence of one had made her large, empty, silent home feel less like the mausoleum she had made of it.Or perhaps he hadn’t known at all. Perhaps they had just been at loose ends with Neil, and had offloaded him onto her for want of another more palatable option.
Hissuggestion, and yet she’d never once heard mention of him before. Perhaps she and Kit weren’t what anyone would call close, but someone who had been amongst his intimate acquaintances for so long—well, he might have mentioned something.
There; another pile of books sorted. She laid them upon the desk, frowning at the mess she’d made of the room. Ambrose had liked things tidy, neat, orderly. He had never welcomed her presence in this room, which he had treated as his haven, his sanctuary. She’d kept it locked up tight for years after his death, unchanged, as if it had only been waiting for him to return.
What rubbish. It had changed anyway, with or without him. The years had turned the loose paper within his desk brittle and yellow. The ink had dried in its etched-crystal well. A thick layer of dust had settled upon every conceivable surface, and an odd, musty smell had permeated the room. Time had left its marks regardless, and she had been a fool to believe it might have been otherwise.
She had been such a fool. Wasting years of her life on a man unable to appreciate the sacrifice of it in death, as he had been unable to appreciate herin life. Her palm rested upon the stack of books she’d laid atop the desk; a selection of novels and other literature she’d found scattered amongst the weighty treatises and texts. They’d been suspended in time these last years, their pages unturned, their covers lying closed. A sort of death in itself, and an insult to the printer who had created them as well as the author who had written them. They had never been meant to decorate a shelf, as pure and perfect as the day they had been produced. They had been meant to be read and enjoyed. Loved. Instead they’d languished in their silent tomb. As had she.
“Dangerous, to leave doors unlocked.”
Emma startled to the sound of the words, which had ripped through the silence from behind her. Rafe stood there in the doorway, one shoulder braced against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest. The shadows of the hall outside seemed to collect around him, as if he were quite comfortable with sinking into them. Disappearing within them.
She hadn’t even heard him approach. Had she been so deep in thought as that?
“Not so dangerous,” she said. “Marylebone is quitesafe—”
“There’s nowhere that’s ever quite as safe as it seems. Quiet neighborhoods, especially those containing large houses, are particularly appealing to burglars. Fewer witnesses, less likelihood of being caught. An unlocked door is practically an invitation to an enterprising thief. And it’s not so far a journey from thievery to murder as one might expect.”
The fine hairs at the nape of her neck lifted with the advent of chill bumps, as if the frosty tone of his voice had carried in the winter breeze from without the house. It was easy enough to forget that despite the genteel accent he wielded, still he was an acquaintance—afriend—of her brother’s.
And she had never held any illusions as to Kit’s character, or to his vocation. He was a criminal. Not even a repentant one. He consorted, happily, with the lowest dregs of humanity, and had never had any inclination to be better than he was.
This man was his friend. Not a bit player in the fringes of Kit’s life, but an active participant. He had been for years; a decade at least. And she had now invited him into herlife. Her home. Her body.
He stepped closer, into the circle of light cast by the lamp she’d set upon a recently-cleaned bookshelf, and Emma caught her breath.
