The Laurentine Spy (29 page)

“A townsman? What was his name?”

“Edler.” Her head was beginning to ache from the strain of meeting the Spycatcher’s eyes. She felt a compulsion to tell the truth.
Edler is a Laurentine agent. A clever man, who buried a dead noblewoman in an unmarked grave and requested an agent be found to take her place.

She made her mouth smile. “Edler and his wife were most kind. They took me to their estate in the country. I stayed there until I was well enough to travel. It took many months.”

“And then you came here.”

“Yes.”

The Spycatcher leaned back in his chair. “Why the Citadel?”

Because it is a wide ocean away from anyone who knew the real Lady Petra.
“My father spent some time here, many years ago. He spoke of it occasionally. The Citadel sounded...safe.” She tried to look naive. “I wanted somewhere safe.”

The Spycatcher’s eyes were fixed on her face. “You had no relatives elsewhere?”

Saliel shook her head. “No. They were all on Gryff.”

The Spycatcher studied her. His finger tapped his mouth.
He doesn’t know whether to believe me or not.

The door opened. Her gaze jerked to the doorway.

A man stood there, dressed in the plain clothes of a servant. He bowed. “Noble lord?”

“Therlo,” the Spycatcher said. “Wait outside.”

The man bowed again. The door closed.

Saliel glanced back at the Spycatcher. His eyes were narrow and thoughtful as he studied her face.
I
looked away from him again.
Her skin tightened in a shiver.

The Spycatcher seemed to come to a decision. He stopped tapping his mouth. “I have an interest in tales of survival such as yours, noble Petra. If you don’t mind, I should like to go over it again.”

Saliel swallowed, and smiled. “Of course.”

The Spycatcher leaned forward in his chair. His eyes held hers, moonlight pale. “You left Gryff on the
Ocean Pride
.”

“Yes.” The intense stare was unsettling. Her tongue wanted to speak the truth.

“With your cousin and your aunt and your mother.”

“Yes.”

“And there was a fire at sea and the ship sank.”

“Yes.” Her head was beginning to ache.

“But you and your mother made it aboard a life boat.”

“Yes.”

“And you came ashore after two nights.”

“Yes...I mean, no.” Her heart began to beat rapidly. “It was only one night.”

The Spycatcher sat back in his chair. He steepled his hands again. “And you came ashore after one night.”

Saliel swallowed, and nodded. Perspiration beaded on her skin. She understood the reason for the Spycatcher’s slow smile, for the gleam in his eyes.
I have just proven that I can speak untruths to him.

“Excuse me for a moment, noble Petra.” The Spycatcher rose to his feet. “I should like to write this down. It’s most interesting.”

“Of course.”

The Spycatcher walked to the door and opened it. “I shall only be gone a few minutes,” he said, bowing. He stepped outside.

Saliel waited for a moment, listening to the loud beating of her heart, then she stood and crossed the room with quick steps. The door opened smoothly, with no noise. The Spycatcher’s manservant stood on the other side.

“Noble lady?”

“Fetch me something to drink. I’m thirsty.”

The man bowed, an apologetic movement. “My master has commanded me to stay here until he returns.”

Saliel swallowed. “Very well.” She lifted her chin haughtily and turned back into the room. “Put more coals on the fire. It grows cold.”

“At once, noble lady.”

She watched as the man knelt before the hearth.
Should I run?

No. The skirts of her gown were too stiff and wide, the corset too tightly laced. Therlo would catch her in a few strides.

The man’s doublet lifted slightly as he reached to place fresh coals on the fire. A knife was sheathed at his hip. The sight riveted her attention.
If I take it—

She could hide it. And then pretend to feel faint. The Spycatcher had no proof she was a spy. He’d have to take her back to her bedchamber, for her maid to loosen the corset.
And I can take the knife and—

She couldn’t kill her maid. But she could bind and gag the woman, and open the door into the secret passages and flee.

If she did that, all routes from the Citadel and the town would be sealed.

Saliel turned her head and looked out the window. How long until dusk? An hour? Two hours?

The servant stood. “It is done, noble lady.”

His bow was respectful, but his eyes—

He believes I’m a spy. It excites him.

“Do you require anything else?” the man asked.

“Fetch me something to drink when Lord Grigor returns.”

“Yes, noble lady.”

Therlo bowed again—and she caught his gaze as he straightened. Blue eyes, shining with anticipation.

It was like it had been with the Consort the first time: easy. She stepped forward swiftly and slid her hand beneath the man’s doublet. She felt the warmth of his body, the movement of his ribs as he breathed, the softness of fabric, the hard ridge of the knife handle.

She drew the knife free of its sheath, staring into the man’s eyes.

I could kill him.
It would be a simple matter to cut his throat—

I can’t.

Saliel stepped back and slid the knife into the pocket of her gown. The hilt protruded slightly. She held her hand to hide it.

She closed her eyes briefly.

Therlo blinked. He shook his head as if to clear it, and turned away from her. Saliel watched as he opened the door and stepped outside.

She walked across to the fire, pressing the knife into her pocket until the blade slit the fabric. The hilt slid deep. It was hidden.

Saliel smoothed her gown. Lavender blue. Her heartbeat was loud in her ears. She inhaled deeply, feeling the tightness of the corset, and glanced out the window again.

Another hour and I can do it.

The door opened. The Spycatcher stepped into the room. A manservant followed, carrying parchment and a quill and a flask of ink. “My man tells me you wish for something to drink.”

“Yes,” Saliel said. She moved to the sofa and sat. “I’m somewhat thirsty.” She watched as the servant placed the parchment on the writing desk and laid the quill neatly alongside.

“Fetch a drink for Lady Petra,” the Spycatcher ordered. “And a glass of wine.”

The servant bowed. “At once, noble lord.” He hurried from the room, closing the door behind him.

The Spycatcher sat. He looked at her, a slight smile on his mouth.

Saliel clasped her hands in her lap and waited, listening to the coals shift in the fireplace. “Lord Grigor?” she asked, when the silence between them had stretched for nearly half a minute.

The Spycatcher stroked his chin with a finger. He looked at her a moment longer without speaking and then appeared make to a decision. He stood and walked across to the writing desk. He pulled out the chair, but didn’t sit. “I should like you to write the tale in your own hand, Lady Petra.”

“Me?” It was easy to sound startled.

“Yes.” The Spycatcher’s gaze was intent on her face.

“But...why?”

“Because there’s a Laurentine spy in the ladies’ court.”

Saliel gasped. “A Laurentine spy!” She held her hand to her breast in a gesture of horror. Her heart beat rapidly.
He changes the game.
“How can that be?”

“There is some suspicion that the spy is you,” the Spycatcher said, smiling politely, watching her face.

“Me?” She pushed to her feet.
Aghast. Horrified. Innocent
. The knife bumped against her thigh.

“Yes.”

“But...but I’m not!”

The Spycatcher inclined his head in acknowledgement. His expression was sympathetic. “The Consort wishes me to question you more closely.”

“The Consort thinks I’m a spy?” She made her face distressed. “I assure you I’m not!” She clutched her hands together.
Agitated. Innocent.
“How can she think such a thing?”

“So you will cooperate with me?”

“Of course!” she cried. “Of course!”

The Spycatcher opened his hand in a gesture of invitation. “Then please sit here.”

Saliel clutched her hands more tightly together. She tried to look wide-eyed and confused. “Why?”

“So that you may write the tale of how you came to be here.”

She creased her brow. “This will help?”

“Yes.”

“Then of course I shall do it.” She stepped towards the writing desk.

The Spycatcher didn’t move. He was so close that she could reach out and touch him if she wished. “I think...I have a feeling, noble Petra, that you have been lying to me.” His voice was soft, his eyes as sharp and pale as ice.

“I swear to you I haven’t!”

The Spycatcher stepped back. “Then please sit.”

She did, pretending to blink back tears. The knife blade pressed against her leg through the layers of petticoats. Her bodice had grown tighter in the past few minutes. She could do it now, pretend to feel faint, be taken back to her chamber.

Saliel glanced at the window again.
It’s too soon.
She would risk their escape; the route to the Bight would be blocked before they reached it.

She picked up the quill and dipped it in ink. She understood this test.
Remember that it’s not ss.

I left Gryff aboard the
Ocean Pride, she wrote. The quill made a light scratching sound on the parchment. The ink was black.
With my mother and my aunt and my cousin Lady Tressa and her husband.
She spelled the name out carefully.
T. r. e.
β
.a.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

“S
HE WON
!” D
RUSO
cried, delighted. “Russet won!”

“Did you think she wouldn’t?”

“No, but—” Druso grabbed his wrist. “Come! I have to give her an apple.”

Athan allowed himself to be dragged in Druso’s wake, pushing through the noblemen wrapped in capes against the cold. The courtyard was loud with sound: bets being made, laughter, pigs squealing. Each breath smelled of mead and manure and sawdust from the racing track.

He glanced up at the sky. The ladies would be putting aside their needlework soon. It was almost time to speak with Three.

His chest tightened with dread.

Lord Tregar said something behind him. Athan’s ears didn’t catch the words, but the sour tone was familiar. He didn’t bother turning his head and asking the comment to be repeated.
I shall be pleased never to see you again.

He followed Druso to the winner’s pen. Russet grunted at the sound of her name and came trotting over.

Athan smiled, watching as Druso fed her an apple. He’d miss the piglet’s enthusiastic greetings and the wholehearted enjoyment with which she ran races, the gleaming curiosity in her brown eyes.

“Promise me you’ll never sell her to Tregar.”

“Of course not.” Druso scratched beneath Russet’s chin. “I shall breed from her.”

Athan glanced up at the sky again.
Soon.

“Noble lord?”

He turned.

His manservant stood behind him. The man bowed and held out a folded piece of paper.

Athan took it. “What’s this?”

“Lady Petra’s maid requested that I give it to you, noble lord.”

His mouth was suddenly dry. He unfolded the paper with hasty fingers and scanned the message. The writing was ill-formed, the words misspelled, but the meaning was clear.

Athan cleared his throat. “Druso, you must excuse me.” He didn’t wait for an answer. He turned away, the note clenched in his fist.

He wanted to run; he made himself stroll.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

T
HE DOOR OPENED.
Saliel looked up. It was the second manservant, carrying a tray.

“Tisane, noble lady?”

Saliel laid down the quill. “Yes.”

The man poured. He moved like a servant, with neat, unobtrusive movements, but he was the Spycatcher’s man. She saw it in his eyes, in the way he glanced at her too boldly. His eyes were almost as dark as the Consort’s.

Saliel accepted the cup. The tisane was a clear, pale yellow. Steam rose, lemon-scented.

The servant placed the silver pot on the writing desk, within easy reach, and offered the tray to the Spycatcher. A single crystal glass stood on it, filled with wine the color of oxblood.