An Unwilling Spy Read online

  In a low voice she spoke about the reef and the owl in the pine and before long he drifted into an exhausted sleep. Grey shadows marked the skin under his eyes and his fingers coiled tightly around the blanket. It was a miracle he’d survived for as long as he had. He was so vulnerable and small and her heart ached for him.

  The candle flame burned low and the light dimmed. The evening grew colder and she shivered and wrapped the blanket, which had secured her bundle, more tightly around her shoulders. Finch had been gone a long time and uneasiness stirred her as she looked beyond the light’s reach. He should have been back by now.

  The wind whistled amongst the cold stone pillars and once more she heard the whoosh of wings overhead. There must be birds living in the rafters or nestled on the upper windowsills. For a place given over to worship it seemed right that the abbey welcomed all God’s creatures.

  A small noise came from the church entrance and her heartbeat jumped. A figure emerged from the shadows and she sighed with relief to see Finch. He padded down the aisle and settled beside her.

  ‘You have been gone a long time,’ she said softly, not wanting to wake Eugene.

  His boots were covered in mud and his face looked pinched and cold. ‘A regiment of the National Guard are in town. I don’t know their numbers but I saw at least twenty men dining in the tavern.’

  She stared at him, her chest rising in fear. Peregrine’s intelligence had not mentioned a regiment of militia here but correspondence across the channel would probably be weeks out of date. ‘Were you able to find Laroche’s house?’

  ‘I couldn’t get close but I know where it is. We’re going to have to play our parts well if we hope to get past the guards.’

  French guards. Her first look at the enemy. Her hands grew clammy at the thought of what lay ahead, particularly the diplomatic ball. She’d never been to such a grand function, nor had she mingled with aristocrats. She only hoped she didn’t make a fool of herself or worse, give them both away.

  Finch and Mallard had spent hours teaching her French etiquette and manners. Mallard had also taught her the cotillion and the quadrille, whirling her around The Nest’s kitchen under the disinterested gaze of the tabby cat. Now she would have to perform the dances without fault in front of knowledgeable women and men. ‘I hope I can remember everything you taught me.’

  Finch glanced sideways at her, his eyes untroubled. ‘I have faith you will.’

  Her thoughts lurched at his words, so like the ones her father had spoken weeks ago. A picture of Papa came to her and calmness entered every fiber of her body. She could do this. She had learned to ride a pony when the height off the ground had scared her. She had learned to cut the weed when the rocks were slippery. So now she would brave the ball and act as if she were Sophie Michaud and had been all her life. She just had to believe it could be done. ‘I hope your faith is not misplaced.’

  He crossed his arms over his knees. ‘I’ve worked with many spies. Your determination and application to what is asked of you is more than most.’

  A compliment at last. But the truth of what he’d said went deeper. ‘I want to live,’ she whispered. ‘More than anything, I want to see Fencarrow again.’

  He grunted, his face softening in a way that drew her eyes, as surely as moths to the light. He looked tired but achingly familiar and right now, his confidence steadied her. Somehow he made her believe they’d all get through this.

  ‘How long have you been a spy?’ She’d always wanted to ask but the time had never been right.

  ‘Just on five years.’ His eyes took on a far-away look. ‘Before that I was an intelligence officer in a unit run by the Admiralty.’

  Yes, he would have been good at that. ‘So you went to sea?’

  His eyes grew bleak and a peculiar chill ran down her spine. ‘I served on the Queen Charlotte at the Battle of Groix against the French.’

  She didn’t know much about maritime battles but from his voice it sounded bad. ‘I’m sorry.’

  He unconsciously rubbed at his knuckles. ‘It was grim. My brother was a lieutenant on board and he died in the battle.’

  The scars of that death sounded in the rawness of his voice. ‘That’s terrible,’ she whispered.

  His mouth twisted in grief but underneath there was a steely resolve. ‘After the engagement ended, Peregrine approached me and asked if I would spy against France. He needed more men with my skills so I became a willing recruit. Nothing could make up for my brother’s death but I swore to fight against the revolutionaries all the same.’

  His personal vendetta raged within him, and now Swan and Skylark had added to the burden. How could one man carry all that pain and not crumble? For her sake, she hoped he didn’t collapse because she needed him right now. Without Finch by her side, she’d be lost and out of her depth.

  Keen to keep him talking, she pointed to his hands. ‘Did you get those scars in the battle?’

  He glanced at them then shook his head. ‘These were done by a knife on my first mission.’

  ‘I can’t believe you were knifed. You’re so good with weapons.’

  He smiled ruefully. ‘I was young, impetuous, with little idea of what fighting would be like.’

  That sounded like a warning. ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘You don’t need to know. It will only make you nervous.’

  ‘On the contrary, it might save me from making the same mistake.’

  His mouth pursed but he could see the sense in her statement. ‘It was more a misjudgment. Skylark and I were trapped in a town on the coast of Brittany. I trusted a local to get us out but he betrayed us to the militia. We had to fight our way back to the boat.’

  The pictures came to her mind too easily and she glanced again at the scars on his knuckles. Men had died at his hands. Fathers and sons, uncles and brothers. ‘Is that why Skylark is important to you?’

  ‘It doesn’t do to have friends in this game,’ he reflected. ‘Too many don’t make it. But Nicholas Mayfield — Skylark — is special.’

  ‘Because he was your mentor?’

  ‘Yes but’ — he expelled a deep breath — ‘he’s also my sister’s husband.’

  Dread stole over her. All this time he’d kept that information to himself? He must be riddled with worry. Yet he’d agreed to Eugene coming with them when he couldn’t know if Eugene would compromise their mission or not. The man must have nerves of iron.

  ‘Your sister must be desperately worried.’

  He looked away into the deep shadows at the back of the pews, his pinched face more ragged than she’d seen it. ‘She doesn’t know. I want to spare her weeks of torment if Nicholas is safe. If not, then there is time enough for grief.’

  The burden he carried for his sister marked him, in the lines on his face, in the watchfulness of his eyes. This was beyond anything she had imagined. And if she were not to see Finch cleaved in two with grief, she must find Skylark. The enormity of the task — the responsibility — crushed her.

  Her worry must have shown because he leaned forward, his dark eyes gentle. ‘You need to focus on what you can control. That is the key.’

  An easy thing to say but far harder to accomplish. ‘I’ll try, Finch.’

  A slip of a smile winged across his face and something like kinship passed between them. He might still be a little scary but she understood him better now. For the first time, she wanted to live up to his expectations and vowed that whatever happened at the ball, she’d do her part to ensure their mission succeeded.

  Finch looked past her to where Eugene slept and grunted at the tear stains on the boy’s face. He unrolled his bundle and covered Eugene with his blanket even when he could do with it himself. ‘Time to get some rest. Will you take the first watch?’

  ‘Of course.’ It was the least she could do to ease his tiredness. He’d walked many miles tonight. He curled up against the wall and just as he had in the gaol cell, fell asleep in minutes.

  How easily he coul
d do that given the floor was hard and the night air cold. Perhaps he’d learned over the years to get sleep at any opportunity. A skill she wouldn’t mind having.

  Like Eugene she had lain awake for hours at night, thinking about home and whether Papa had recovered. Now Finch had shown her the burden he carried, something inside her ached for him too.

  As she watched his chest rise and fall, she wanted to reach out and smooth back the hair from his forehead. Kiss him and tell him things would be all right. But she had no knowledge of whether they would be as their nebulous future depended on luck and courage and risk.

  The black void of the church wrapped around her and she clasped her blanket tighter, trying to warm her chilled body. She would succeed. If not for her own pardon, then at least for Finch and his sister.

  Light crept into the abbey and roosting birds chortled up above, welcoming another day. Through gaps in the roof she watched clouds drift overhead in a pale blue sky. If she weren’t in France, it looked the sort of a day to pick flowers on the headland.

  Her neck had stiffened from the angle at which she’d slept and she kneaded it before noticing Finch’s blanket covering her own. He’d taken the second watch and would have been awake for some hours. He stood sharpening his knife against a stone and somewhere amongst the pews she could hear Eugene coughing.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said with a smile. ‘Thank you for your blanket. I’m surprised I slept with the cold. My feet are so numb I can hardly feel them.’

  His gaze ran over her and she flushed, suddenly self-conscious. Her hair probably looked a mess but then he’d already seen her at her worst.

  ‘You’ll feel better when you move around,’ he murmured.

  He examined the knife as she combed out her tresses and re-braided her hair. His gaze slid to her on more than one occasion and a little spark of feminine pleasure bubbled in her chest.

  ‘Is my hair looking all right?’ She would need to look the part of a diplomat’s wife tonight and without a small looking glass, had no idea whether her braids were even.

  His eyes simmered as they roved over her head. ‘It’s perfect.’

  A flush warmed her cheeks. Had he meant to sound sincere or was this another pretense, said to give her confidence? Not entirely sure and unwilling to ask, she sought a change of subject.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said casually, ‘that I should go into town and buy some food. We’re pitifully low on supplies.’

  Finch tested the sharpness of his blade then pocketed the knife. ‘There are too many troops to chance it.’

  ‘But we need to eat.’

  ‘I know.’ He peered at her from under his brows, his face thoughtful. ‘I think Eugene should go.’

  She pushed aside the thin blankets and stood up. Her numb feet protested and she stomped on them to bring back some sensation. ‘I’m not happy with that idea.’

  ‘I didn’t think you would be. But he’ll be less noticeable than us.’

  Finch might be right but she still didn’t like it. ‘What if he gives us away? Or gets captured?’

  Finch’s eyes held hers. ‘I did say there would be complications.’

  She exhaled and looked towards Eugene who sat on an upended pew, bouncing small stones off the legs. How could they send him into the town full of soldiers after all the horrors he’d seen? He might get frightened and run away. But there weren’t many places for a young boy to hide, not in this area where the militia patrolled, and he’d shown good sense so far. They’d have to trust him because right now they had no choice. They needed food.

  ‘I’ll go and have a word with him,’ she said at last.

  Eugene relished the chance to go into town, saying he would help them as they had helped him. Later, when she watched him leave with some of the bribery money Peregrine had given them, a lump came into her throat.

  ‘He’s a brave lad,’ Finch murmured, coming to stand by her side.

  ‘I know. His parents would be so proud of him.’ Her sniffle sounded faintly in the air.

  Finch glanced sideways at her. He hesitated for a moment then put his arm around her shoulder. ‘Try not to worry. He has a healthy dislike of the soldiers and will be careful.’

  She leaned into his embrace, full of fear as tears threatened. Since she’d been arrested, she’d been relying on her own strength to get through each day. To have Finch’s support when she least expected it, meant a lot.

  His brief hug lasted no more than an inhaled breath and then he stepped away with a self-conscious cough. ‘I’d better check what’s happening outside. Might even find a rabbit we can cook.’

  She nodded through a blur as he left the abbey. Far from being the murderous vagrant she’d once thought him, he was decent and she wished she’d had the courage to tell him so.

  While he was gone she loaded her pistol to be on the safe side and searched amongst the broken stones and timber for anything they could use.

  She stumbled across a three foot statue of a partly clothed lady, that had once sat in a concave niche. The lady had toppled to the flagstone floor, smashing into several pieces. She’d lost her arms and nose, and over time the broken chunks had turned green with moss and algae.

  The empty niche had filled with rainwater and when Adeline sipped it, the water tasted pure and refreshingly sweet. She drank her fill, unexpectedly thirsty.

  Eugene returned with two loaves of bread, a cheese wedge and two oranges, gathered in his arms.

  ‘What a bounty,’ she said, relieved to see him whole and safe. ‘Did anyone follow you or watch you come here?’

  He shook his head. ‘I went out of town in another direction then double-backed, just like Finch did when we left the hay shed.’

  ‘You did? You’re a fast learner, my boy.’

  Eugene handed her the food, a pleased smile on his face. After a meal that went a long way to easing the persistent ache in their stomachs and a drink from the niche, they settled down to fill the hours before the ball.

  Eugene found a sliver of charcoal from one of the burnt pews and spent an hour or two drawing in the back of the prayer book. He became quite absorbed, his head bent over, his fingers flying over the paper as he glanced at his subject.

  She prowled the church for a while, reading the engraved stone scriptures, then wandered over to watch Eugene draw a picture of the altar on the end pages of the book.

  ‘That’s very good,’ she said when he had finished. ‘The detail you’ve shown is excellent.’

  ‘I like to draw,’ Eugene said quietly. ‘At home I had a little notebook that I filled with pictures. Some were of the animals on our farm, others of the trees and flowers in the wood.’

  His voice sounded wistful and she understood his yearning. ‘Can I see what else you’ve done?’

  Eugene gave her the prayer book and she drew in a breath of surprise as she turned the pages. He’d drawn the lady statue, the niche, the pillars and some arched windows, each exactly like the subject.

  ‘Why, these are wonderful. You have a good eye in one so young.’

  His face, a little less pinched than yesterday, looked up with an uncertain smile. ‘Papa never liked me drawing. Said it was a waste of time and I should do my chores instead.’

  ‘It’s not a waste of time,’ she said firmly. ‘You have talent and I think you should draw as often as you can. They’re simply marvelous.’

  Eugene’s smile broadened. ‘I can do something else too.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Bird calls. I used to practice them in the woods at home.’ Eugene pursed his lips and incredibly the sound of a robin came out of his mouth.

  Finch, who’d been going through scraps of old papers in the vestry, poked his head around the arched doorway. ‘What was that?’

  ‘Eugene’s bird call,’ she said. ‘Wasn’t it good?’

  ‘Very good but do it quietly,’ Finch warned Eugene. ‘We don’t want anyone to hear and investigate.’

  Eugene nod
ded then said in a lowered voice, ‘I’ve got others. Listen to my plover.’

  He proceeded to go through the plover, pigeon and more. Some she didn’t know but they all sounded so lifelike they could have been standing in a wood or meadow.

  ‘That’s incredible,’ she said at last. ‘A brown owl lives in a pine tree near my house in Fencarrow. Do you know its call?’

  ‘Of course,’ Eugene said. ‘It goes like this …’

  For the next half hour he practiced calls with her. She had to listen hard to catch the differences in tone and pitch but soon she had a passable owl and warbler.

  The day wore on and when dusk stole into the church and the intertwined motifs on the altar started to blur in the moody light, she and Finch washed with a little water from the niche and changed into the clothes they’d carried from England.

  Finch looked resplendent in full diplomatic Swiss dress and she wore a gown in the latest empire style that cupped her breasts and flowed in folds of creamy white to the floor. A shawl of primrose, embroidered in gold thread, matched the golden braid around her low neckline and hem. The dress was more revealing than any she’d worn so far and several times she found Finch’s eyes sliding away from her, heightened color in his cheeks.

  Reminded of the hug, a stirring of interest sparked deep within her. What would a relationship with Finch be like? In a moment of clarity she knew it could be more potent than anything she’d ever experienced. But the reality of their situation outweighed any thought of finding out. She had a job to do. A dangerous job that no-one expected her to survive. To think of pleasure, of life, in this moment, was the height of lunacy.

  Refocused and determined to stay so, she pulled her hair up into a knot and tied it with a golden ribbon. ‘Now you mustn’t use all the candles,’ she said to Eugene, ‘and keep the light hidden.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’ She gathered up a golden reticule and checked it still held the handkerchief Mallard had put inside.

  Eugene puffed out his chest then promptly coughed again. ‘Yes, I already told … told you that,’ he finished on a wheeze.