The debutantes code, p.11
The Debutante's Code, page 11
“You stole the painting?” She was on her feet at his admission. What was she going to do? She had lied to the detectives who had questioned her about her family. She had slept in the Montgomery house, eaten at their table this morning, and all the while, their property had been in her parents’ house?
“Sit down. I will explain everything.”
“You had certainly better.” And the minute he was finished, he was going to find some way to return that painting to its rightful owner, and she didn’t care how he did it.
“This”—he waved to include the entire attic space—“this is the ‘War Room,’ Juliette. I know your parents planned to tell you eventually, but now it looks as if the burden falls to me. You need to know that you come from a long line of spies and agents for the Crown. Your ancestors have served every monarch since William the Conqueror, doing what needs to be done to preserve the kingdom and its rulers.”
She couldn’t even take in what he was saying. Spies and agents? Uncle Bertie? Her parents? He must be jesting. Or he was still sotted.
“Well, to be fair, not every monarch. Things did get a bit sticky upon occasion. Bloody Mary, for example. The family had to do a bit of clandestine espionage against the Crown in that case, but it all worked out in the end.” Bertie shrugged. “Listen, my dear, I know this is a weighty bit of information to take in, and I wish I didn’t have to spring it on you like this, but your parents aren’t here, and I need your help.”
“Help with what? And what does this painting have to do with anything? How on earth did you manage to steal it?” What sort of fabrication was he spinning here? Her parents weren’t spies. They were just … parents, albeit absent ones.
“I stole the painting. I used the ruse of being drunk to get out of the house, to have several people witness me leaving. But first I stole the painting, got it up to the roof through one of the skylights, and after the party ended, I climbed the outside of Montgomery’s house and retrieved it. You were probably asleep two floors beneath me when I fetched it down off the roof.”
“But why steal it at all?”
He blew out a breath. “I must confess that I lied to you. Your parents are not in Pensax at the estate. They are … on a job … I think. I hope. They disappeared so quickly, and at such a momentous moment for you, the urgency must have been great. Only a job, a mission, would be so critical that they would miss your homecoming. But neither myself nor our superior know what caused them to flee.” He held up his hands.
Her heart jumped into her throat. “You don’t think they’re …” She couldn’t finish the question.
“No. I don’t, and I don’t want you to entertain such notions. They are both experienced agents, and for what I can only assume is a serious and important reason, they have gone underground for the time being. We had an inkling that danger was on the horizon, and they must have gotten wind of it and felt it necessary to hide until it’s sorted out.”
“What danger?” Panic hooked its claws into her windpipe and throttled it. “Where are they?”
“That is unknown at the moment. But they are together, and they are working on this case from their end, of that you can be certain. I suspect they saw trouble coming, and rather than stay here and pretend it wasn’t happening and put you at risk, they disappeared until it could be taken care of.”
“Without leaving word?” That seemed unnecessarily cruel. “What is the nature of this danger? And what are we to do?” She waved her hand to encompass the large room. “How can we help my parents fix this so they can come home?”
“That’s where the mission comes in. Our handler in the special branch of the Home Office received intelligence that a very dangerous agent who we have been after for years had compiled a list of suspected and known spies from several of the Sixth Coalition nations. My handler sent one of his best agents, code-named Leonidas, to France to intercept the list if possible. From what we have pieced together, Leonidas learned that the list was being brought in by a courier to be sold to someone working in one of the foreign embassies here, but that the foreign agent didn’t trust his courier not to double-cross him, and he divided the list, encoding it and secreting it into a shipment of artwork being brought into the country. Leonidas was able to catch up to the agent, but when he traced him to the port in Genoa, he found someone had killed the man. That same someone also killed Leonidas. We suspect the courier got greedy and killed his partner and then panicked to find a British agent so close to discovering him. The bodies were found in Genoa. That was the reason your ship was delayed leaving port. We were beginning to put a lot of this together before you arrived, but more has clarified over the past few days.
“You met the art dealer, Mr. Selby. He brought the painting to Garfield Montgomery’s house before the ball. We don’t know at this point if he’s a pawn or if he’s involved, but my handler thought it would be a good idea to keep an eye on him.”
“Mr. Selby? I danced with him.” Had she shared her debut dance with a spy? A possible traitor? How would she ever look Mr. Selby in the eye again and not let on that she knew? The scope of this secret grew and grew until she felt it taking up all the space in her mind.
“Your father thought you might be able to draw him out, get him to talk, perhaps allow him to pursue an acquaintance and possibly gain an opportunity to see what he knew.”
Juliette didn’t know what to feel about this. Her father had planned to use her? Like … bait? For a mantrap? How could he? Had she ever really known either of her parents?
“The plan was that once Tristan and Melisande told you about your family history, they would allow you to decide if you wanted to continue in their trade. You certainly have the right to refuse. No one is obligated, especially not you. This inheritance has been passed down from fathers to sons for nearly eight hundred years, but this is the first generation in the direct line where there is no son to inherit.”
No son. Her parents had never let on their disappointment that she hadn’t been born a boy, nor in their inability to have more children. And all this time, they must have not only mourned that there was no male heir to inherit the title, but that there was no son to continue the family tradition of service to the Crown.
She reached for the code book. Yet, in that letter from her father, he had said she would get to choose her own path, and that he was proud of her. She had cracked the code to open the book all by herself, and she had deciphered his message. Did that mean he hoped she would choose to follow them into their secret life despite being female?
He had said there could be no turning back once she made her choice. She would either take up the challenge or have to pretend she knew nothing about it for the rest of her life.
“Each piece of artwork is supposed to contain a string of the code, and the code, once deciphered, lists spies and agents at work in Europe. Tristan is the code breaker in the family, not me. I’m better at burgling and getting about the city unseen. However, he has been training you to follow in his footsteps for years. With Tristan away, I need your help. If the list falls into an enemy’s possession, it will spell disaster. There is every chance that your parents’ names are on the list, and mine too. If the list is transferred by the courier to the buyer, we will be revealed as spies, as will the names of several of our allied countries’ operatives, and we will almost certainly be targeted for execution by whatever foreign government procures the names. We must find the information, to keep it out of the wrong hands and warn any of the spies at risk. I suspect that your parents have gone after the courier, the man who murdered Leonidas and who stands to gain financially by selling the list. Only through stopping him, and obtaining the entire list, will our safety be guaranteed.”
Her heart lightened at the knowledge that her parents had not abandoned her for nothing, even as the weight of responsibility settled around her like a cloak of granite. If the list was made public, it would put an end to the many generations of service to the Crown. If the wrong person acquired the list, it could mean death to anyone on it. Her parents would be in danger. Uncle Bertie would be in danger. For all she knew, she might also be in peril. Guilt by association?
Had everything in her life been leading to this moment? This choice? Had God been directing things to put her in this place for this purpose? But … would He ask her to enter into a life of deception? To pretend to be one thing, while being someone totally different in reality? If she chose the path of her parents, she would begin to bring about the relationship she had always longed for, wouldn’t she? And yet would she someday be placed in the position of lying to her husband and children?
Could she dash away and leave her babies behind to go on some daring adventure for the Crown?
Could she lie to her husband and lead a double life, keeping secrets and telling falsehoods on a daily basis?
Could she find herself having to send her children away to boarding school … possibly for years … for their own safety?
Could she, at some future date, turn her back on her hypothetical husband and children when they needed her?
But if she chose not to help Uncle Bertie, she was, in fact, turning her back on her parents, who were real and in the here and now.
She had no real choice. She must continue their work. Whatever the cost.
“And you believe the painting was one of the pieces used to smuggle part of the code into the country?” She would focus on the problem before her and consider the ramifications later, just as her father had taught her.
“Yes. It came from aboard the Adventuress, the very ship you traveled on to get home. The artwork had been sent to Turner and Rathbone and Mr. Selby. Here I had been haunting the docks for days hoping to intercept the coded art, and I found you instead. Later I was able to obtain an inventory of the shipment, and I believe I know the whereabouts of most of the other pieces.”
Bertie studied the Lotto. “I’ve been over the painting in detail, however, and I can’t find anything that resembles a code.”
She got to her feet, her knees like wood, and approached the Lotto. Standing back a few feet, she studied it as a whole, then removed her quizzing glass from her pocket and stepped to within a few inches. Raising the glass, she examined the painting.
“Perhaps it’s like many of my father’s codes. You must approach it from an unconventional angle in order to learn its secrets.” She tilted the magnifying glass one way and another as she passed it over the cherub, the bride, the groom, the background, the wedding ring. Nothing seemed unusual. The varnish was undisturbed, the impasto even across the surface, the paint in good repair.
“I’ve been over and over it.” Bertie’s frustration leaked into his tone. “The painting should contain some bit of code, but there’s nothing there.”
“Have you taken it out of the frame?” She stepped back, blinking against the dryness in her eyes created from staring so hard.
Bertie paused in his pacing. “I have not.”
Removing the painting took nearly half an hour, as they didn’t want to damage the work or leave traces of tampering. Juliette spread a cloth on the table to lay the painting upon, careful not to disturb the keys in the corners of the stretcher. Bertie produced a badger hair brush from the work bench and carefully dusted the edges of the painting.
“You take the painting, I’ll take the frame?” Juliette asked, bending to inspect the joinery of the carved wooden frame.
When she was nearly ready to give up, she found it. Etched into the rabbet, barely visible, a short string of random letters and symbols. Maybe twenty characters in all?
“It’s here.” Her fingertips brushed the indentations. Excitement and relief zinged along her skin. This proved that everything Uncle Bertie had told her was true. The spy work, the coded messages, the list of international agents. Validation that her parents were doing important work. Did that justify their treatment of her?
Bertie crowded next to her.
“Can you make it out?”
“The letters I recognize, but I’ve never seen some of these symbols before, and there isn’t enough of the code here for me to be able to decipher it.” She straightened. What good was finding the code if they couldn’t read the message?
“We’ll have to find the rest of the artwork that bears the coded names.”
“How do we do that?”
Bertie gave a half smile. “By using the list of inventory from Turner and Rathbone.”
Her interest pricked, she leaned forward. “How did you get that inventory list? Surely Mr. Selby didn’t just hand it over, especially if he is part of the conspiracy.”
“I acquired it, and that’s all you need to know. Suffice it to say, I got very little sleep last night, what with running all over London.”
“How will we procure the rest of the items to search for code?”
He held up his hands. “Slow down. We aren’t going to get anything. I will try to purloin the items, and you will pretend nothing has happened and go about your social engagements as planned. The dowager duchess will no doubt call upon you tomorrow to make arrangements. I cannot involve you in anything more than helping me decipher the code once I have the pieces in my possession. That is your only concern. That and never telling a soul about any of this.”
Did he seriously believe that she would be content to play the debutante while her parents’ lives and their true identities were in peril?
“No. I can help more than that.” She reached for the journal containing her father’s coded message to her. “This.” She tapped the book. “This says it is my choice, my decision which path I will take, and that you are responsible now to show me how. I’m ready. I want to continue the family trade, and I want to help my mother and father. They’ve been forced into hiding until we find the entire code, and the sooner we do that, the sooner they can come home.” Desire burned in her chest. Which surprised her. How could she want something so much when she hadn’t even known about it an hour ago?
“You cannot help me right now. People will expect you to act like a normal girl during her first Season. Attend parties, make new acquaintances, be seen, be attended to by possible suitors. You must behave as people expect, or they will think something isn’t right.”
“And meanwhile, you go about stealing artwork all over the city?”
“Yes, but not overtly. I’ve developed a reputation for drinking and bucking convention. No one will expect me to behave differently. I will continue to pretend to be a gin guzzler. You’d be surprised how much access that behavior gets me.”
“Pretend? So you aren’t really a drunk?” Which explained how he was able to put on and take off his hangover earlier today.
“Of course not. What kind of spy would I be if I was falling down drunk all the time? Drunks don’t keep secrets, nor do they have the stealth, balance, or control to housebreak or burgle or get into and out of tight spots without being seen.”
“But your eyes were red, and you had such a headache when the detectives were here.”
“A small matter of a bit of black pepper on the fingers, rub the eyes, and there you have it.” He produced a tiny vial from inside his coat and opened it, holding it under her nose. She jerked away as the sharp bite of peppercorns filled her senses. Her eyes watered, and she blinked hard.
“As to the headache, those can be feigned, you know.” He squinted, putting his hands to his temples and groaning softly.
“What a relief. I wasn’t certain how I was going to navigate all of this”—she waved at the painting and the code book—“and your drinking.”
“I reiterate, you are not going to navigate any of this. I appreciate your help, and I will rely on you to assist me in breaking the code once we have enough of it to work with, but until that time, you are not a spy. You are not going to help me with fieldwork. You are nowhere near ready for such a step.”
He was right, which chafed. “Then help me get ready. Teach me whatever it is you think I need to know in order to do this work.”
His head tilted a fraction as he studied her, and her heart squeezed. The motion reminded her so much of her father, his brother. Oh, she missed him.
“Fine. When this is all over, we will begin your training.”
“Or you could begin right now.” She twisted her ring.
“I cannot. I have to go out.”
“Where?”
“One thing you must learn, my dear, and you may as well start now. You must not ask too many questions. I come and go from this house often and at odd hours, and I am rarely at liberty to say where or why. If you need to know, I will tell you, and if you do not, then I won’t.” He tapped her on the nose.
She swatted his hand away. “Remember, what is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. Perhaps I will come and go as I please without informing you.”
“We’re not in competition with each other. I truly cannot tell you where I am going tonight. If you want to commence your training as a spy, I suggest you head to your father’s library and start reading up on art history. I have a feeling we might need to know more than we currently do in order to gather all the pieces on the inventory.”
He told her she would become a spy, and now he wanted to send her back to the schoolroom? She suppressed the desire to roll her eyes, for she sensed if she did, he might regret sharing all he had with her. Perhaps he was hoping she’d lose enthusiasm for the work if she had to do some hard slog.
He didn’t know her at all if he thought she’d be put off that easily. She had lived abroad for seven years, excelled at her classes, managed to get herself and her friend home without assistance, and came from a long line of Thorndikes with mettle. She would not let down her forebears.
And he underestimated her if he thought she wouldn’t find some way to join him on his forays into the spy world. After all, it is what her father had trained her to do.
Chapter 6
“MR. RICKETS IS LESS THAN useless right now. He seems to be in complete shock. How can you spend months on the Continent, at the tail end of a war no less, acquiring commissioned artwork and not remember what you bought?” Daniel scraped together another pile of paperwork from the gallery’s office floor, adding it to the stacks he and Ed had compiled. In the twenty-four hours since discovering the body, all he had done was inform people who needed to know. Thankfully, Sir Michael had been out of the office, so Daniel was spared that ordeal. “All I could get out of Rickets was that he bought some tapestries for the opera house. He promised to try to write down any other items, if he remembered them. I hope he has calmed himself before I call around to his place later today.”
