Chapter Two
“ I don’t see that I have any choice, Charlotte.” As he spoke, Lynsley looked around the headmistress’s office. How long had Mrs. Merlin’s Academy for Extraordinary Young Ladies been in existence? Had it really been two decades?
Time flies , he thought with a wry grimace. Lord, he had been barely older than the current students of the Master Class when he had come up with the idea of a secret school for spies—female spies.
Yes, he had been young—and too brimming with hubris and optimism to conceive of how impossible the idea was. His lips curled up at the corners. Perhaps that was why it had, against all odds, succeeded. He had simply refused to accept ‘no’ as an answer, despite all the rational arguments against it.
He rubbed at his brow, suddenly aware of the grey hairs beginning to tinge his temples.
Mrs. Merlin sighed as she served him a helping of tea and strawberry tarts. “So you say, Thomas. And yet, sometimes I wonder . . .”
“Wonder what?” he asked.
“Whether you are secretly craving a return to action.”
His smile became a touch more pronounced. “You think I’m too old for the game?”
“Too valuable,” replied the headmistress with her usual pragmatism. “Surely there must be an alternative to risking yourself in such a dangerous mission.”
“If you have a suggestion, I am open to hearing it.”
For a moment, Mrs. Merlin’s face was half obscured by the steam rising up from the teapot. With her delicate features and dove-gray hair drawn back in a simple chignon, the elderly lady looked frail as a feather. But Lynsley knew her far too well to be deceived by appearances. The headmistress of Mrs. Merlin’s Academy for Extraordinary Young Ladies was still sharp enough to show her pupils a thing or two about handling a sword or a pistol. Even now, he could see the point of a poniard poking out from beneath her lace cuff.
“We might consider Verona,” mused Mrs. Merlin. “She has both the skills and the nerve to succeed in a mission like this.”
“I am all too familiar with her cockiness and her courage.” Lynsley sighed, and then shook his head. “But no, even though she’s the best we have, she’s not ready to match wits with an experienced killer like Rochambert. I can’t in good conscience give her the order.”
“Then perhaps you should simply tell the Secretary to look elsewhere for help,” said the headmistress. “Some things are impossible, even for us. As we teach our girls, there are times when it is best to back away and wait for a more opportune moment.”
“I made a stab at saying no,” he replied wryly. “But Bathurst is under extreme pressure from the government to do something about the situation, no matter the risks. He’s supported me many times in the past when I was under fire. I can hardly refuse to return the favor.”
“He won’t thank you if you end up in a French prison.” Mrs. Merlin brushed a bit of powdered sugar from her lip. “Or worse.”
“Thank you for the vote of confidence,” murmured Lynsley dryly.
She fixed him with a searching stare. “All jesting aside, Thomas. Do you truly believe you can succeed?”
“Despite what you think, I am not yet in my dotage. In my younger days, I was not half bad at this sort of thing.”
She rose without comment and moved to her desk. He heard a drawer slide open, followed by the rustle of paper and the scrape of a penknife. “Perhaps the key question to ask is whether you believe that this weapon actually exists. A substance that combines an explosive power beyond our wildest imagination with a fire that can’t be extinguished by water? It seems . . . unthinkable.”
“I asked the same question of my scientific consultant. As it happens, Lady Merton met El-Halabi several years ago when he was in Cambridge for a symposium on Medieval manuscripts. Based on her research, she is of the opinion that such a thing is theoretically possible.”
“Then we must take the threat seriously. Lady Merton’s expertise in chemistry is unimpeachable, despite her sex.”
“Yes, it is,” said Lynsley softly.
Mrs. Merlin looked grim. “So, you mean to go through with this, come hell or high water?”
He regarded the gilt framed portrait of Francis Walsingham, England’s first spymaster for a long moment before answer. “We have a duty to do what we are asked, no matter how dangerous or daunting, Charlotte. I won’t send an unfledged Merlin on a mission like this. So I had better do the job myself.”
Pierre Rochambeau was the most dangerous agent the French had. Lynsley had reason to know his deadly skill all too well. One of his Merlins . . .
He did not like to dwell on his failures. It was hard enough to send his women into danger. The guilt he felt when a mission went wrong tore at his insides. It was no wonder, he supposed, that sleep was often elusive.
A fresh sheet of foolscap slapped down on the desk blotter, rousing him from such dark musings. “When do they want you to leave?” asked the headmistress.
“As soon as possible. I am aiming for tonight, on the midnight tide,” he replied. “A coastal cutter is waiting at Southampton to take me across the Channel.”
“You are going alone?”
“Yes.”
“Hmmph.” Mrs. Merlin adjusted her gold-rimmed spectacles. “Well, then, we haven’t any time to waste. Give me an overview of the situation. If I can’t dissuade you, I can at least try to help you come up with a viable strategy for success.”
Lynsley gave an inward smile. Now he knew how the Academy students felt on being subjected to the headmistress’s intense scrutiny. A good many of the Merlins had sat in his place, answering both her questions and his.
Had they also experienced the small flutter of exhilaration on knowing they would soon be flying into action? Perhaps Mrs. Merlin was right. Perhaps he did miss the thrum of his pulse pounding wildly through his veins, the challenge of the unknown. He had been sitting behind a desk for more years than he cared to count.
A regimented routine. To tell the truth, his life of late had been feeling a bit flat.
“I mean to keep it simple,” he replied. “I plan to land in St. Pierre Eglise?—”
“Why such a small town as St. Pierre Eglise, when the larger ports of Calaise or Dieppe are so much closer?” interrupted Mrs. Merlin.
“In his latest report, the head of my Normandy network informed me that an American envoy from President Madison is visiting relatives near the city before heading on to meet with French officials in the capital. I have already sent word for our operatives to invite the man for a more prolonged stay in the area.” He smiled faintly. “Masquerading as Mr. Tobias Payne Tremaine, I shall be welcome in the salons and mansions of the haute monde. ”
“So far, so good. It’s unlikely the French are familiar with Tremaine’s face. He’s a new appointment to Mr. Madison’s diplomatic corps, if I remember correctly.”
“Your memory, as always, is sharp as a tack,” replied Lynsley.
Mrs. Merlin tapped a pen to her chin. “What about the American officials in Paris?”
“The entire delegation is presently on a trip to the south of France for talks on the Barbary pirate problem.”
Mrs. Merlin added a few lines to her notes. “Very good. So once you are in Paris, what then?”
Lynsley shrugged. “From there I shall just have to play it by ear. The agent holding the weapon is a man who enjoys the finer things in life when he is not on assignment—wine, women, witty conversation. He will be moving in the highest circles of Parisian society, savoring all the sumptuous pleasures that the City of Light has to offer.
“Have you any ally in the city?” she asked.
“I’ve one or two names, but whether they are trustworthy is another matter. For all practical purposes, I shall assume I am on my own if things go awry.”
“We always give our Merlins a plan of escape,” she said softly.
“There simply isn’t time, Charlotte. This is a unique opportunity. We can’t afford to let it slip through our fingers.” The marquess uncrossed his legs and rose. “Think of the countless lives that will be saved, not only by keeping such a weapon from being turned on our sailors, but also by bringing this war to a quick end.”
Candlelight glinted off her glass lenses as Mrs. Merlin added a few more lines to her notes.
Good Lord, was that a telltale glitter of tears clinging to her lashes?
He glanced away for a moment. Duty and discipline were basic principles of the Academy’s code of honor. Emotion was left unspoken.
Perhaps the flicker was merely a quirk of the flames, for when she set down her pen and looked up, her eyes reflected naught but a steely composure. “Do try to make sure that one of those lives is your own, Thomas.”
“I will. I’ve no desire to stick my spoon in the wall just yet.”
“Well then, you had best be off.” The headmistress waved a curt dismissal.
His hand was on the door latch when she added, “ Bonne chance, mon vieux .”
Lynsley turned. “ Merci .”
“Hold her arms and lift up her skirts,” ordered O’Hanlon.
Valencia let herself go limp as Seagull dragged her to the ship’s rail.
“Ready fer some heat, sweeting.” The Flame waggled his hips as he set aside his knife and started to unbuckle the leather belt around his middle.
Steady, steady.
Ignoring the clammy touch of Seagull’s hand on her thigh, Valencia concentrated on gauging the roll of ship. Timing would be everything. She was a bit rusty in some of the maneuvers, but hopefully it wouldn’t throw her off too badly.
As the sea ebbed, she shifted her feet ever so slightly.
O’Hanlon’s pants were down around his knees—that would slow him up a step. Seagull began a leering laugh . . .
Rolling with the next wave, Valencia threw her weight into him. His grip loosened for an instant, allowing her to smash an elbow into his throat.
“Arrrgh!” He doubled over with a rasping gurgle.
Spinning around in the same whirlwind movement, she slammed a fist into his gut, dropping him to the deck.
Still fumbling with his pants, O’Hanlon snatched up a marlinspike from a pile of rope. “Why, you little bitch,” he snarled, refastening his front flap “I was going to leave you alive, but now you’ll not be fit for crab bait when I finish having my way with you.”
“Don’t bet on it,” she replied.
Steel winked in the sunlight as he jabbed out a series of slashes and feints. Valencia measured his movements as she managed to evade the weapon. He was quick as a snake, which came as no surprise. A man in his line of work would likely have a number of back alley tricks to try—she didn’t imagine that he was going to fight fair.
But neither was she.
Dropping back, she shuffled sideways.
A laugh, low and nasty, sounded. “I’ve got ye cornered, now.”
He was right—another step would bring her back up against the forecastle hatchway. With the tangle of rigging straight ahead, all angles of escape were cut off. There was nowhere to go but . . .
Glancing up, Valencia spotted one of the main shrouds snugged tight around a cleat. She leapt up, grabbed the rigging ax from its bracket and hacked through the rope in one fell swoop.
Whoomph ! The furled sail and spars dropped like a stone. Catching the tail end of the rope as it whipped through the air, Valencia flew up in a blur of skirts. She swung across the deck, just out of reach of O’Hanlon’s slashing spike, and grabbed another line in midair. Tucking into a tight somersault, she landed lightly on deck behind him.
Bellowing with impotent rage, the smuggler whipped around and slashed yet again with his spike. He was a fraction too late—the steel cut harmlessly through the air.
Valencia timed her slide perfectly and countered with swift sidearm chop to his wrist.
A howl punctuated the crack of the snapping bone.
Then he sunk to the deck not far from the fallen Seagull. The slap of the sea against the ship’s hull did not quite drown their mewling moans.
Valencia rubbed at her hand and winced. Damn. Along with yoga, Chinese martial arts had been part of her basic school training. But apparently she was out of practice.
If the angle wasn’t quite right on that blow, it hurt like hell.
Moving on, she ducked around to the ship’s wheel and drew the brace of pistols holstered by the mizzenmast. Once she tied up O’Hanlon, Seagull and the sleeping crew, she would make up a few gunpowder flares. The signal of smoke and sparks would soon bring help. Let Captain Taft of the Revenue Service decide what to do with the bilge rats.
“Don’t move,” she snapped at Seagull, who was just beginning to crawl to his knees. “Or I’ll put a bullet between your eyes.” She cocked both hammers. “And in case you are wondering, I can shoot the wick off a candle at thirty paces.”
“Who the devil are you?” groaned O’Hanlon.
“Me?” She shrugged. “Why, I’m just a simple tavern keeper.”
Captain Taft of the British Revenue Service cutter Bulldog whistled softly as he surveyed the trussed-up prisoners. “The Flame and his crew caught red-handed? I shall ask my superiors that you be given a medal. Maybe two.”
Valencia grinned. “You go ahead and take the credit. I’d much rather have the cargo of French brandy as my reward, if you don’t mind.”
Taft laughed. “You’ve certainly earned it. I think I can be convinced to turn a blind eye to its transfer.”
“Excellent. And in the spirit of comradely cooperation, you and your crew will drink for free tonight.”
“You may end up with the worst of the bargain, Mrs Kestrel . . .”
Given that widows were accorded more more freedom from the strictures of society than unmarried misses, Valencia had thought it wise to assume a conveniently dead husband when she chose to take up residence on the island. With the war raging on the Continent, nobody had ever thought to question her assertion.
“Considering the weather, we will not be sailing our usual patrols,” continued Taft. He chuckled, and then cleared his throat. “Er, might I ask inquire just how you came to best a gang of the roughest smugglers in these waters?”
“Actually, I’d rather you didn’t ask,” she replied.
His brows quirked up. “According to O’Hanlon’s account, he was not battling an innkeeper but a Death’s Head Hussar.”
“You know the Irish—they are wont to exaggerate.”
Taft gave a pointed look at the smuggler’s splinted arm and bruised face but tactfully dropped the subject. “My men will be taking the boat around to Maseline harbor now. May we offer you a ride?”
“Thank you, but no. Just give me a row to shore, if you please. I would rather walk back to town.”
The dingy dropped her on the strand. Valencia watched the sailors pull back to the smuggler’s cutter and climb aboard. The crack of canvas, loud as gunshots, rang out as the sails caught in the wind and the vessel headed for the opening between the rocks.
She turned, but found herself in no hurry to head for the steep path leading back up to the crest of the cliffs. Her gaze lingered on the freshening seas and the wheeling gulls. Their raucous cries and freewheeling antics drew a harried sigh from her lips.
How exhilarating it was to spread wings and fly.
Flexing her hands, Valencia was aware of the thrum in her blood. Her pulse was still racing from the excitement.
Admit it. She made a face. She missed the challenge, the thrill, the danger. It made her feel so . . . alive.
And that her spur-of-the-moment plan had succeeded gave her a measure of satisfaction. Pride? Perhaps. Though after all these years she should no longer feel she had anything to prove. Still, there were many a night when she lay awake brooding over a confrontation that had not gone so well.
Her last mission as a Merlin had been one of the few failures of her elite group.
Valencia kicked at a pebble. Had she made a fatal mistake that night? Or had her opponent simply been better than she was? Over and over she had relived the events in her head . . . the mists rising up from the harbor, the pungent smells of oakum and pine tar, the whisper of footsteps over the salt soaked jetty . . .
She had been quick with her knife. But not quick enough. Only the fortuitous arrival of a harbor foot patrol had kept the French agent from administering the coup de grace .
Her superior had not blamed her for letting her target get away, though others were not so forgiving. She had heard whispers that Whitehall was furious with the failure. But ultimately the question of blame became moot. Physical injury had made it impossible for her to continue in active service.
It was, for all involved, seen as a blessing in disguise—everyone saved face.
Her jaw tightened. Except for her, of course. Offered a less demanding job, she had handed in her wings and stormed out of the Academy office.
Angry, disillusioned, she had vowed never to look back.
Still, the memories were hard to forget. The years of training at the Academy, the camaraderie with her sisters-in-arms. Her class had been the very first, and the struggles to master the demanding curriculum and the daunting skepticism of the government had not been easy.
Valencia caught herself unconsciously rubbing at the tiny tattoo above her left breast. It had left an indelible mark on her, no matter how much she wished to deny it.
A glance up showed that the skies were fast darkening to the same ink-black shade. Gusts buffeted the nearby rocks, the swirling currents whipping the waves to a froth of whitecaps. Looking west, she felt the sting of the salt spray against her cheeks. A gale was brewing. And it was only going to get worse. God help any ship caught in the teeth of this storm. Tonight was not the night to challenge the elements.
Sometimes discretion was the better part of valor. It was a lesson that she ought to have taken to heart earlier in life.
But live and learn.
Throwing her hood up over her windsnarled hair, Valencia turned away from the water’s edge and headed for home.
The hull gave another wild lurch.
“You had best go below, sir,” cried the captain, trying to make himself heard above the howling wind.
Lynsley clung to the mast as waves washed over the deck. “There must be something I can do to lend a hand,” he shouted back.
A flash of lightening showed the officer’s salt-streaked face was grey with exhaustion. Crippled by a broken rudder, the ship had been fighting the storm for what seemed like an eternity. Somehow the crew had managed to climb aloft and reef the sails, but even under reduced canvas, the ship could make no headway the raging seas.
“You can try to help me hold the course steady,” croaked the captain through cracked lips.
Lynsley clawed his way to the ship’s wheel. Despite his oilskin cloak, he was soaked to the bone by the frigid seawater and lashing rain, and his hands were stiff as blocks of ice.
“What bearing?” he asked, trying to make out the markings of the compass in the swirling darkness. The flying spray had long since extinguished the binnacle light.
A rope snapped overhead and the whipping end nearly knocked off his head.
“Just try to keep the bow headed into the wind,” gasped the captain. Another flash of storm-blurred light gave a glimpse of the fellow’s hands, which were raw and bloodied from fighting the fury of the waves. “God only knows where we are now. I don’t think we’ve drifted far enough south to fear running aground on the shoals of Cap D’Antifer.”
“Ah, well, that’s a relief. For a moment I was worried,” said Lynsley dryly as he gripped the slippery spokes.
The captain gave a harried laugh. “Sorry, sir. I would have had you across before the blow hit if not for the damn rudder pin snapping.”
“Life is full of unexpected surprises,” replied Lynsley. “Bad luck can strike at any time.”
“Aye, sir. If we can just weather the next—” The captain’s words were cut off by a clap of thunder.
And then by the crack of the mainmast.
The deck pitched to a near perpendicular angle, throwing Lynsley hard against the aft hatchway. All around, he heard the sound of splintering wood and snapping rigging.
As the next wave slammed into the ship, Lynsley felt himself slipping, sliding.
Bloody hell. The lee rail was already buried in a roiling wash of water. In another moment . . .
A wall of water rose up, black as Hades. He had one last thought before being sucked under.
Mrs. Merlin was going to be madder than a wet hen.