The Danger of Desire (24 page)

Meggs fought to control her breathing and stay calm, lest Falconer feel her nervous heat. But he was busy jangling more keys into a lock, and then the right-hand drawer clicked open. Interesting that the secretary should have access to all the locked areas. Perhaps Lord Stoval had reason to be paranoid if Falconer had copied all the keys and made free with the contents of the desk. But Falconer only withdrew several sheets of paper and set himself to work.

For the next several minutes the only sound was the quiet, wet splash of the pen dipping into the inkwell and the slow scratch of the nib across the paper. No wonder Falconer had to work all hours of the day and night if this was what he did. He was incredibly slow at the business, laboriously drawing out each and every letter. If this was competence for the secretary of a peer of the realm, then perhaps even Timmy had a shot at respectable employment.

Time dragged on. There were more sounds of paper or pages being turned—she couldn’t tell which—and then a few more excruciatingly drawn out bits of writing. The pen dipped and tapped against the inkwell once more, and then he was away and flying, writing much faster.

What on earth? And then the loose parts of her brain snapped into place like so many tumblers in a lock. She had made much the same sounds not five nights ago, copying out and deciphering the codes the captain had set before her. Could Stoval have delegated his dirty work to his secretary? Good Lord and all the lady saints, she was fairly itching to see just what he was writing above her head.

But it was a no-go, with his leather shoe dangling precipitously at the end of her face. Finally, he set the pen down, pushed back his chair, and ... stopped. He inched forward on the seat and then bent down to pick something up to the left of the desk.

And picked up a ward key.

Stupid, careless bloody ... Meggs shut her thoughts down hard. She couldn’t get upset, not even with herself—she’d only make some sound and give herself away. She had to think. Falconer was holding the key, turning it over in his hand. Then he reached for his key ring and rifled through them, looking for the right key for the left-hand drawer’s lock. He was going to search the key box. Damn, damn, damn.

Just as he was turning the key, a carriage rumbled up outside the Upper Grosvenor Street entrance, and Falconer paused. Another moment or so, and the hall outside was filled with the sounds of footmen running and opening the doors, and then the voices of the butler, Mr. Lawson, and Lord Stoval himself, walking and talking in the entrance hall.

Falconer abandoned the drawer, and Meggs listened to the sounds of him opening the locked study door leading into the front corridor. He must have spoken from the door of the study—his heels didn’t click upon the black and white marble floor of the hall.

“My Lord Stoval,” he interrupted the butler in the middle of some discussion.

“Yes, Falconer,” Stoval answered. “What is it?”

“If I might have a word, my lord?”

“Yes?” Stoval sounded irritated. “Make it quick. I have to change for dinner.”

The door closed the two men into the study, the soft Turkish carpet crushing under their feet and sending up little puffs of dust.

“You have been careless with the keys, my lord.”

“Of course I haven’t. You know I don’t bloody well have the keys.” There was more than simple irritation between these two men. Stoval was ... resentful.

“I would like to remind you,” Falconer continued, with a slight lisp that told her his mouth still held a clove, “that the security of this room, and our
business
here, is of great importance to the success of our endeavors. Leaving keys on the floor, where anyone might find them, is careless.”

“Anyone? You and I are the only ones in here to find them.”

“Which is my point entirely.”

“Look, you’re the one with all the keys and the locks and the ... methods. I do my part and the rest of this”—Meggs could only imagine Stoval made a gesture.—“is up to you.”

“A great part of my doing, as you say, my part, is making sure you are able to do yours.” Falconer was as smooth and lethal as he could be, around a mouthful of cloves. Lord, but that must be some toothache.

“Fine. Mind the keys. May I go?” Definitely resentment. Stoval could give lessons to schoolboys. But why should Stoval be asking
permission
—albeit sarcastically—from his secretary? There was no doubt at all in Meggs’s mind there was dicey business in this ken, but just who was the masher and who the spud she hadn’t quite figured out. And if she didn’t get her arse back into the kitchen before dinner, she’d be out on her bum before she could find out.

Thankfully, with Stoval gone back the way he’d come, Falconer seemed to be done as well. He put the loose key back into the lockbox in the drawer without counting the remaining keys, and he took himself out the door and down his stairs to dinner. Her mistake cost her naught.

Meggs forced herself to count to one hundred before she bolted. But upon rising, she saw Falconer had made one tiny mistake of his own. He had left a blank sheet of paper, on top of which he had presumably written his letter. The faint tracings from the pressure Falconer had used to write his letter were still visible. She could make use of that. She snatched it up and was gone.

Meggs made it back down to the servants’ hall only a moment or two before Falconer swept in. The normally bustling hall went quiet. Servants seemed to collect at the kitchen door, curious at the sight of the secretary who never deigned to be seen among them.

The butler, Mr. Lawson, looking as though he’d like to be anywhere else and doing anything else, came in behind Falconer and cleared his throat. But everyone was already listening.

Almost everyone. Out in the kitchen Cook said, “What’s going on here?” at the inactivity and was instantly hushed.

Falconer stepped forward. “I should like to make it clear that the working areas of the house, Lord Stoval’s private study as well as my own rooms, are strictly off limits to all of you.”

Meggs watched him from under her cap, back demurely atop her head, as he attempted to intimidate the rest of the servants, from the footmen to the boot boy, with his stares.

“And if I find any person who is out of their place, or has overstepped their bounds and trespassed upon those rooms, I will take their punishment into my own hands. Do I make that clear?”

Posturing fool, he barely looked at the women, who rather naturally moved closer together near the doorway like ewes confronted by a wolf come into their meadow. Meggs huddled up with the rest of the sheep and let the quivering kitchen maids hear her whisper, “Gives me the jim-jams, that fellow does, with his yellow eyes and soft hands.” Murmurs of assent rose around her.

Except for Dorcas, who looked at her sharp.

Meggs thought she might be ready to peach her out, so she linked her arm with Dorcas’s and steered her back to their station at the sinks.

“You been out of your place, haven’t you?” Dorcas asked out the side of her mouth.

“Just wanted to see my fella,” Meggs groused. “Don’t see how that’s any of old Fancy Pants Falconer’s business. Coming in here, telling us to mind ourselves.”

Dorcas made a sound of emphatic disgust. “He thinks he’s better’n the rest of us, with his keys.”

“Exactly. But thanks, Dorcas, for keeping that to yourself. Much obliged. I’ll make sure you get my helping of pudding tonight.”

“You don’t want it?” Dorcas was suspicious of any altruism.

“Got all the sweetness I can handle from my man.” And they laughed together as Meggs blew out a long breath of worry and plunged her hands back into the scald bath. She hardly felt it, she was that relieved at the outcome of the day.

Make no mistake, Falconer was up to something more than a load of mischief, and he was a nasty, mean, toad of a man. She’d be damned happy to get this job done and see the last of him.

Hugh paced back and forth along the strip of Hyde Park, the way he used to pace the quarterdeck of his ship awaiting the outcome of a shore sortie. What did Meggs always say?
Something can always go wrong.
His experience told him she was right. But all he could do was wait.

In another few minutes, the cold and the ache in his leg would drive him into the carriage he had hired to cruise the edge of the park, as a station for him, or Timmy, or Jinks to maintain a constant watch on the house. He wanted to be nearby in case Meggs should need any help. Though much good it did him. Or her. She was bloody well on her own.

But there on the areaway steps was a familiar head, the loose strands of her fine hair gusting up around her face in the wintry chill as she worked her broom. He was across the roadway and to the railing as fast as his leg could carry him.

“Meggs.” He made to walk past inconspicuously, but she snagged his hand and pulled him toward her.

“It’s all right. They think you’re courting me. Come up close.”

He didn’t need encouragement, crowding her into the fence and taking her into his arms. Assuring himself she was all right. “How are you? Have you got it?”

“Fine. Some. Here’s the putty.” She slipped a bundle inconspicuously into his coat. “I’ll need ’em back quick as you can manage. I had to nick the five keys there and they’ll be missed. It’s Falconer, the secretary, who’s in on it with Stoval. They’re both in it up to their necks and no doubt. But the evidence is locked up tighter than the bloody Tower of bleeding London.”

“Meggs, I don’t know if we’ll have time to get keys made. We’re running out of time. The meeting of the board has been pushed back to accommodate us, but we can’t wait much longer. We have to have evidence now.”

“Try this.” She passed him a sheet of blank writing paper. “It’s an impression of a letter Falconer wrote. I think it may be code, but I haven’t had time—” She shook her head. “They keep us working something chronic. He’s
always
in there. And it takes so long to pick every lock every time. That chest is going to take hours and hours to crack, unless I can sort out the keys.”

Hugh could see the purple circles under her eyes and feel how small and fragile she was under his hands. They weren’t feeding her enough. She shivered in the cold biting wind, and he wanted to bundle her up and take her home. Keep her safe and warm. But that wasn’t what he was going to do. He was going to order her back into the house. “Lass, listen. We’re running out of time.”

She looked deflated, as though the breeze had run out of her sails. Almost defeated. He hated that he would have to ignore it. “Take the keys back. You’ll need them. Go in at your first opportunity.” He made his voice quiet and commanding. This was a mission. She was his subordinate, his agent, trained to do this job nearly from childhood. And he used his personal knowledge of her ruthlessly. “I need you to do it, Meggs. I’m counting on you. I know you won’t let me down.”

She nodded, weary and tired to her soul but determined. “I’ll do it, Captain. You can count on me.”

CHAPTER 17

I
t was a good afternoon for a ransacking. The rain poured down like vengeance, muffling sound, and twilight came early, casting the kitchens into semidark. All the dishes were done from the day, and dinner was just going on the boil. The family was to dine from home, so it would only be the staff. Much less work.

The call bell above her head rang for the Park Lane vestibule door—Falconer was going out. She had to take this chance. Meggs tried to think of an excuse, a reason for her to do what she was doing, but she couldn’t even come up with a pretext fast enough for being outside in the areaway to make sure he had gone clear of the house.

Dorcas did it for her, snickering, “Looking for that big man o’ yourn, are you?”

“Oh, aye. Well, a girl can hope.”

Falconer was coming around the corner and passing by the front of the house. Meggs ducked back down the steps, out of the rain, before she caught his eye. She didn’t think he noticed her as he went by, walking straight down Upper Grosvenor Street and out of sight.

Meggs came back in and took off her apron. This was it. It was now or never. As the captain said, they were too bloody out of time for the niceties of subterfuge.

“Where are you off to?”

Meggs turned back to see Dorcas and Maude eyeing her. “Going to see my man.”

“He out there?” Dorcas asked.

“Can you cover for me? Please?”

“Trim finds out, you know she’ll give you the boot without a character.”

Maude shook her head and advised, “Oughta make him marry you, Meg. It’s not right he don’t, and you going to him all hours of the night.”

So they had heard her. But still they hadn’t peached her out, bless their pot-scrubbing hearts. “That’s exactly what I aim to tell him, Maudie. Wish me luck.”

“Luck, Meg,” they chorused, and let her go.

She ran upstairs only long enough to get her picklocks, and set the jar of Mrs. Tupper’s candies out on Maude’s cot for them both to find, before she went down to the study, through the locked doors, and straight to the strongbox. Meggs set to it, but the clock had soon ticked away an hour, and still she hadn’t made it through the first sequence. The falling darkness made her close her eyes and concentrate on the feel of the way the tumblers were spaced, but it also made it hard to find her picks. And she couldn’t get the sequence right. Meggs lit a single candle, and she stood up for a moment to say a quick prayer to the soul of old Nan for guidance and to walk around the box to see if there was something—some other catch like the escutcheon—she might have missed.

As she walked by the bookshelf behind the desk, her eye was caught again by the little trail through the dust where someone had repeatedly reached for Burke’s tome. For a moment all she felt was the puzzlement. And then it came, that strange tingling feeling, the quiet stillness when everything else fades away except the pocket or the lock—or—the certainty. She sat herself in the chair at the center of the desk and turned toward the book, reaching out with her left hand. Because Stoval was the left-hander. And Stoval didn’t have the keys. Stoval reached from this spot to that book. Often.