The Deception of the Emerald Ring (25 page)

"What can I do?" she asked, feeling more ineffectual than she had ever felt in her life. Guns and rebels and French troops they weren't the sort of problem one could order to their room, or organize out of existence by rearranging a few numbers in a ledger.

"You can keep out of the way." Letty bristled at the brusque words, and, in a slightly gentler tone, Lord Pinchingdale went on, "Do whatever you would ordinarily do. Take tea with friends. Go shopping. Leave us to our work, and I'll take you back to London at the end of it."

Letty wondered if that was meant as a bribe. If she didn't leave him to his work, what then? Internment in an Irish cloister? Or, she realized with a sudden chill, death at the hands of a rebel mob? Letty had never seen a mob herself—farmers celebrating the harvest didn't count, even after a few too many kegs of ale—but she was old enough to remember the reports from France ten years before. Mobs ravaging the countryside, heads paraded on pikes It was a strong argument for good behavior.

"I think we can muster something more interesting than that," said Jane. "Nothing dangerous, of course."

"What did you have in mind?" asked Lord Pinchingdale.

"You can't possibly object to a little jaunt to a historic site, can you?"

"That depends on which historic site."

"What could be more benign—or beneficial to the soul—than a house of worship?"

"It might even put you in mind of your vows," cackled Miss Gwen. "Till death, aren't they?"

Lord Pinchingdale ignored her. "You refer to St. Werburgh's," he said to Jane.

"The very one," replied Jane.

"Saint who?" enquired Letty, leaning forward.

"She's a very minor sort of saint," said Miss Gwen dismissively, giving the impression that she wouldn't stoop to dealings with any but the more major martyrs.

"It is the parish church of Dublin Castle," Geoff supplied, before Miss Gwen could say more. "More important, Saint Werburgh's houses the grave of Lord Edward Fitzgerald."

"Who, I take it," said Letty, trying to sound brighter than she felt, "is not a saint, minor or otherwise."

"It depends on whom you ask," said Geoff. "To the United Irishmen, he's the next thing to it."

"Lord Edward died of wounds he sustained during the rising in 'ninety-eight," explained Jane from the head of the table.

"A martyr to the cause." Letty turned the phrase over on her tongue, her head spinning with spies and rebels and minor sorts of saints.

They were all as far out of her ken as the figures of athletes on a Grecian urn or the intrigues of a Turkish harem, the sort of characters one read about from the safety of one's study, but never expected to encounter. And yet she had somehow, improbably, landed among them, like Cortez washed up upon the shores of the new world.

"But what," asked Letty, feeling as though she were wading very slowly through a South American swamp, "has a grave—even the grave of a martyr—to do with whatever the rebels are doing now?" A gruesome thought struck her, accompanied by images of medieval monks carrying saints' bodies in solemn procession. "They aren't planning to use his bones as a rallying point, are they?"

"I knew I liked her," pronounced Miss Gwen, to no one in particular.

"Nothing so macabre as that," said Geoff, with a quirk of his lip that might have been a smile if allowed to grow up. Letty found herself hoping it would, and oddly pleased that she had put it there. "But it does provide a convenient meeting place. One with symbolic weight."

"Surely, they wouldn't meet there during the day, would they?" asked Letty, whose impressions of spies had a good deal to do with cloaks, masks, and shuttered lanterns. It did strike her as more logical to meet in daylight, under the guise of ordinary activities, rather than skulking about at night, but spies—at least from the accounts in the illustrated papers—didn't seem to be a particularly logical group of people.

"More likely during the day than at night," replied Geoff. "But we're not hoping to surprise a meeting. We have reason to believe that devout pilgrims have been leaving an unusual sort of offering at Lord Edward's grave."

"Paper offerings," put in Jane. "Of more use to the living than the dead."

"You believe his grave is being used as " Letty struggled for the right words. "As a sort of rebel post office."

"A very apt way of putting it. Auntie Ernestine and I"—Jane's voice went up half an octave and she tipped her head towards Miss Gwen with a simper that sat ill on her classical features—"were just discussing a lovely little trip to Saint Werburgh's. Auntie Ernie has some very pressing questions she wants to put to the vicar, haven't you, Auntie Ernie?"

Miss Gwen's spine stiffened until it was sharper than the ribs of her parasol. "I refuse to answer to that detestable nickname."

Jane fluttered her lashes at Letty. "Isn't she the very darlingest of Auntie Ernies?"

"The voice works better when you have your wig on," commented Geoff mildly.

"So it does," replied Jane without rancor, shaking out the blonde curls with a practiced hand. "I'll just go and transform myself back into Gilly, shall I? Auntie Ernie?"

The words were as much summons as question. Like a cat rousted from its cushion, Miss Gwen rose from her chair with an air of majesty that implied she had been planning to do just that anyway.

Letty rose, too.

"Oh, no!" exclaimed Jane. "Don't disturb yourself. We'll only be a moment."

"But—"

"Geoffrey will entertain you, I'm sure. Won't you, Geoffrey?"

"Far be it from me to disappoint such charming ladies." Miss Gwen snorted and stalked from the room, looking anything but charming.

"I thought you would see it my way," Jane said cheerfully, and then she too was gone, in a froth of lace-edged flounces.

Folding his arms across his chest, Lord Pinchingdale watched the last frill whisper around the door frame. "I believe that this is Jane's none too subtle attempt to urge us to cry truce."

Letty found she still couldn't think of him by his first name—perhaps because he had never extended her that right. She could still hear Jane's pleasant contralto forming the word, turning it like a potter with a piece of clay until it came out perfectly smooth and rounded. Geoffrey.

Lord Pinchingdale raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "I believe this is where you're supposed to say something."

Letty blurted out the first thing that came into her head. "You don't have a black mask, do you?"

"No." He gave her an odd look. "Nor would I advise you to acquire one. They tend to invite more attention than they deflect."

"I didn't think you would," said Letty ruefully. He would have to be sensible as well as honorable, wouldn't he? A few flaws would make her own ambiguous position more palatable.

"Are you disappointed?"

"No. I've always thought them very silly things."

Letty was aware she was speaking nonsense, and didn't blame Lord Pinchingdale for looking at her as though she might be carted off at any moment. But she was still having a great deal of trouble coming to terms with the notion of having tumbled into a den of spies—and such an unlikely den. With the afternoon sun slanting through the windows, picking out the golden patina of the wood on the table and the quaint scenes painted on the china, espionage seemed as unlikely as a royal visit. The little green-and-white room was made for cheerful family breakfasts, for talk of ribbons and shopping rather than martyrs and crypts.

If it hadn't been for that locket

Letty caught Lord Pinchingdale's eye, and flushed, for no particular reason.

"I've caused you a great deal of trouble by appearing like this, haven't I?"

"That," Lord Pinchingdale replied evenly, "depends on you."

"I'm sorry," she said simply, and she was. Sorry she had come to Ireland, sorry she had tried to prevent Mary's elopement, sorry she had ever left Hertfordshire. Sorry, sorry, sorry.

Not that being sorry did either of them any good.

"I never meant any of this to happen," she added.

"I'm sure you didn't."

Letty winced at the implied barb. "I didn't ," she began, and then stopped.

Geoff strove to conceal signs of impatience as he waited for the inevitable unconvincing protestations of innocence. Where in the devil had Jane got to? The hallway dozed placidly in the afternoon sunshine, unhelpfully empty. There was no avoiding another recitation of the whole tedious package of lies.

For the sake of the mission, whose safety now rested in Letty's capricious little hands, he would have to feign belief. Or, at least, refrain from active disbelief. His Majesty could only ask so much of even his most loyal subjects.

"You didn't ?" Geoff prompted, as Letty scowled at the carpet as though the vines had entangled her tongue.

He thought he had kept his tone carefully neutral, but Letty tilted her head back and looked him straight in the eye.

"You're not going to believe a word I say, are you?"

Taken off guard, Geoff raised an eyebrow in lieu of an answer.

"I thought as much. Do you know what the worst of it is?"

"No," Geoff said honestly. There were too many potential worsts to choose from.

"I wouldn't have believed you, either," finished Letty with grim relish. "It's as absurd as a Greek tragedy."

Which made matters about as clear as mud.

"Have you had a lovely little chat?" Jane bustled in in full "Gilly" mode, every curl bobbing, every inch of fabric frilled and shirred within an inch of its life. "I do so hate when people are unpleasant and cross."

"You are enjoying this role a good deal too much," commented Geoff to Jane by rote, but his eyes followed Letty, still trying to make sense of that Greek-tragedy comment. He devoutly hoped she didn't have any notions about putting out eyes, either his or her own.

"You"—Jane waggled her beaded reticule at him—"are just being an old crossy-kins, like dear Auntie Ernie."

Miss Gwen looked as though she couldn't decide which to be more annoyed by, being called a "crossy-kins" or "Auntie Ernie."

"Time," she proclaimed dourly, jabbing at the mantel clock with her ever-present parasol, "is wasting."

"And we couldn't have that, now, could we?" agreed Jane, sweeping the entire party out to the waiting carriage.

Geoff made a feint in Letty's direction, but was neatly cut off by Miss Gwen, who skewered Geoff with a dampening glare as she swept regally in front of him down the narrow stairs, the tips of her black-dyed ostrich plumes tickling the tip of his nose. Geoff sneezed three times between landings, thinking decidedly ungentlemanly thoughts about Miss Gwen, her taste in millinery, and people who entered rooms in the middle of conversations.

"Once we get there," Letty asked, as Geoff settled into the facing seat of the carriage, "what should I do?"

"Your role is really quite simple. And harmless," Jane added, with a sidelong glance at Geoff. "Miss Gwen has kindly agreed to occupy the rector while Geoffrey and I search the premises." Given the avid gleam in Miss Gwen's eye, Geoff couldn't help but feel sorry for the rector. "However, we cannot discount the possibility that there might be other persons present."

"I'm simply to talk to them?" said Letty.

"Only if you see them showing an inordinate interest in our activities," put in Geoff, watching Letty closely.

Letty earnestly processed the information, looking very young and entirely guileless. Young, Geoff would grant her. As for guileless

"It sounds simple enough."

"That's what you think," retorted Miss Gwen. "It takes talent to distract someone subtly. Talent and practice."

"Mrs. Alsdale is no stranger to deception."

It took Letty a moment to remember that she was supposed to be Mrs. Alsdale. When she did, a slow flush stained her cheekbones. "I've certainly never had this much practice before."

"Not nearly enough, from the looks of it," pronounced Miss Gwen disparagingly. "Any spy who cannot remember her own alias deserves to be caught."

Letty squared her shoulders and looked full at Geoff. "That would solve a problem for both of us, wouldn't it?"

"Don't worry." Jane touched one finger reassuringly to Letty's arm. "It will all soon become second nature. Don't you agree, Geoffrey?"

"It all depends on one's temperament."

"In which case," replied Jane meaningfully, "I believe our Mrs. Alsdale will suit very well."

"Hmph," said Miss Gwen, in a way that amply echoed Geoff's own feelings on the matter.

From the expression on Letty's face, in this, at least, they were in complete accord.

For someone who had managed to dupe her way into matrimony, she seemed to have remarkably little facility for masking her emotions. Then again, Geoff reminded himself, her stunt in stealing her sister's place hadn't required subtlety, merely audacity. And that Letty Alsworthy clearly possessed in spades.

And yet Geoff's eyes narrowed on Letty's face, as if he might be able to glean the truth from the tilt of her chin or the pattern of freckles across her nose. She had seemed entirely confident in her own defense at Mrs. Lanergan's the previous night. He could still remember, with painful clarity, her evasions when he had asked her where Mary was, complete with all the transparent signs of guilt. Last night, there had been no telltale pause, no stutter, no flush, none of the classic signs of dishonesty, nothing but pure, undiluted indignation, as though she had been the one wronged, rather than he.

That was an idea too silly to even entertain.

As if she felt his scrutiny, Letty developed a deep interest in the seams of her gloves.

Jane, meanwhile, looked from one to the other with an enigmatic smile reminiscent of the Sphinx at its most annoyingly smug.

Miss Gwen, mercifully, was not watching anyone at all. She was too busy staring out the window, maintaining a running commentary on the inadequacies of their driver. He was driving too quickly. He was driving too slowly. Had he deliberately driven over that pothole?

By the time the carriage drew to a halt before the classical facade of St. Werburgh's, it was unclear who was most grateful to be free of the coach: Letty, Geoff, or the coachman. Geoff swung down first, handing out Miss Gwen, who descended as regally as a dowager duchess on her way to the Court of St. James's, then Jane, who fluttered to the ground in an animated pile of flounces.