Wrapped (31 page)

“This way,” Miss Dimslow said, taking my elbow.

“You?”

“I’m the relay,” she said. “There’s someone you need to talk to.”

“You’re not really just a chaperone, are you?” I asked. And then I saw Miss Dimslow smile for the first time.

“No more than you’re just a debutante.”

She escorted me down the hall, the music from the ballroom fading. We stopped in front of a closed oak door.

“I’ll wait out here,” she said, reaching for the knob and pushing it open.

“Thank you,” I began as she thrust me inside and shut the door, barely avoiding sealing it on my skirts in her haste.

The room was dark, only a pair of lamps lit in a corner beyond the table.

“So sorry to steal you away like this, Agnes, but it was the only way to arrange a meeting without raising suspicions.”

“Father!” I cried, running toward him.

He nodded, took my hands, and raised them to his mouth for a kiss. Then he pulled back and studied me at arm’s length. “You are stunning, daughter,” he said. “Absolutely stunning.”

Someone else cleared his throat.

I turned and was surprised to find two more men standing in front of their chairs by the hearth. The first commanded my attention at once—because it was impossible to ignore the high military dress, starched collar, and decorated jacket. He seemed to take up far more room and space than just his simple form allowed. He was no broader than my father, and certainly no taller, but all the same, he seemed to carry with him the confidence and spirit of ten men.

Before I could inquire as to his name, I noticed his companion. I broke into a broad smile and walked briskly over. “Deacon!”

He returned my smile, accepted my embrace, and laughed quietly. “Miss Wilkins,” he replied.

“Deacon, I tried to write to you at the hospital, but my letter was returned. They claimed you’d been released, but they had no way to forward it to you, and when I sent a note with a messenger to your lodgings near the Tower—”

He raised a hand to silence me. “I’m sorry to have worried you. But you should know that your adventures of late have left a great many of us scrambling to keep up. I’ve been very busy filing reports on your and Caedmon’s behalf,” he said, patting my hand gently. The bandage from his head had been removed, a raised pink scar curving over his eyebrow the only visible remnant of his interview with Tanner.

“Are you well?”

“Quite, miss, quite,” he said.

“And Caedmon? You’ve heard from Caedmon, then?”

“Patience, Miss Wilkins. We’ve very little time before you’re missed at court, and there are much more important things to discuss at present. Allow me to introduce you to Sir Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of—”

“Wellington,” I whispered. I turned to face the man credited with the strategic genius of defeating Napoleon at Waterloo. The man whose name I’d heard spoken in reverent hushed tones through Father’s grate. The hero of all England.

I bent my knees, afraid they might fail beneath me, and managed a semblance of a curtsy. Wellington accepted it, allowing a tight smile. “Miss Wilkins.”

Father led us to the sitting area clustered around an ebony table, where a tray bearing a bottle of port and four glasses sat. I perched on the edge of the small sofa next to my father, opposite Deacon and Lord Wellington as they settled into winged chairs.

Wellington’s eyes fixed on me for a long moment before anyone spoke again. Finally he said simply, “Extraordinary.”

I looked nervously to my father, fearful I’d done something wrong. But my father looked at ease, smiling as if I’d just played him a tricky piece on the forte.

“Pardon, sir?” I asked.

“How many years have you?” Wellington asked, the Irish accent in his voice like one of Deacon’s scars—all but gone.

“Seventeen, sir,” I said quietly.

“And how many languages?”

“Pardon, sir?”

“Languages you speak? How many?”

I was confused. “Ten, sir.”

He nodded. “You’ve learned some of them on your own?”

“Yes, sir.”

Now he looked to Deacon. “When you told me what this girl had done . . . I don’t know . . . I suppose I expected her to at least look a bit
older
.”

Deacon smiled, the same proud smile my father wore.

“Tell me it all again,” Wellington commanded, in a way that made me know what it might mean to be in his service and receive an order. I did so, relating how I found the key, how I stumbled on Caedmon, and how together we recovered the standard and delivered it safely to my father.

“How very fortunate she happens to be your daughter,” Wellington said as I concluded.

“None so fortunate as I for that,” my father said so softly he might have been talking to himself.

Wellington nodded his assent, and then surveyed me again. “Extraordinary,” he repeated. “Do you know how many men have tried and failed to do what you and Mr. Stowe have accomplished?”

“I’m sure I only did my duty, sir,” I said, starting to feel embarrassed at his praise.

“But few mortals enjoy a duty that allows them to save the lives of thousands of others, to have a hand in the defeat of the world’s greatest tyrant, to preserve the crown and glory of England herself.”

“I’m sure my contribution pales in comparison to those who fought at Waterloo, or sail with the navy like my brother, or any who know their duties as patriots—,” I began before he cut me off.

“My dear,” he said. “You’ve something singularly rare. Something far less common than mere duty.”

I couldn’t speak as I looked to Father. He merely nodded and smiled.

“Did you enjoy searching for the standard?” Wellington asked.

I glanced at Deacon quickly before turning back to my father, afraid of embarrassing him with my response. But lying to Wellington felt a bit like lying to God Almighty himself. “I did, sir,” I said. “Even the dangerous bits.”

He nodded. “I suspected as much. And don’t for a moment believe that your contributions were not vital in that damned Frog’s defeat. If he’d had that standard, I can’t begin to think what might have happened. Certainly his men would have fought like animals even more than they did. And if it could do what it is rumored to be able to . . .” He trailed off, all of us imagining that grim possibility.

“But we’ll never know. England won’t use it, won’t trifle with things of that sort. England will win her battles on the conviction of its principles, the justness of our cause, and the favor of the Lord, nothing more,” he promised.

“Hear, hear,” my father said.

“Of course, sir,” I said meekly, realizing that even Wellington believed in the power of the standard, in the possibility of the supernatural. “Then the standard has been hidden again?”

He nodded, studying me, those stern, dark eyes looking down the considerable length of his elegant hooked nose.

“If I had my way, we’d melt it down for cannon shot, but I’m satisfied it is as secure as it can be.”

“I’m relieved to hear it.”

“Then you’ll be relieved to learn that all traces of its former whereabouts have been erased,” Deacon said. “The obelisk from Showalter’s garden has been destroyed. They’ve even amended the Rosetta Stone so that partial glyph that led to your and Caedmon’s breakthrough is no longer visible. Even the Ptolemy references have been, well, taken care of.”

“You’ve altered the Stone?” I said, aghast.

“Not so much that it matters. And not so much that any of the rubbings that exist won’t look like they simply missed a few marks here and there,” Deacon said apologetically.

“Allow me to return to an earlier point,” Wellington interrupted. “You seem to have some passion for languages; your father tells me you are inclined to travel, and you have demonstrated and admitted to an appetite for the sort of intrigue that led you to do what you call your simple duty in England’s service.”

I nodded.

“Miss Wilkins,” he said, leaning forward in his chair, his brown eyes finding a kinship in mine, “you have discovered the rarest of gifts among men. For when duty and passion align, they produce a
calling
. And I submit to you, that your calling has found you.”

I thought of David’s words regarding his own service. Tears stung at my eyes.

“Sir, I appreciate your confidence, but I cannot imagine what this might mean for a young woman in my position.”

“If I may?” Deacon interrupted, looking to the duke for permission. He nodded his assent.

“I believe what Sir Wellesley is saying is that England might have use for someone of your unique abilities. A place where the calling he speaks of might be fully realized, should you be so inclined to exercise those gifts in further service to the Crown.”

I turned to Father. Now his eyes were rimmed with tears, but the smile remained.

“I don’t understand. . . .”

“We’d like to engage your services,” Wellington said. “Deacon’s been pressing me for years that women could play a more active role in intelligence, and after what you’ve done, I’m inclined to allow him to expand our ranks. Besides, that damned Blalock woman had half of London fooled, so there’s something to be said for the fairer sex dabbling in the game. Not to mention the indispensable Miss Dimslow.”

“Miss Dimslow?” I said.

Deacon nodded. “Uncommonly resourceful, that one. Does frightening things with knitting needles. You’ll learn a great deal from her.”

“You mean . . .” I couldn’t finish.

“Nothing untoward, you understand, but we feel your talents and disposition make you an ideal candidate for the kind of work we find we need done,” Wellington explained.

“Intelligence?” I whispered. “You want me to be a
spy
?”

“It’s far more complicated than all that, but in short, yes. We believe there are ways for you to continue making the kinds of contributions you have made of late,” Deacon said.

I looked at him, narrowing my eyes. “Does this mean that you’ve been reinstated?”

He smiled and cast his eyes down. “In a manner of speaking. Seems your adventure resulted in my redemption as well.”

“But how would I manage to explain to Mother or our friends and neighbors my unlikely choice of vocation?”

“Oh, you’d explain nothing to anyone!” Wellington thundered. “And in any event, the terms of this conversation are to be guarded with the utmost secrecy. As far as explaining, your recent . . .
misfortunes
. . . regarding your intended actually prove quite fortuitous.”

“He wasn’t my intended. We’d no private or public understanding—”

Deacon interjected. “What my lord means is that your abandonment in the eyes of your peers gives you leave to make a change of lifestyle. We’ve already discussed this all with your father. If you choose to accept our proposal, for all anyone else knows, you’ll be residing in a convent in the Swiss Alps, recovering from the scandal and heartache brought about by these recent events. That should give us ample time to train you at least, though you’ll enjoy regular visits back home as any ranked officer might.”

“You mean, I’ll travel?” I asked, barely able to contain my anticipation.

“Probably far more than you’d like,” Wellington said. “I’d wager you’ll have cause to see more of the world than the three of us combined.”

I turned to Father. “You would allow it?”

He took my hand. “I’ve argued with these two valiantly for the past week, but they’ve worn me down enough to make me see what I should have admitted years ago—you’re too special a girl to waste on parties and balls. At least for a time. And Deacon assures me that you’ll encounter nothing so dangerous as what you’ve found here in London.”

I was almost disappointed.

“And I will miss you, more than I can say, but I can mitigate such longing by knowing you’ll acquit yourself with all the valor and composure that David has,” he said.

“And I’ll be along with you, of course,” Deacon said. “Wellington has insisted that I chaperone you both, mentoring you in the craft—”

“Both?” I asked.

At that, the latch clicked open softly behind me and I turned round to catch Miss Dimslow’s face for a brief moment as she held open the door and slid aside to admit the tall figure standing behind her. A figure whose deep brown eyes found mine and banished every other thought.

“Caedmon!” I cried, bouncing to my feet.

He hurried to my side and took my hand.

“Miss Wilkins,” he said, though he couldn’t contain his smile either.

“But where have you been? Why have you left the museum?”

“I’ve been busier than I expected,” he said, motioning for me to sit.

“We convinced Caedmon that keeping secret his progress with the Stone would in the end serve Britain’s ends far more than publishing his work,” Deacon explained.

“And his silence toward you was our doing, I’m afraid. In the interests of providing a suitable cover story, we thought it best to keep you both separated until your deployment.”

Now Caedmon spoke. “They’ve persuaded me there is pressing need for my experience as a—”

“Paranormal antiquities specialist,” Deacon supplied, managing to keep from laughing as he did so.

“A title?” I said, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, one of them,” Deacon admitted.

“Mr. Stowe is now Caedmon Deveraux, Esquire,” my father supplied. “He’s the son of a foreign service diplomat, reared in North Africa.”

“They’ve concocted an alias for you,” I said, staring at him, noticing for the first time the finely tailored new suit he wore.

“An alias that will allow him entry to certain social circles should the need arise,” my father said, adding, “I daresay he may even fool your mother at some point in the future.”

My heart leaped.

Miss Dimslow popped her head back into the room. “Two girls left,” she said. “You might have three minutes before she’ll be needed back.”

Wellington nodded. “You can plan your future together later,” he huffed. “Now we’ve little time to sort this out.”

I tore my eyes away from Caedmon’s and focused on the general.

“Your associate has tentatively accepted our invitation to join our work as a field agent and cryptographer,” Lord Wellington said.