Page 41

Blackthorn remains productive. There is a private channel by which information leaves the house, though I am not satisfied it is the principal channel under investigation.

He stopped. That was true.

The material I have reason to believe passes through this route appears social and economic rather than military, and may be intended for reformist publication rather than insurrectionary use. I require further observation before identifying those involved.

Baines read the words again. Coward, he accused himself in contempt.

Renforth trusted him to report facts, not protect women with captivating eyes and ugly caps.

He dipped the pen in the ink again, then stopped.

Her name in Renforth’s hands would become a fact merely by being written, and men in government had grown nervous enough that they did not always distinguish between reformers and rebels with sufficient patience. He would not place her beneath that weight without evidence.

He sanded the page and folded it just as Simmons entered. “Will you be going out, sir?”

Baines looked up. “No.”

Simmons took the letter. “For London?”

“Yes. Have it sent immediately.”

“Very good, sir.”

Baines leaned back in the chair and regarded the ceiling.

He had come to Blackthorn to discover how information escaped, and within twenty-four hours he had found one route, confronted the woman responsible, accepted her explanation without proof, and deliberately omitted her name from his report to Renforth.

The Colonel would call that compromised judgement. Baines preferred to term it discretion.

He rose and crossed to the window. Below, Judith emerged from the stable yard carrying the crushed primroses the little girl had given her. She stopped beside one of the maidservants, spoke briefly, and handed the flowers over with obvious instructions to put them in water.

She had kept the ridiculous little things, of course, and Baines rested one shoulder against the window frame as he watched her disappear into the house, wondering at what precise moment his perfectly straightforward investigation had become so infernally complicated.

He was accustomed to inquiries involving false identities, clandestine meetings, and occasionally Frenchmen of uncertain loyalty. Such difficulties had the great advantage of being recognizable and could generally be addressed by sufficient ingenuity or force.

This was altogether more insidious, for somewhere between an ugly cap, a clandestine letter, a Northumberland lane, and a crushed handful of primroses, he had begun to like Judith Finch.

That was going to prove much more troublesome than espionage.

CHAPTER 6

Judith resolved to avoid the insufferable man. Major Baines was toying with her, and she would have none of it. He knew very well the effect he had upon women, and she would certainly not give him the satisfaction of learning that she was susceptible to the same nonsense as every other foolish creature who had ever melted beneath one of his smiles.

Unforgivably, she was susceptible. Therefore, the safest course was to remain occupied, behave sensibly, and under no circumstances allow herself to be alone with him again.

Why could she not remain as unaffected by him as she was by all the other gentlemen who attended Sir Lionel’s house-parties? Lord Cranford could discuss hunting for an hour and leave her with no greater sensation than the desire to flee the room. Mr. Pembroke possessed a handsome face which lost most of its power the moment he opened his mouth. Sir George had once spoken to her for twenty minutes about drainage without producing so much as an irregular heartbeat.

Major Baines, by contrast, had the indecency to stimulate her mind—therein lay the true danger.

He listened—worse still, he understood. His habit of turning everything into a jest did not conceal from her the quick intelligence beneath it, and she had begun to suspect the humour was less frivolity than armour. He invited people to underestimate him and then quietly gathered everything they revealed whilst doing so. Judith did not appreciate gentlemen who understood the advantage of being overlooked. That was her own particular province.

She must stay busy. Fortunately, Blackthorn Hall rarely allowed idleness to become a serious temptation.

After breakfast, Judith went directly to the kitchens, where Cook was directing two maids in the construction of raised pies whilst simultaneously complaining that Lady Stanhope’s peculiar diet threatened the natural order of English cookery.

“She cannot eat onions, shellfish, anything containing nutmeg, or meat cooked past the first degree of pinkness, miss.”

“Then give her chicken.”