Part 5 (1/2)

Friends.h.i.+p was such an inadequate word to describe her feelings for James; a cowardly word, even. But then, she'd never been brave where feelings were concerned. ”I never meant to suggest otherwise. By my actions, I mean.” Her cheeks flamed at the memory. Had James not said those words, where might things have ended? They might stil be locked in an embrace on his desk.

He frowned at her, clearly struggling to understand. ”I'm listening.”

She started. Stopped. Tried again. ”I came to ask for a professional courtesy. I believe you're soon to begin repairing some of the ancient sewers at Buckingham Palace.”

He let out a puff of laughter. ”It's only a top-secret project that concerns the safety of the royal family.

Natural y, you know al about it.”

She smiled faintly. ”Congratulations; you must be very proud.”

”We are; thank you.” Those dark eyes were stil puzzled, but genuinely curious, too.

And now, the trickiest bit. ”For the past few weeks, I've been working as a housemaid at the Palace. I expect to be there for at least another week.

Possibly more.”

He nodded, comprehension dawning.

”I thought it possible that we might accidental y cross paths at the Palace. It's unlikely, given the secrecy of your work, but stil possible. And I wanted to ask you...” Her voice wobbled here, unexpectedly.

This was far from the largest or maddest request she'd ever asked of James. And yet it was the most difficult to make. ”I wanted to ask if you would help preserve my secret. Not actively, of course; I shal be working alone. But I need to be sure that you'd not...”

”Not betray you?” His voice was acerbic. Clearly, he'd been expecting a different sort of request.

”I'd not have chosen that word.”

”But that's what you meant. You were afraid that either through incompetence, or through the spite of the rejected suitor, I'd somehow spoil your game at the Palace.”

His anger startled her, roused her own latent indignation. ”If we're speaking of rejection, it was rather the other way round,” she retorted. ”I wasn't pure enough to suit your high moral principles ...

although you seem to have lowered your standards a little but I suppose that was mere animal pa.s.sion.”

She regretted the words even as they left her mouth.

James's eyes turned black, a sure sign of anger.

”Don't pretend to be stupid. It's more than mere physical pa.s.sion for me, and you know that.”

Mary tamped down her anger. She couldn't afford to let it divert her. ”So you say,” she said, with icy courtesy. ”But I don't require protestations of devotion or apologies just now.”

”I see.”

”Wil you be able to pretend that you do not recognize me at the Palace?”

A tiny muscle twitched in his jaw. ”Of course. I wouldn't dream of obstructing your path.”

”Thank you. I'm very grateful.” She b.u.t.toned her coat not that she remembered having unb.u.t.toned it and reseated her hat, careless of how it might look.

In an exquisitely polite tone, he then said, ”May I offer you the use of my carriage? It's a most unpleasant day for a walk.”

Oh, how she hated the high moral ground when it was occupied by others. ”It's very kind of you, but I shal find a hansom without difficulty.” And such social niceties made her heartsick. Better never to speak to James at al than talk to him in this way.

”As you wish.” He avoided her eyes as he held the study door a gentleman to the last. ”Good-day, Miss Quinn.”

The wintry sleet came as a rude shock after the warmth of James's study. Mary stalked southwards, trying not to s.h.i.+ver as a swift wind picked up, driving the rain against her skin with stinging force.

Natural y, there was no hansom cab in sight. And in her anger, she'd left her umbrel a in James's front hal . Perhaps it was the cold, but the idiocy of their parting suddenly shocked her. She and James had always been pa.s.sionate both in rivalry and in partners.h.i.+p. But they needn't leave things so raw.

They would never be casual friends, but she could, at the very least, retract her angry accusation. She stopped, half-way down Torrington Place, and retraced her steps, summoning her courage once more.

Mary knocked again and ignored Mrs Vine's raised eyebrows. ”Is he in the drawing room?”

”Yes, but-”

”No need to show me up.” Mary whisked inside and was half-way up the stairs before Mrs Vine could finish her sentence. She rapped twice on the drawing-room door and barged in. ”James, I owe you an apology. I was-”

The words died in her mouth as she registered the scene before her: an extremely lovely young lady of about twenty, with s.h.i.+ning red-gold curls, wearing a satin dress that must have cost more than Mary's entire wardrobe. The beauty was sitting in an extremely casual posture on the floor, teasing a kitten with a feather. A second gentleman, with the same reddish-blond hair as the lady, sprawled in an armchair. And James lounged on the floor beside the girl, his back to the door. Al three were genuinely startled by the intrusion.

After a long, awkward moment, the two men scrambled to their feet. James's expression was unreadable, the other man's quizzical. The young lady, however, remained where she was, openly staring at Mary.

”I I beg your pardon,” muttered Mary. Al her courage, her sensible intentions, dissolved instantly in the beam of the young lady's startled blue gaze.

”My mistake.” She shut the drawing-room door and plunged down the stairs. She ignored Mrs Vine's smug expression. Ignored, too, James's voice cal ing after her down the stairs. She clattered out of the door and into the square, forgetting her umbrel a once again. Luck was with her, at long last: an unengaged hansom clipped by.

A moment later, she was Palace-bound. Ten minutes to cry in peace.

And then she would never cry over James Easton again.

Seven.

Monday, 13 February Buckingham Palace Amy Tranter took so long over her morning toilette that she was late for prayers a grave offence under Mrs Shaw's regime. For punishment, she was sent outside to beat rugs with Mary. In Mary's view, performing this task was a boon even if the air was far from fresh, it was pleasant to be out of doors and away from the constant domestic clatter. But Amy's round, pretty face was creased and sulky even while she fetched her pattens. It wasn't until they were in the courtyard, however, with a large Persian rug draped over a was.h.i.+ng-line, that Mary learned why.

”Is any of my hair showing?” demanded Amy, patting at her three inches of exposed face. The rest of her head was shrouded in a huge cap she'd pul ed down to cover her ears and eyebrows.

”Only your eyelashes.”

”What about my dress?” This, too, was entirely swathed in a dust-wrapper that went from neck to ankles. Combined with the pattens wooden blocks strapped to her boots to raise her clear of the mud Amy looked like a hot-air bal oon about to take flight.

”Can't see any of it,” said Mary.

Amy remained unappeased. ”The usual work's dirty enough, but this is horrible. I'l be grey with dust in two minutes.”

”We'l be done by dinnertime, and then you can have a wash.” Something about Amy's expression made Mary pause. ”Unless ... you have other plans?”

Amy flushed and beckoned Mary to her side of the carpet. ”I can trust you, can't I?”