She pushed on, nevertheless, and informed them of the previous night's events; of everything, of course, except her possible connection to Lang Jin Hai. As she spoke, she felt their interest gradual y inevitably turning towards her. She kept her voice low, her language matter-of-fact, but it was a sensational tale nonetheless. Scandal! Murder!

Treason! Cover-up! It was the sort of story that couldn't be dul y told and a vein of intel igence that, Mary realized with a flash of triumph, the Agency couldn't afford to bypa.s.s.

"What if," she concluded, "I were to inform Mr Easton, in advance, of my presence? That way, in the unlikely event that we were to meet, he would be prepared. That would help to reduce my risk."

"It would reduce the risk," agreed Anne, reluctance and interest clearly warring within her. "But not as much as removing yourself entirely."

"Contacting James Easton," murmured Felicity. "I thought you'd no interest in meeting him again?"

Mary swal owed hard. After her last interview with James the way he'd refused to look at her, when she'd told him of her criminal past she'd sworn to put him from her mind. That was what she'd told Anne and Felicity, and what she'd instructed herself, too. But here he was again, bang in the middle of her path. She'd have to deal with him, in the Agency's best interests. Wouldn't she? She'd learned and changed a great deal over the past seven months. Hardly felt the scars of the wounds he'd caused. Didn't she?

"What are you thinking?" asked Anne suddenly.

"There is more at stake for you, here, than simply the Agency's interests."

Anne was terrifyingly close to the truth. Mary squashed down the rising sense of panic in her chest, and forced herself to answer. "Placing a new agent on the case would set the Agency back several weeks at least," she said slowly. "But you're correct. My concern is this: I needn't tel you what public opinion is right now, against the Chinese. It's al about us, every time we open a certain type of newspaper. In the current climate, I worry that because the accused is a Lascar, he'l be the victim of a hasty show trial. The Queen and Prince Consort seem less concerned with the general principle of justice here, and more anxious to protect their son.

That is natural enough; but it is not right. If I stay on at the Palace, I may be able to gather information that would offer a clearer view of this man's role in Beaulieu-Buckworth's death."

Anne and Felicity both listened, thoughtful, grave, patient. They'd forgotten their earlier dispute and were now simply listening to her something they'd both always been good at. Anne was staring into the fire, its flames bright in the gla.s.s of her spectacles.

Felicity was focused on Mary herself, an inscrutable expression on her beautiful face.

Mary wil ed herself not to blush, even as she felt the blood rising in her throat, her cheeks. No one ever thought she looked Chinese; not Caucasians, at any rate. Occasional y, a Chinese person might peer at her curiously, somehow alerted to her secret something in the geometry of her features, the creases of her eyelids. But Mary pa.s.sed, for the most part, as a slightly exotic-looking Englishwoman. Strangers often asked if she had French, Spanish or Portuguese blood; Italian was a popular choice right now, because Garibaldi's triumphant progress was always in the news. But her answer "black Irish" was always persuasive, always enough. She hoped it would continue to be, especial y now. "These are the principles you taught me the importance of justice, and even of second chances for those who never had a decent first chance. It's because of what I learned from you that I need to stay on the case."

The moment pa.s.sed.

Felicity blinked.

Anne smiled. "You've learned the lessons of the Academy wel , my dear. The marginal figure be it child, woman or foreigner is always disadvantaged in our society. It is admirable of you to wish to investigate further, and I find it a sufficiently compel ing reason for you to stay on this case."

"Thank you, Miss Treleaven. Might the Agency also provide some information about Ralph Beaulieu-Buckworth? I think a little background research would be useful. For example, knowing to whom he is related. Al those aristocratic families are so intermarried. He might be related to the royal family, through some fifth cousin three times removed."

Felicity nodded. "That's not so easily done, but it's possible."

"Thank you."

"But returning to the original case," said Anne.

"Have you anything at al to report?"

"No, Miss Treleaven."

Anne's eyebrows rose very slightly. "Stil nothing?"

"The domestic staff were never informed of the original thefts, lest it encourage gossip. I've not observed anyone behaving suspiciously or flush with cash. Until the thief acts again, I can do no more than observe unexpected changes."

Anne nodded. "I see. Wel , perhaps a little more time wil give the thief the confidence to begin again.

But without more evidence, this case may wel go unsolved."

"Let us hope not," grumbled Felicity. "It's terribly unsatisfying."

"Not to mention bad for our statistics." The two managers smiled at each other fleetingly, and Mary felt a sudden, lovely wave of relief. Anne and Felicity were al right, then. Perhaps they'd simply been under a great deal of strain lately. Likely she'd read too much into the tension, the disagreements. Al col eagues disagreed sometimes, especial y when their work was as intense and important as that of the Agency.

Yes. That was surely al .

Her old bedroom had the thick, dusty smel of a place long abandoned. Mary glanced about the s.p.a.ce, which was scarcely big enough to hold a single bed, a tiny wardrobe and a narrow writing-table and chair. This room had been hers for years.

She knew its every detail the angled ceiling, the tal , narrow window better than those of her childhood home. Yet each time she came back from a job, the room seemed unfamiliar. It always took her some time to re-adjust; to become herself again.

She disliked this sense of dislocation, and for that reason seldom visited her room while on a.s.signment. Today, Mary almost tiptoed across its length. The desk chair creaked slightly as she sat, and that was new. It was cold in the room, and a thin layer of frost glazed the inside of the window. It certainly didn't feel like home.

No matter. She opened her desk it was one of the schoolroom sort, with a hinged lid and looked at the neat nothingness within. Two pens. A bottle of ink. Some blank notepaper, its edges slightly curled from disuse. No mementoes, no treasured letters, no girlish diary nothing personal at al . It was a clean slate that suited her job, and also her status as a lost person. A reformed housebreaker, rescued by Anne and Felicity. An orphan perhaps.

James's words to her, in their last conversation, stil echoed in her mind: You're still wanted. If you were caught now, they'd hang you... But much worse than the words had been his expression.

Bafflement. Disapproval. Even, perhaps, a little repulsion. James was a purist when it came to tel ing the truth and the whole truth. And she couldn't afford his high morals, even if she wanted to. It was a d.a.m.ned good thing, then, that there was nothing left between them. She could never explain to him this new and d.a.m.ning twist, if they were lovers.

She looked a while longer at the pens, the ink, the paper. Then she closed the desktop with a decisive click. Writing to ask James for a formal interview would only prolong the agony. It would also give him a chance to refuse. Much better simply to confront him and see what happened. She'd know from the look in his eyes whether or not she could trust him to keep her secret, one last time.

Mary walked to the door it was only five steps and then paused. Returned to the wardrobe, and selected a reticule from within. Dug into it, fingertips tingling now, and brought out a bundle the size of a walnut. Unfolded the square of linen to reveal a smal pendant, green like a gooseberry and shaped like a tiny pear. This was al she had left of her father. The rest of his legacy a letter, a sheaf of doc.u.ments was lost, burned in a house fire just days after she'd discovered its existence. But she had the jade pendant.

Mary clasped the chain about her neck and tucked it securely inside her col ar, so that no trace of it was visible. It was dangerous, wearing personal keepsakes on the job. She'd never done so before.

But today, it seemed somehow essential. If her past was going to col ide with her present, she would at least be ready in this smal , perhaps vital, way.

Thus armed, she closed the wardrobe. Resisted the impulse to glance in a mirror it would only confirm what a bedraggled mess she looked. And, walking out into Acacia Road, hailed a cab.

"Where to, miss?"

"Gordon Square."

Six.

46 Gordon Square, Bloomsbury The Easton home was one of a recently-built row of townhouses, elegant in its proportions without being fashionable. It was nothing, in short, to make a cal er quake except for the knowledge of what lay within.

Mary turned away from the cab, which lingered invitingly at the kerb, and knocked on the door. She did it quickly so that she'd not have the option of fleeing although the housekeeper's expression as she opened the door suggested it would have been her best course of action.

"Miss Quinn."

Mary drew a deep breath and stepped into the hal . There was no retreat now. "Mrs Vine. Is Mr James Easton at home?"

With her lips pressed together, the housekeeper showed Mary to the breakfast room, where the fire had gone out and the lamps were unlit, and shut the door with a decisive click. Mary was certain that there were other, more comfortable rooms where a welcome cal er might have waited, but this was fine.

She'd not been turned away at the door, and that was a start. She stared out of the window into the garden square, and tried to compose herself.

Perhaps a minute later, the door clicked open again and an al -too-familiar voice said, "Is that you, Mary? What are you doing, skulking there in the dark and cold?"

She couldn't speak; the sound lodged highest in her throat was a sob, and she certainly couldn't let that out. The best she could manage was a feeble shrug.

He looked ... wonderful. Partly because he was James Easton, clever, sardonic, intense, and far and away the most interesting man she'd ever met. But even more because he looked healthy once more.

The malaria-racked skeleton of their last encounter was transformed. He'd gained some much-needed weight; the edges of his cheeks and chin were thin, but not gaunt. And even in this half-light, he looked astonishingly handsome. No better than handsome.

She cleared her throat. "Thank you for agreeing to see me," she said, in her primmest voice.

"I can't actual y see you, though. Come into the study. I can't imagine why Mrs Vine put you in here in the first place."

Mary could. But she found that she couldn't meet James's gaze, or control the hot flush that sprang to her cheeks when she brushed past him on the way to the study. Here, the fire crackled cheerful y and the gaslight made the cherry-wood desktop gleam. She shivered, nevertheless.

"Are you cold?" Before she could reply he was feeding the fire, angling a pair of logs over the bright flames.

"Thank you."

He brushed off his hands and looked at her, his dark eyes searching her face. "You've already said that."

She tried to smile. "A little politeness never hurt."

His own smile barely touched his lips. "It's new for us, at least."

Us. She'd no idea how to interpret that. "You look very wel ," she said, then cringed inside: she sounded like somebody's busybody mother.

"As do you."

Liar. She could wel picture her winter-chalk complexion, dark shadows beneath her eyes, and the several locks of hair that always escaped her tightly wound bun. "Er-" She didn't dare thank him again, but she could hardly plunge straight into her request.

He stared at her for a moment longer, then let out a whoosh of air. "Mary, aren't we rather beyond smal talk?"

Startled, she met his gaze. "You're right."

"Not to mention you're rather bad at it."

"Only with you."

He smiled, then, his features lighting up with pure happiness. "It is a pleasure to see you, though."

She caught her breath. "And you." Pleasure was the right word: just looking at him made her dizzy.

His dark hair, normal y cropped short, was long enough now to hint at unruliness. His locks looked as though they might actual y be wavy, and she longed to explore them with her fingers. The lines of his jaw, too: he was stil clean-shaven, unfashionably so, and looking at him, she couldn't imagine why men might ever want to grow beards.

G.o.d only knew how long she'd been staring at him with undisguised hunger when the door opened quite suddenly, and Mrs Vine reappeared. "Do you require refreshment, sir?"

James glanced at Mary, as if to say that the decision was hers to make. She shook her head.

That meant a long visit. "Thank you, no."

"Very good, sir." Mrs Vine shut the door with great care, and Mary resisted the urge to pul a face at the closed door. That whole loyal-retainer act was a little excessive. She turned back to James, disciplining her thoughts, drawing breath to explain her errand only to find herself suddenly, blissful y, enfolded in his arms.

"Let's start again," he murmured, tilting her head back and covering her mouth with his. She gasped, and then felt his smile against her lips. "No smal talk, remember?"

Her arms locked round his neck she couldn't help it. She clung to him, the fixed point in a giddy, tilting universe, and revel ed in the taste, the feel, the scent of him. He was the only man she'd ever kissed, the only one she could imagine igniting this trembling hunger, this need, within her. He stroked the length of her back and she wanted to purr like a cat. Shedding her gloves with clumsy haste, she raked her fingers through his hair and was rewarded by a sharp hiss. He caught one hand and, pressing a fierce kiss into her palm, guided it beneath his jacket so she could feel the heat of him, the mad hammering of his heart against her bare skin. She stroked his chest, the linen warming to fever temperature beneath her hands, and tilted her head back to reach his lips again.

"Mary." His voice was hoa.r.s.e, the words slurred.

"Oh, G.o.d, I've missed you. I thought I'd never see you again."

His words froze her. Pierced her. Made her exult, and then long to weep. After a long moment of stil ness, she began to disentangle herself unwound his arm from her waist, turned her face from his. "James, stop." She became shameful y conscious of her loosened hair, a tangled ma.s.s of unmoored pins and stray locks. "James. Please."

Where on earth was her hat? And how had she ended up in such an unladylike position, on a desk?

"Listen to me."

He blinked, his eyes gradual y clearing. "What's wrong?"

She couldn't meet his gaze. "I'm sorry I should never have let you kiss me like that."

A long, tense pause. Then a dul red flush appeared high on his cheekbones. "You mustn't apologize I al but attacked you. I did attack you."

"It's not that." Honesty compel ed her to say as much. "I enjoyed your ... attentions."

A pause. "If that's so, I don't understand what the problem is."

"I didn't come here for that."

"Not even a little bit of 'that'? I mean, it's more than merely physical, between us, but animal pa.s.sion has its place."

She almost smiled at his hopeful tone. "I came here to speak to you about something important."

He frowned. "You're stil angry with me and I can't blame you! I behaved inexcusably that last time, after the incident at the clock tower. I was a self-righteous prig, and I-" He faltered at her expression. "And I'm attacking you again, with words. I'm sorry; I'l just listen, for a bit."

He looked and sounded more vulnerable than she'd ever seen him. Normal y, he seemed much older than twenty-one.

Too a.s.sured.

Too responsible. Too world-weary. Now, he was almost boyish. Eager. And for both their sakes, she had to end this madness.

She slid off the desk and smoothed her skirts.

Retrieved her hat from the corner of the room to which it had inexplicably rol ed. Smoothed her crumpled gloves. When she final y dared meet James's eyes, she could see the resolve, the disciplined patience, shining out at her. They were two of the qualities she most admired in him and which most terrified her, now.

"I didn't come here to revive our friendship."