Friendship 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 shiver 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 partnership. 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 shining 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 washing-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?"

"Of course."

"I'm expecting ... somebody ... a cal er."

"Here?" Domestic discipline was strict, and while letters and parcels were unrationed, staff were certainly not al owed to entertain guests.

"It ain't certain, mind."

Aha. "Mr Jones?"

Amy flushed and squirmed. "Maybe."

"Oh, come on," teased Mary. "He's al you talk about."

"That ain't true!" squealed Amy, but she looked pleased despite her words. "Did I show you what he give me?"

"You know you didn't."

Amy glanced about in a conspiratorial fashion total y unnecessary, as they were quite alone in the service courtyard. Opening her dust-wrapper, she plunged a hand into her dress and drew out a long silver chain. On it dangled a heart-shaped locket, from which protruded a few wisps of mousy hair.

"Ain't it beautiful?" she whispered reverently.

Mary had her own opinions about heart-shaped lockets crammed with hair, but she smiled anyway.

"Very sentimental. It looks as though things are serious with your Mr Jones."

"D'you think so?" asked Amy with eager pride. "I do, but sometimes I can hardly believe it's al real.

And listen, tomorrow's Valentine's Day. I want one of them big, beautiful Valentines you know, with real lace and feathers and that's just the start."

"Are you going to see Mr Jones tomorrow evening?"

Amy made a face. "I asked Mrs Shaw for an hour's leave to see my mam, I said it was but she wouldn't say until tomorrow. I think she suspects."

Mary smiled very slightly. "I suppose everybody wants to go and visit their mother on Valentine's Day."

"But we'l see. Al 's not lost, even if she don't give me leave." Amy nodded and gave a sly wink.

"How d'you mean? You've worked out a way to slip out at night?"

But Amy only smiled and winked again.

"Wel ," said Mary, for this was the time to turn the conversation in the direction she needed, "if you want a bit of time in the day, you've only to say. I could dust the drawing rooms for you, and the like."

Amy was responsible for cleaning the Blue Room the one from which the original figurines had gone missing. So far, Mary had managed pa.s.sing glances in the daytime and a careful night-time inspection, but it was possible that a leisurely cleaning session by gaslight would yield useful information.

Amy's eyes sparkled. "You're a dear. I don't mind tel ing you I've high hopes for tomorrow..."

"And so have I, my darling," purred a new voice.

Male. Smooth. Educated. And naggingly familiar.

Both Mary and Amy jumped at the interruption, although their reactions were entirely different. Amy squealed and grabbed at her bonnet, whisking off the frumpy dust-covers as fast as her shaking hands would al ow. Mary, however, went very stil . Then, with a grim feeling of certainty, she turned slowly towards the voice. There, smirking at her, was Amy's Mr Jones: a green-eyed man of middle height, neither fat nor thin, neither handsome nor ugly. He wore a badly pressed suit. Nothing about him seemed likely to inspire squeals of delight or stunned silence, and yet he had done just that.

Mary had first met Octavius Jones, gutter-press journalist and incorrigible busybody, while she was working at St Stephen's Tower. Admittedly, he'd been a smal help to her towards the end of the case. But he'd also been the only person to see through her disguise as twelve-year-old "Mark Quinn" and unless she was much mistaken, he'd not let that drop now. Jones was a shameless liar who'd not hesitate to sel his mother for tuppence profit, and boast about it afterwards. Needless to say, he was also the last complication she needed on a case such as this.

At the sight of Mary, his face twisted with surprise but only for an instant.

"Tavvy!" Amy leapt across the narrow s.p.a.ce and planted a row of enthusiastic kisses on his face. "I ain't expected you for ages!"

He flinched at the nickname but soon recovered. "I couldn't wait to see you, my dear." "Tavvy" accepted Amy's attentions rather in the manner of a man tolerating the ecstatic licking of a puppy, and his eyes were fixed upon Mary the whole time.

"You say the sweetest things!" cooed Amy.

"Darling, aren't you going to introduce me to your little friend?"

Amy's voice quivered with pride as she made the introductions. "Mary, this is Mr Octavius Jones; Mr Jones, this is Mary Quinn, who started as a housemaid in the new year."

Mary dropped a very slight curtsey. "A pleasure, sir."

Jones's eyes were now alight with mischief. "The pleasure's al mine, Miss Quinn. Amy did tel me there had been some changes to the staff in recent months. And if it's not too forward of me, I must say that you look terribly familiar. Where could I have met you previously?"

Beside him under his arm, rather Amy stiffened. "I'm sure you can't have met before."

Mary sighed inwardly. It was no more than she expected of him; he was const.i.tutional y incapable of leaving wel alone. But it was infuriating nonetheless.

"I can't imagine. Might you be mistaken, sir?"

"I doubt it; I've an excel ent memory for faces especial y features as intriguing as yours. So exotic..." He al but smacked his lips. "Have you, by any chance, foreign blood?"

"Quinn is an Irish name, Mr Jones." She swung her broom in a larger arc than necessary, nearly grazing his knees. His wide grin at this far-from-subtle gesture only annoyed her more.

"Anyway, it's lovely to see you now," said Amy, with brisk determination. "I'm sure Miss Quinn won't object to our taking a brief strol ."

"Of course not, Amy. Take as long as you like."

Jones hesitated. "It does feel unkind, though, Miss Quinn, to leave you slaving here al on your own."

"Don't be ridiculous, Tavvy," said Amy, trying to keep her good temper. "Miss Quinn doesn't want to play gooseberry."

"Certainly not," agreed Mary. "I wish you good morning, Mr Jones."

Amy tugged on his arm, trying to draw him away, but Jones held his ground. "You do look so very familiar... Are you quite sure we've not met before?

Or perhaps you've a sister, or even a brother, who looks like you."