A Pearl Before Spies (Agents of the Convent #5)

Chapter One

C hapter O ne

Guernsey, 1826

A bigail Charteris had never been more pleased to have her feet on solid ground.

Ever.

Years upon years of training in the realms of covert operations, and still she had not managed to build up an immunity to seasickness. She’d spent ages of time on the European continent in her younger years for various missions, and she had been unwell on the voyages, but she could not remember it being so debilitating back then.

Granted, she had been younger, stronger, and less aware of her precious mortality at the time, but even so.

Her head was still swimming while she stepped down from the dock at which her ship had landed, looking about her for the porter managing luggage. Taking slow breaths in through her nose and out of her mouth seemed to be keeping her nausea from overpowering her, and once she had her belongings, she could find some quiet place to sit and recover before heading on to her final destination. She was not expected until the evening, and it was barely midday.

Plenty of time.

The air of Guernsey was delightfully fresh and sprinkled with an air of jasmine, at least to Abby’s senses. It reminded her of when she had first come to the Miss Masters’s School for Fine Young Ladies in Kent and had taken a trip to the coastline itself. She never noticed the change in air texture or fragrance anymore, as it had become her home and her usual state, but she had never been to Guernsey before. She hadn’t anticipated feeling so refreshed so early in her trip.

She hadn’t anticipated anything about Guernsey at all. She was too focused on her assignment and her role here. Guernsey itself had been irrelevant.

But from what she could see and tell at the moment, she had high hopes that any unoccupied time of hers might be spent enjoying the particular beauty and refreshment this place had to offer.

She had no promise of unoccupied time, of course, and her handicapped leg prevented any real exploration or adventure, unless she wished to be confined to a chair or divan for up to a week in recovery. Her weakness and limp did not prevent her from much, as far as the average life activities went, but it did put a damper on exploration. And riding. And speed. And…

Well, anything that would make her the operative she had once been.

Which was why this opportunity was so crucial to her. It was the first time in five years that she would be able to take on an assignment that was not based at the school, instructing future operatives. This time, she was an operative, albeit a rather peculiar one.

She even had a new code name.

Pearl.

It felt strange to take that on, rather like a new taste in her mouth she was not yet certain of. A new name was a new persona, and she did not feel at all like a precious gem. She’d enjoyed her time as Sage very much in the years of her almost frantic activity. She had been wholly devoted to whatever assignment or cause she’d been asked to take up, and risked everything for it, be it heart, body, or soul.

Until one day, her mission had actually taken her body. Or rather, her escape from danger had broken and twisted her leg so badly that her life would never be the same.

One ought not to recklessly ride a horse while injured if it could be helped at all. Being thrown from such creatures under those circumstances could prove disastrous.

It had taken Abby a full year to even manage the ability to mount a horse again, let alone capably ride one. Even now, she could not do more than trot, but it was something.

A faint buzzing in her cheeks prompted her to sit on a nearby log for fear of swooning entirely. She stretched out her weak leg and patted it gently, more to hide her frustrations than anything else. No one passing on the docks seemed to pay her any mind, which was just how she preferred it.

There were advantages to being a plain woman of a certain age, make no mistake.

But, oh, she would give anything for a body that did not grow weary so quickly, a head that did not ache frequently, and a mind that did not work slowly.

She was being a little ridiculous. She was only three and thirty, after all. She was not decrepit.

She was just not accustomed to an active sort of life anymore.

It was only a few moments before she felt more to rights and pushed to her feet, moving along the docks once more with the others who had come off the ship. There weren’t many who seemed to be here for pleasure, but then, neither was she.

She was here in Guernsey to work.

Miss Abigail Chorley, governess.

It ought to be simple enough, as she was a teacher already. Her pupils here would be much younger than her usual students, but that could be as refreshing as the change in location.

She had dealt with tyrannical girls in their adolescence. How difficult could two actual children be?

Abby snorted softly to herself as she began scanning the docks for her trunks. She had been a tyrannical child, along with her two brothers. It would serve her right to have to teach rambunctious little ones with such advance judgments.

She caught sight of her trunk, most notable for the scratch along one face that resembled a scripted letter C made by a particularly unwieldy hand. Her income from the school was adequate, but hardly enough to spend recklessly, and there seemed little point in procuring a new trunk when she never went anywhere. So the damage from her last venture—her recuperation and recovery at a very secret residence in Norfolk—had been allowed to remain as a memento of the life she had been forced to leave behind.

Now she winced at seeing it. What would her employer think if such a sign of damage was seen?

Of course, this was only a temporary position of employment, but Abigail Chorley was not necessarily supposed to be a poor governess who could not afford a new trunk. And it seemed monstrously unjust that just because Abigail Charteris chose not to spend her money thus, the new governess should suffer so.

But it was much too late now.

Mr. Bichard would simply have to make his own judgments about Miss Chorley, should the blemish on her trunk be something he noticed.

She doubted he would. These powerful fathers of young children never paid attention to the details of the help, and her hiring for the position of governess had been overseen by the housekeeper anyway. Mrs. Corbin had seemed particularly pleased by Abby’s application and references, and their correspondence had been nothing but cordial and warm. She knew Abby was a woman of employment, as any governess they hired would be, and could not expect her to have the best luggage.

Women of similar station understood these things.

Abby made her way to her trunk, heaving it away from the others with a nod to the porter. It was hardly a ladylike thing to do, but she was no lady here. In fact, she was a nobody. And as a nobody, there would not be any special accommodations made for her arrival. Besides, she had only informed the house that she would be arriving today, not when.

“Miss Chorley?”

She jerked to a halt, eyes widening as she looked around. No one here should know her name yet, fictional or otherwise. Could she possibly be compromised already? Or was this another one of those impossible coincidences like what had happened when Mist and Mirrors had used the same lapsed title last year?

Still, she would continue to act as normally as possible. She had no other options.

“Yes?” she replied to the open air, unsure who was calling her.

A kind-faced man in farmer’s clothing approached, sweeping the flat cap from his head. “Begging your pardon, Miss Chorley. My name is Simms. I am the gamekeeper at Coutanche House. Mrs. Corbin asked if I would look out for you today, as your ship was coming in. May I take your trunk?”

Abby smiled with precious, unexpected relief. “Please,” she replied gratefully. “I am a touch ungainly with it.”

Simms flashed a quick grin and took the trunk from her. “Most men are ungainly with a trunk, Miss Chorley. You managed well enough.”

“Well, I do have a limp, so it complicates matters.” She gestured to her weak leg without dramatics.

“I noticed,” Simms said without affectation, giving her a firm nod. “And as I said, you managed well enough.” He gestured in the direction of a plain but sturdy wagon parked nearby. “It is not a far drive, but we should leave quickly. The winds are so changeable here, and the roads grow almost impassable for a wagon if it rains.”

Bemused, Abby tilted her head as Simms hoisted her trunk into the bed of the wagon. “And here I was informed the island has more predictable weather than England.”

Simms barked a rough laugh. “We do, miss. It is only the wind that plagues us, and I still find it better than Cornish winds.” He came over and offered her a hand into the wagon seat.

“Are you Cornish, Simms?” she asked as she sat, adjusting her coat and skirts.

“Once I was, yes. Now I consider this my home.” He nodded again and came around to the driver’s seat, flicking the reins as soon as he was seated.

A few moments after they were away from the port, it became evident that Simms was not a particularly loquacious individual. Abby didn’t mind this. In fact, it rather gave her the opportunity to observe her surroundings without appearing distant to anyone.

Guernsey was not a large island, that much she knew. In the weeks leading up to her arrival, she had learned everything possible about its history, its culture, its people, its geography… It was, in fact, entirely possible to walk the entire island’s perimeter in a day.

Not for Abby, of course, but for an able-bodied person with the stamina to do so.

Entirely possible and not altogether illogical.

Quaint. That was the word she had been searching for. Guernsey seemed especially quaint, and she would have said so if there were a way to express it without sounding completely patronizing. She had no intention of making enemies of the locals by giving the impression of demeaning their home, so she would hold her tongue until she managed to say something safer and just as apt. But there was no escaping the fact that the island was small. It was also more French than English, historically and geographically, but had been considered English for long enough that it was not even a question.

Which meant it could be a lovely little seat of treason, for all intents and purposes. The Faction could have a strong and steady heartbeat in a place like this.

Where she saw quaintness and charm, they might see opportunity and convenience. Where she saw beauty and refreshment, they might see an outpost and ripe fields. Where she saw a small island of rich heritage, they might see potential for recruitment.

She would need to watch every step she took, not just her steps in Coutanche House.

Calm yourself, Abs, she silently scolded with as much harshness as she dared. Barely half an hour on the island, and already she was imagining some massive coup among the entire population.

The sooner she started living her new life as Abigail Chorley, the better.

“Don’t say much, Miss Chorley,” Simms grunted beside her, his hands perfectly steady.

Smiling, Abby glanced at him. “Neither do you. I am happy to make conversation if you like, but silence does not perturb me.”

Again, Simms grunted. “That’ll serve you well at Coutanche.”

“Oh? Am I to expect silence? I thought the girls were rather small, so I anticipated… well, noise, I suppose.” Abby shrugged, not at all ashamed of her presumption and hoping Simms might give her some idea of what to expect before they arrived.

She watched as the lines formed and reformed around Simms’s mouth, his stubble doing nothing to hide them. “The girls are bright little things, I’ll grant you that. Sunshine under the right circumstances, though I haven’t seen them as such in a long while. The house is very quiet most of the time, and that’ll be due to Mr. Bichard. Moody sort, but not harsh or cruel. Very brooding, and the daughters feed off that, in my view. I know Mrs. Corbin feels the same, but none of us will ever say so.”

“No, I imagine not,” Abby murmured, tucking a strand of unruly hair behind her ear. “Has it always been like that?”

Simms shook his head. “Only since Mrs. Bichard died. A year and a half ago, almost. All the sunshine went out of the house when she did. The master lost all his heart there. I think he visits the girls regular enough, but there is no playing. Mind, he was not that playful before. Serious sort. Not a bad thing, of course, just the way he is. Only the mistress ever broke him free of it.”

Strange how talkative Simms had become with only the slightest urging. But Abby had developed the ability to read people with decent accuracy in her career, and she could see and feel that he was fond of the family he worked for. It was an encouraging sign but could also significantly hinder Abby’s assignment.

The man whose children she would be tending, Gilles Bichard, was a member of a secret faction of French citizens, supporters, and covert operatives trying to overthrow their present British government and implement a version of Napoleon’s schemes that Sieyès had envisioned in the early days of the Revolution.

Not only was he a member of the Faction, but Bichard had been part of a plot to abduct a young woman from London so he could marry her and gain access to London Society to further the Faction’s aims.

Well, he had not actually taken part in the abduction, but he was the prospective bridegroom for the woman who had been abducted.

And now Abby was tasked with investigating him under the guise of being governess to his young daughters.

She needed to be trusted by everyone associated with the family, and she also needed to be ready to destroy the perfect little life of lies Bichard had set up for himself.

But not right away, and not until she was sure. And not until she had received orders to do so. It was entirely possible that he would be left alone for now and watched until the time was right to intervene.

If it ever was.

Abby ground her teeth together as they bumped along in the wagon. She would love to upend Bichard’s life herself, should she discover he had direct involvement with what had happened at Christmas. One of her fellow teachers at the Miss Masters’s School had been the one abducted, and Abby was particularly fond of Lucy Allred. The abduction had been foiled—twice—and Lucy was now married to Hunter Mortimer, who was a bit of an enigma, but wholly devoted to her. She was still teaching at the school this term, as Mrs. Mortimer, and though not one of the operatives herself, was now fully involved in the true mission of the school and students.

Training female covert operatives for England.

Abby had a sneaking suspicion that Hunter Mortimer was actually the operative known as Trick, but such things were almost never confirmed unless strictly necessary. Still, she had privately assured Lucy that she would find out the truth and do her very best work in preventing anyone else from the fate that Lucy had nearly been subjected to.

Infiltration was not something that Abby had taken part in for some time, but she was rather good at keeping her traditional finishing-school pupils from understanding other aims and corners of the school, as well as some of the other teachers.

She prayed that would be practice enough. Her quick and improvised refreshment training had not been particularly promising, but when nothing physical could be required, what else could she do?

“Do you think,” Abby ventured in a hesitant voice, “that Mr. Bichard would object to a little less silence around the house? I should like to let the girls be enthusiastic and childlike in all respects. There is nothing so unnerving as a perfectly silent child.”

“I could not agree more, Miss Chorley,” Simms echoed with a firm nod. “I think that, once you are settled, you might broach the subject with the master. I know he loves his girls, so he just might see the idea in a fair light.”

Abby could hear his own hesitation, no matter how he tried to hide it. “But he might not?”

Simms exhaled noisily. “But he might not. Only time will tell.”

It was all Abby could do not to quirk a smile and a brow at the same time at the irony.

Indeed, yes.

Only time would tell.