Chapter 8
Kate
Dim light filtered through the partially opened curtains. Kate rolled over in protest. She had barely slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she was back in the library. The whisper of danger. James holding her against him.
She felt unmoored, her thoughts scattering like leaves caught in a sudden wind.
Nothing about James fit neatly where she had placed him.
He had acted without hesitation in the library.
She would never have expected a carefree bachelor to be so quick on his feet.
He had been confident, deliberate, and purposeful.
All of it at odds with the reputation society assigned him.
The rest of the ball was a blur . . . the music, the laughter, the countless moments when she avoided meeting James’s eyes.
She would have thought the whole night a dream were it not for the paper she had hidden.
She lifted the pillow and retrieved the small scrap.
It was torn along one edge, but its ink was still legible.
Had James noticed when she slipped it into her reticule under the guise of clumsiness?
She did not believe so. Otherwise, he would have questioned her.
The paper had not been on the floor before she and James hid behind the curtains. One of the men must have dropped it. She studied it carefully, searching for a pattern hidden in the seemingly random letters and numbers.
A faint mark on the corner caught her attention. Could it be . . . ?
Anticipation made the simple act of lighting the candle feel suddenly precarious.
She raised the scrap to the flame, careful to keep it far enough away that it could not catch fire.
Heat warmed her fingers as the smell of ink rose from the page.
The flame flickered behind the paper as an image slowly emerged in the bottom corner.
She gasped.
Before her, a serpent’s body coiled around an oak leaf in elegant loops, its tongue flicking toward the leaf’s tip, as though whispering a warning.
The pairing of the two images was striking: the oak leaf suggested honor; the serpent, cunning and deceit.
Kate withdrew the paper from the candle’s flame and knelt on the bed.
She traced the outline with her fingertip, the symbol unsettling her more than the words in the newspaper ever had.
In all the time she had spent decoding messages for Westmarch’s spies, Kate had never seen a series like the oak and serpent ones.
The first message in the newspaper’s poetry section, “The serpent waits beneath the oak’s proud shade,” had barely caught her notice.
Then another had appeared. And another. Each one with the same language, each growing darker, more insistent than the last, until she could no longer dismiss them as coincidence.
The latest one, “The oak’s shadow thins.
The serpent will strike soon,” carried an unmistakable warning.
She had written to Westmarch after the third message appeared, taking pains to mention only that an unusual pattern of messages had surfaced among the newspaper’s poetry submissions.
He had directed her to continue watching and report on future developments, but before she had anything more substantial to share, she had received a letter from him informing her that he would be absent from London for a time.
He had not given her a way to reach him, and now she had no one she could trust with the truth.
If only she knew how to contact the Fox. He was one of Westmarch’s most active agents, judging by the volume of messages she had decoded for him over the years. But all of their correspondence passed through Westmarch, who was fiercely protective of her identity.
Kate studied the torn paper more carefully, this time concentrating on the jumble of letters and numbers. They were smudged, and she had to squint to see them clearly.
The numbers suggested a transposition, the sort of cipher that would yield only to patience and precision.
Her mind immediately began sorting through the possibilities.
Based on what she had overheard in the library, she was nearly certain that once decoded, this cipher would reveal the location of the meeting the men had spoken of.
The meeting that would take place tomorrow night.
It was hard to believe that the men in the library, this haunting symbol, and the trail of messages that had drawn her to London were all linked. Only the note in Hugh’s saddlebags had allowed her to see the connection.
The realization struck hard enough that the paper slipped onto her lap.
Hugh was entangled in this, though she could not begin to guess how.
She suspected he had no true understanding of what he had stumbled into, and he was in far more danger than he knew.
She could not tell him the whole truth of things, but she needed to know what his part was in this affair.
Kate slipped off the bed, her feet protesting at the chilled floor as she walked to her writing desk.
Carefully opening the drawer and removing the lining of the secret compartment, she placed the scrap of paper inside with all the others.
She would have to finish decoding the meeting place later.
After closing the drawer, she pulled the bell for Tess. She needed to talk to her brother.
Tess slipped into her bedchamber and offered a short curtsy before pulling back the window curtains. The morning light was a pale, watery gray. Kate could not remember a winter with such relentless rain.
“Shall I prepare your morning dress, Lady Katherine?”
“Yes, please. Choose whatever you think best, Tess. There may be callers this afternoon, but hopefully they will oblige me by staying away.”
Kate leaned against the windowsill, but the gray clouds and misty street failed to hold her thoughts for long.
Her eyes locked on a cloaked figure standing near the garden fence.
He lifted his head directly toward her window, his dark eyes full of menace before disappearing into the shadow of the alleyway, a slight limp in his step.
No innocent explanation felt convincing enough.
Had the shadows from Wycliff’s library followed her to Brook Street?
Surely he was only a laborer pausing by the fence or a servant taking a brief rest.
Tess returned from the wardrobe carrying a blue morning dress with long sleeves. Kate’s mind wandered back to the image and the note from the library, only half listening to Tess’s chatter as her maid helped her dress.
“You seem jittery today, my lady. Is there . . . something amiss?” Even though they were the only two in the room, Tess kept her words vague. She had always been careful, never giving Kate a moment’s regret for confiding in her lady’s maid the true nature of Kate’s secret life.
“I am not certain yet. I need to speak with Hugh.”
As she approached his chambers, however, her father was closing her brother’s door behind him.
“Father, how is Hugh?”
“He is heavily sedated with laudanum.” Her father gave her a reassuring smile. “The doctor believes none of his ribs are broken, but the bruising is extremely painful. It shall likely be a few days yet before he awakes.”
A few days. Kate did not have that luxury. The meeting was tomorrow.
“Will you alert me if he wakes before then?”
“Of course, but please do not worry yourself. Hugh will recover in due time.”
He gently took her by the elbow and led her down the hallway.
“Your mother tells me we should expect several gentlemen callers this afternoon.” He chuckled at the grimace Kate could not keep from her face.
“My dear, your mother and I promised we would not force you into a marriage with James, or any other man, but if you dislike accepting gentleman callers, accepting James’s proposal would bring an end to it. ”
“I am well aware, Father, and I am grateful for your trust in allowing me to make my own decision.” She lifted the hem of her skirt as they descended the stairs. “I only require a little more time.”
He patted her hand lovingly. “I learned from your mother that a woman’s heart needs to be certain.”
If he knew her heart had chosen James long ago, he would not mistake her request for time as hesitation.
“Come, it will be several hours yet before your mother rises. Breakfast and the Morning Post will distract you from your worries.”
Neither the comfort of breakfast nor the newspaper kept Kate’s thoughts from returning to the library encounter and the mysterious image.
Nor did a morning walk with Tess or the book of poetry she pulled from her shelves.
At last, giving up any pretense of occupying herself, she excused herself and retreated to her chambers, determined to unravel the coded message on the torn scrap.
She sat at her small writing desk in deep concentration, books of ciphers and hastily scrawled notes scattered about when her mother came striding into her chambers, a whirl of maternal energy and concern. “Kate, dear, why are you still wearing that dress? Afternoon callers will be arriving soon.”
Kate hastily swept the papers under a book of sonnets. Only then did Kate notice how far the light at the window had shifted. Her mother hardly paused for breath as she pulled a primrose gown from Kate’s wardrobe.
“If the number of bouquets you received this morning is any indication, we can expect quite a few callers.”
There must have been more deliveries while Kate was upstairs. She briefly wondered if James had sent one but persuaded herself she did not care one way or the other.