Page 52 of The Scholar’s Spy

“Between that man’s greed and his rashness, I’m surprised I wasn’t quicker off the mark.”

“It seems I have my sister to thank for that. Abigail kept you distracted.” There was a notable amount of bitterness in her words. Robert knew that Miss Fossey had neither arranged nor been pleased by their dalliance.

“Where is she?” Robert doubted he could keep the desperation out of his voice, but he hoped it was not too obvious. The need to see Abigail had mounted day after day, until it seemed to be consuming him.

“I am hardly likely to let you near her again, given all she has told me, and if I were a man I would dearly love to challenge you to a duel.”

“I thought Punch could give as good as she got.”

Pivoting on her heel, Miss Fossey strode away from him down the busy London street, leaving Robert to chase after her. His hand shot out and grabbed her elbow, slowing her down next to a window display of rather tawdry-looking hats.

“I wouldn’t want to make a scene, but I would be well within my rights to arrest you. Treason, and selling state secrets would see you hang.”

Miss Fossey bit her bottom lip, and he saw her hand drift unconsciously toward the reticule she carried between gloved fingers.

Quick as a whippet, he snatched it from her fingers.

Robert stared at her, wondering if she would have simply threatened him, or done worse. Slowly, carefully he handed her reticule back to her.

“I don’t suppose it would matter to you, that it is only brandy I take in. I’ve never sold a state secret in my life, and I can vouch none of Pinhayers have either.”

“It does not matter in the slightest to me. Smuggling all goes to support the enemy.”

“An enemy my sister would dearly like to engage philosophical questions with.”

Abigail had wanted to see Paris, unaware or uninterested in the idea of Napoleone, her scientific mind focused on far more than the Empire building. To Abigail, such things were petty squabbles compared to the amazing discoveries like her sea creature or the papers her French scholars were writing. He could not help but smile at Abigail’s sheer single mindedness. He had never had he had met a person, like his Abigail, who would dare everything for such a specific chance at glory.

“Abigail does not deserve to be tainted by your terrible associations.”

Something must have shown in his face, because Miss Fossey’s eyes widened, shock mingling over her features. “You love her.”

Again, Miss Fossey had posed a statement rather than a question and Robert would have liked to ignore her. His professionalism told him he had to lie, but instead the words slipped out, “I do.”

“Then you are in a bind, Captain. I have my doubts that my sister would wed you now. She certainly has cursed your name until I thought she might turn blue,” Miss Judith said this was a degree of satisfaction that annoyed Robert immensely, “but I feel I should warn you. She would never accept that you were guilty of putting every remaining member of her family under the charge of treason.”

“I feared that might be the case.”

“As I said, you are in a fix…” Miss Judith sighed.

“And you have no inclination to help me.”

“I don’t like you.”

“A sentiment I vehemently share.”

With a shake of her head, more directed it seemed against herself than against him, Miss Judith drew out a piece of paper and held before him a business card. “It seems you have a choice before you, Captain. Either you can arrest me or you can go find my sister. I know she will be at this address for the rest of the day.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Abigail stared around the impressively grand chamber. The very wallpaper was inlaid with gold and rich scarlet, and there was the faint expensive scent of bergamot and the faint scent of snuff lingering in the air. She had been envisioning this interaction for years. On occasion she had thought perhaps she had been picturing this for all of her life, and most of her father’s—when he realized he wasn’t going to have a son, and she was his best chance of success.

Glancing at her father’s friend, Mr. Buckhurst, she straightened her own shoulders, as the gentleman was looking nervous enough for the pair of them. Most of the time Abigail could not fathom the emotions of wider circles of society, but the entire carriage over to Piccadilly to Burlington House, Buckhurst had stated and restated his nerves, so she could be in no doubt of his twisting hands and constant swallowing. If she had to hear again, how this was ‘most unnatural’, or ‘not what was expected’ she might scream.

“I wish to thank Mr. Buckhurst for bringing me here today,” Abigail said as she looked around the assembled throng of men. It had taken over a week to convince Mr. Buckhurst to do so, but Abigail knew all too well how much these gentlemen, and men in general liked it if women seemed grateful.

Those assembled here today were at least a generation or even two older than Abigail.

Some of them wore glasses, others had thick whiskers down the side of their faces, however each and every one of them were frowning at her. It was evident that they agreed with the sentiments that Mr. Buckhurst had expressed in the journey over here. There was an outbreak of muttering, not dissimilar to catty remarks Abigail sometimes heard amongst Lyme’s worst gossips.