Joanna Bourne - Rogue Spy

“A coin, probably, under the shoe. It’s very convincing and does little harm. Do you think a Baldoni ever worked for the British Service at some point? You seem to know a lot of the family secrets.”

“I wouldn’t be at all surprised.”

When they got close enough, Hawker looked up and was amiable, pretending to a slight acquaintance. The hoof was returned to the pavement. The hat was tipped. Hawk was gallant in Cami’s direction. Cami smiled and twirled her parasol and was bitingly sarcastic.

“Next street up,” Hawker said, shaking his head as if he were handing over bad news about the horse, “the hackney’s pulled over to the curb. Tenn’s on the box. Doyle’s waiting for you inside. Last-minute advice.”

Beside him, Cami constructed a tight little smile. “I will excuse myself, then. I have no wish to meet Mr. Doyle again.”

Hawker said, “Leave her here with me. I’ll take care of her.”

Cami waited till Pax was out of hearing range. Then she turned to this Service agent, Mr. Hawker. She said, “If you have something to say to me you don’t want Pax to hear, this is as good a time as any.”

He leaned against the horse, arms folded. They had patient horses in whatever stable the British Service used. She wondered what the stable owners thought of all the horses lost and injured by Service agents over the years. Did the British Service come up with excuse after excuse or did they change livery stables with some frequency?

Hawker said, “There’s a puzzle that’s been bothering me. That house—Number Fifty-six—means nothing. Semple Street means nothing.”

She said, “That is a brilliant summation of my own views.”

“But the Merchant wants to meet you there. Why is that, Miss Baldoni?”

“Because life is not tediously predictable, Mr. Hawker. Maybe his tailor lives there.”

“Or maybe you were told to lure Pax out where he’ll be easy to kill.”

That hadn’t occurred to her, not once. “You think I’m setting a trap for Pax.”

“Who tells us what the Merchant said?” Hawker stepped toward her suddenly, ignoring the horse sidling behind him. “One person. You can say anything you want, can’t you?”

She stood with him, eye to eye. Not a tall man, Mr. Hawker. “More than that. I can say anything I want and be believed. I’m Baldoni.”

“And a liar from the cradle.”

“I sucked it in with my mother’s milk.” She faced him and waited.

“Pax moves around a lot and he works on his own. Hard to trace. Hard to predict. Maybe your job is to bring him out in the open tomorrow for the Merchant to kill.”

“A bit overelaborate, Mr. Hawker. Why would I do that?”

“You’re a French spy.”

“Not French, Mr. Hawker. Tuscan.” She rolled her shoulders in a shrug and turned away. “And I don’t spy for the French.”

“You’re Caché.” Hawker’s voice was sharp as thorns. “That’s close enough. The only reason I don’t use this”—the knife was a blur of black that whipped toward her till it was a cold prick at her jugular—“is that Pax wouldn’t like it.” The knife stayed where it was. He leaned closer and whispered, “If you hurt him again, I’ll carve that pretty face of yours into ribbons.”

She said, “Look down.”

A second passed before he dropped his eyes. He’d already figured it out.

Her pretty yellow parasol with the delicate flounces now ended in a six-inch steel spike, sharpened to a dagger point. It touched his chest, right below the heart.

Baldoni don’t let their eyes talk about what their hands are doing. Whoever had spawned this dangerous boy held the same views. Nothing at all moved in his eyes.

He let the knife drop from one hand and caught it with the other. He stowed it away in the inner recesses of his jacket, point downward. He said, “If I came after you, I’d pick a moment when you’re not armed.”

“You’re a bloodthirsty fellow.” She slid the catch of the parasol back into place and retracted the spike. “If I ever decide you need killing—and I might make that decision any minute now—I’ll do it with a rifle from some distance. From behind.”

“Like a good Baldoni.”

“No. A good Baldoni would do creative things with your organs of generation while you were still breathing, then mutilate your corpse and leave it for your friends to find. Baldoni don’t waste a death.” She tapped the parasol lightly, making sure the trigger mechanism was locked.

“You’re good,” Hawker said. “If you wanted to kill Pax, he’d be dead. If you wanted to blind him, he’d be blind.”

“He’s safe from me.” Lifting her head, she saw Pax coming toward her in long, loose strides, looking neither left nor right. Coming to her. She said, “And I’m safe from you till I bring the Merchant out of hiding. After that . . . I fear I may suffer some unfortunate accident. Maybe you’ll get that job. You seem suited to it.”

“Is that what you think?” Hawker watched her steadily. “But you’ll be there tomorrow, won’t you, to do your dance with the Merchant?”

“Yes.”

He nodded once, as if he’d proved something. “Then I’ll get you away from Semple Street if the Service decides to arrest you. Be ready.”

Midnight. Pax made himself a shadow down the alley and along the back wall of the Baldoni household. It was a high stone wall with glass on top. He slung his coat over to ease the way. He was soft and silent landing inside the yard.

The yard looked empty. The lantern hung at the kitchen door still left big pools of dark to hide in. No dogs came sniffing to investigate him. To all appearances, the Baldoni household slept, peaceful and unguarded . . . tonight, when the Merchant was loose in London and Cami lay in bed upstairs.

No. He didn’t believe it.

Somebody was awake in this yard, watching and waiting. More than one, probably.

And his instincts said he, in particular, was expected. So he’d arrive, as expected.

He didn’t bother being surreptitious through the yard. He passed the old stable—the beasts needed for tomorrow were breathing in the stalls. By some family tradition, youthful Baldoni males slept separate from the house, above the stable in what had been the grooms’ quarters. Beyond that, the long shed held a pony cart. They’d be rolling that out before it was light.

Usually he didn’t make a lot of noise walking. Tonight he clicked his boots down enough so he wouldn’t surprise anybody. Other nights, on other forays, into other strongholds, he’d take an hour to cross thirty feet. He’d locate the guards and dispose of them, one by one. He’d ease his way by unexpected routes past them, around them, behind them. Tonight he didn’t have to bother with any of that.

He walked into the center of the . . . he was calling it a courtyard in his mind. The Baldoni stamped their opinion so firmly on the yard that it struggled to be orderly and beautiful, even in the dreary climate of London.

Cami’s window was lit softly, glowing with only a hearth fire inside, no welcoming lamp. But she was waiting for him.

Bernardo Baldoni stepped out of the oblong darkness of the kitchen doorway. It was no surprise to see the old man. No surprise at all.

“You’ve chosen an unusual place to take the night air, Mr. Paxton,” Bernardo said.

“You as well. Were you waiting for me?”

“Let us say I came outside for one last smoke before retiring.” Bernardo came forward till they stood a few feet apart. He carried a cheroot—a small, neat, expensive one—cupped in the hand that held it so the red glowing tip didn’t show. He held it up. “May I offer you one?”

“I never acquired the habit.”

“The life you lead affords few indulgences.” Bernardo raised the cheroot, breathed in, held the smoke a moment, and breathed out. When Bernardo spoke again, it was to change the subject. “I saw your sketch of the Merchant. You’re a very good artist.”

“Thank you.”

They seemed to be alone. At least, he didn’t feel any other watchers. No itch between his shoulder blades. No tug at his attention from one window or the other. The night felt empty, except for him and Bernardo.

Bernardo said, “Your work is particularly impressive for a man who has had so little leisure to practice the arts of peace.”

“Chalks and ink are portable. I find time to sketch.”

“Your lethal skills are also portable.” Bernardo gestured, leaving a thin line of red on the night where his hand passed.

If Bernardo was taking a roundabout route to warn him away from Cami, he was wasting his time. “Cami knows what I am. If you want to warn her about me, wait till after tomorrow. She has enough on her plate.”

“We will not disturb her peace of mind tonight, of all nights.” Bernardo was silhouetted from the side as he glanced toward the window where Cami slept. “The Baldoni have a long memory, back to the days when the great Medici ruled Florence and made it the most beautiful and dangerous city in Europe. The Tuscans understand the man of action who is also an artist. The man of death who also creates beauty.”

Nothing he could say to that. A light Italian shrug seemed the appropriate answer.

He understood the intertwining of art and violence. There’d been days in the mountains when he and his men paralleled the advance of the French, walking through the burned-out villages the invaders had left in their wake. He’d sit in an empty stable or lean against the wall of a goatherd’s hut, lost in drawing some small, everyday thing—a broken mug, an old man’s left hand, a pair of boots. Maybe it had kept him sane.