Page 48 of The Wallflower Ruse

“A scholarly sort whose father was French and his mother English,” Cecil said. “He doesn’t favor either side, but will do what he can to prevent chaos in England—or so Davis explains it. The fellow has contacts—friends, relations, colleagues—who want just the opposite. His messages have proven useful so far.”

“But...isn’t there a danger he will be found out if we scotch their plans?”

“Yes, but that’s one of the risks of espionage. We can’t protect everyone,” Restive said.

“However, in the hope that he will continue to be of use, we try to be particularly careful,” Cecil said. “To prevent whatever they’re planning without revealing that we were informed ahead of time.”

Oh. “That’s why you were upset about my conversation with Mr. Pearce,” she said in a small voice.

“You weren’t to know,” Cecil said.

“You might have told her,” Dorothea said.

“You’re right, we might have,” Restive said. “But more importantly, Lucy, I feared for your safety.”

He called me by my nickname, just like when we were children, Lucinda said to herself in bed that night, wondering what it meant. Probably nothing. He’d reverted to formality a few days ago, so perhaps he’d forgotten to maintain that distance. Or was trying to lull her into relaxing with him. Or was just concerned for her—and nowhere near the rake he’d seemed to be.

She gave up on trying to analyze Restive and went to sleep, and woke the next morning determined not to think about him. Nor to worry about him going deliberately into the location of a dangerous plot that very evening.

And to wonder, if they identified the plotters, how they would prevent them, without the scandal of arrest and trial, from involving themselves in further plots. Short of killing them...

She shuddered. Visions of so-called accidents filled her mind. She imagined poor Mr. Pearce dead before his time, his mother overwhelmed with grief.

Not only that, if several plotters were identified and they all died, surely that would warn their collaborators in France, or at least rouse their suspicions that someone had informed on them. It was all most worrisome.

She coded several messages and gave them to Cecil. She found a volume of Virgil, but couldn’t keep her mind on it. She drank tea and tried reading Gulliver’s Travels, but she hadn’t enjoyed it much the first time, and nothing had changed.

She heard the arrival of Restive, who went to consult with Cecil in the library. Frustration at being left out, at doing nothing useful, gnawed at her.

And then, suddenly, everything became much, much worse. She and Dorothea were having tea and cakes, when a message arrived from Sir Frederick Darsington.

“Oh, no,” Dorothea said, scanning the message. “My mother is very ill, and Papa says Cecil and I must go there immediately. He will follow tomorrow, if he can.” She tsked. “He feels obliged to stay here, to deal with any unforeseen consequences of the masquerade.”

She hurried from the room, calling for Cecil, and Lucinda followed to hover in the doorway of the library. Cecil read the message and passed it to Restive. “Inconvenient, but you don’t need me here.”

“What shall we do with Lucy?” Dorothea said. “She can’t stay here. The housekeeper has just taken a couple of days leave to visit her daughter, and the footmen will be at the masquerade, pretending to be extra help for the occasion.”

Lucinda opened her mouth to protest that she would do fine without those servants, but Dorothea forestalled her. “Restive, could she perhaps stay with Lady Alice for a while?”

“No,” Restive said. “Lady Alice is laid low with one of her megrims that last for days. A pity, but your cook and housemaid are not sufficient guardians for a young lady, particularly one who is planning to run away to God knows where.”

“I’m not a child,” Lucinda hurried into the room. “Nor am I really planning to run away, as you know perfectly well. I’m not in any danger.”

“Perhaps, but since Pearce knows of your supposed plan, I’m unwilling to take a chance with your safety. You’ll have to return to your mother.”

“To my mother?” Lucinda cried.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Restive said. “There is no choice.”

“I’m sorry, Lucy, but you may return here later,” Dorothea said. “My mother’s illness may not prove to be serious, in which case we’ll be back in no time.”

“Thank you, Dot,” she said politely, then returned to glaring at Restive. “I don’t see why I would be any safer with my mother that I would be here.”

“Your mother has a butler, a couple of footmen, and several other servants. All you must do is remain indoors for a day or two, maybe several, until this situation has been dealt with. I’ll have a man keep watch nearby, just in case.”

“In other words, you are making me a prisoner. Perhaps you should advise my mother to put me on bread and water rations—it’s what she always threatens to do, so why not?”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad,” Dorothea began.