Page 45 of A Spy’s Guide to Seduction

“And then Mr. Talbot danced the second waltz with Marianne,” Lady Rivers was saying. “We thought perhaps we’d see your son there, Lady Strayde.”

Allegra gave her mother a quick pleading glance at the mention of Clive, but Lady Strayde was made of sterner stuff and simply said, “I’m sorry you missed him.”

Emily took a sip of the tea she’d been offered, looking about for some means of distraction that would bring the servants running. The tea tray sat securely on a low table. A pretty fire screen was in place, so she could hardly faint from the heat. Then she caught the younger of Lady Rivers’s daughters staring at the ring.

“You must wonder,” she said, “at my betrothed’s choice of ring.”

Lady Rivers gently pressed her daughter Marianne’s chin up, closing the girl’s astonished mouth.

“He brought it from Spain, and of course, it’s the history of the thing that made him think of it for me. But enough of my ring. I came to see how you were, Miss Walhouse, and whether you enjoyed Lady Vange’s ball.”

At the mention of the Vange ball it was Lady Rivers’s turn to stiffen. Emily’s remark had given a point to Lady Strayde. Allegra seized the conversational opening, pleased to name the partners she’d enjoyed after her dance with Lynley. Lady Rivers retaliated with a catalogue of morning callers and posies received by her two girls.

Emily looked about again. Really, she could not prolong the visit any further without straining the bonds of politeness. An extraordinarily ugly vase on the mantel caught her eye. She set her cup aside and considered whether the vase would break if it slipped from her hands to the carpet, or whether she might have to drop the thing on the tea table.

Just when she thought it must be the table, the door to the drawing room opened, and a large gray puppy with a black muzzle burst into the room and bounded toward Allegra, who jumped to her feet shrieking, “No, not my gown!”

A younger girl burst into the room after the dog. She called, “Come, Ulysses” to no avail.

Emily snatched a macaroon from the tea tray and called the dog. He heard his name, paused to look at her outstretched hand, and hurled himself her way. Emily stepped squarely in his path and let herself be knocked backward and down. The puppy pinned her skirts to the floor with wet, muddy paws, belatedly remembering his manners and coming to a sit. Emily tossed the macaroon in the direction of the tea table, and the puppy scrambled after it, circling the table madly, bumping against the corners, setting cups and saucers rattling, and leaving a muddy trail across the pale Aubusson carpet.

Lady Rivers’s daughters squealed and pulled their skirts close. Allegra wailed that the dog ruined everything. Lady Strayde signaled the girl at the door to pull the bell. Servants came running. Emily pulled herself to her feet and surveyed her ruined gown. She hoped Lynley knew what to do with his opportunity.

* * * *

At the tradesman’s entrance Lynley checked his watch, which assured him that more than twenty minutes had elapsed since Emily’s morning call had begun. He wondered if she’d lost her nerve. Then Wilde stuck his head out the door. “Quick,” he said with a grin. “The dog’s got into the drawing room. Ten minutes.”

Lynley followed Wilde through the kitchen to the servants’ stairs, scrambled up three flights to the bedroom floor, and slipped into the room that belonged to the absent Clive Walhouse. Closed drapery made the room dark and cool. The walls were pale gold above dark wood paneling, the hangings and drapery a deep green. The room smelled of dead coal fires, leather, and scent—a faintly familiar woman’s scent. It stopped Lynley just inside the door. He turned from the hearth and let his gaze sweep the room, passing over the mahogany desk with its large surface and three shallow drawers across the front. It had been searched. He had seen a list of the contents of the desk in a report: paper, pens, and pen-mending implements, an engagement calendar, and boxes of calling cards in neat order, a drawer filled with cards of invitation and another with unpaid bills from tradesmen.

He moved a few steps away from the hearth, trying to locate the source of the scent. There was a heavy opulence to the room, but few signs of Walhouse’s presence. A pair of silver trays, one on each bedside table, displayed combs and brushes and scent bottles.

Lynley lifted a lid and smelled the man’s pomade. It was not the scent that had teased his senses when he entered. It occurred to him that Walhouse would not be obvious. He had carried on as a spy under Chartwell’s nose, so he must have learned means of concealment.

Lynley went back to the door and waited for the elusive scent to reach him again. The room was too ordinary, too neat, too lacking in anything distinctive except for the few articles on the trays that suggested Walhouse’s vanity. Lynley could feel it. Walhouse expected to escape detection by appearing ordinary.

Lynley let his gaze wander again, looking for an object that was out of place, unexpected. Nothing caught his notice. He closed his eyes to concentrate on the scent. It was near and to his right. When he opened his eyes again, he noticed the umbrella stand next to the door, dark wood with a brass interior. A half dozen walking sticks and an umbrella stood there. The stand was quiet, unobtrusive, serviceable, meant to be overlooked.

Lynley leaned closer and caught the cloying floral scent. He grabbed the sticks and lifted them out of the stand. The black umbrella bulged oddly. He opened it and found a packet of papers bound to the shaft with black ribbon. Lynley untied the ribbon and grabbed hold of the packet. A sharp rap sounded on the door. He shoved the papers into his waistcoat. Wilde’s voice came from the hall. “Sir, time to go.”

As they came down the stairs, Lynley could hear a commotion in the kitchen, and Wilde indicated another passage. Lynley followed and they emerged under the stairs in the front entry. Above them someone was descending.

Lynley crossed the foyer to the door, turning to face whoever it was, as if he had just arrived. He looked up into a painted scene of battle with Lord Nelson peering down through his famous spyglass.

Then Emily appeared, her head high, her eyes dancing with mirth, her blue gown torn and streaked with mud. The butler and a footman followed after her.

“Oh, hello, Lynley.” She waved from above. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.” She came down the last flight.

“I’ve only just arrived,” he said, offering his arm.

While the butler hovered anxiously, Emily accepted her gloves and bonnet from the footman.

Lynley had hardly noticed her gown before, but now he saw how perfectly the blue gown’s simplicity suited her and how ruined it was. He handed her into the carriage and climbed in after her. “What happened to you? Apparently, you did not find any glassware to drop.”

She grinned at him. “I was luckier this time. There was an unexpected entrance of a mastiff pup in the drawing room. More to the point, did you find anything?”

“This,” he said. He undid the top buttons of his waistcoat and pulled out the bundle.

“What is it?” she asked. She lifted it to her nose and gave him a questioning glance. “Scented paper?”