disappeared into the staff dining room, none the wiser, and Gigi hoped she led him a very merry dance.
As she sent Rob up with the tarts and cream, and then the coffee, she wondered how she could word a note to Dervish that would force him to respond without giving herself away. And where she should ask him to drop the note off.
Somewhere easy for her to get to, but which wouldn’t lead back to Aldridge House.
The cracks and loose bricks in the wall near Goldfern’s garden door would be easy to get to unseen, and Goldfern was surely a place the mysterious D. would find a reasonable drop-off. It also had no direct connection to Aldridge.
She would need to find the courage to walk down that dark alley again.
She made the brioche dough automatically, thinking of what the note should say. When she was done and standing at the sink to wash her hands, she realized the maids had already done the dishes and gone up, and Rob and Harry were back from their serving duties and talking quietly in the dining room over coffee and apple tart.
She finished her breakfast preparations and went to her room, sinking down on the little chair by her desk with relief.
It felt almost too good to be off her feet. She didn’t want to stand up again and walk to Dervish’s to deliver a note without being seen.
She knew it was cold outside, and from the sigh of rain onthe high kitchen windows it was wet as well. And someone wanted her dead.
She hugged herself, trying to stop a shiver. She could see her father: body crumpled on the cold ground, open eyes staring sightlessly at the silver-rimmed clouds.
She hadn’t looked at the letter he’d died for. She’d been conditioned by years with her father to leave it alone.
But if she was to have any chance of convincing Dervish to reply to her note, she needed to know what the letter contained. And if she was going to risk her life for it, she needed to understand what the stakes were.
The letter isolated her from every acquaintance her parents knew, because she could only give it to the right person. And with the shadow man circling, unknown and disguised, she had the feeling she would only have one chance to get it right.
She flipped her skirt up over her knees and then lifted the hem of her petticoats. Felt for the crackle of paper and slipped the letter out of its secret pocket.
She reached for the small silver paper knife that had been her father’s gift in celebration of her first published journal article, and hesitated.
He wouldn’t be happy about her doing this. She sighed and, in one smooth move, broke the wax seal and opened the letter.
Then read the contents with a buzz in her head.
The Russians were saying they were prepared to break with France and join Britain. The signature at the end of thepage made her blink. No wonder men were prepared to kill for this.
She pulled out a piece of paper with shaking hands and wrote a draft to Dervish, then another and another, until at last she thought she had it right. Then she took a fresh piece and wrote the note out in simple, neutral script. She folded it, waxed it closed, and gnawed on her thumbnail for a while, considering what she should put on the front.
What would get the note brought to his attention immediately? Make him open it as a matter of priority?
If he was the mysterious D., she knew a surefire way. If he wasn’t. . . . She rubbed at her brow and then wrote carefully in Russian:
A most urgent communication for D.
With the Russian letter safely back in its hiding place and her letter for Dervish in her coat, Gigi dug in her trunks for the heavy, fur-lined cloak her father had bought her in Finland. She fastened it around her shoulders, but left the hood down as she stepped into the kitchen.
Rob and Harry were still in the dining room, and she took the stairs to the back door quietly, unlocked it, and slipped the key in her pocket again.
She was grateful for the cloak as a sharp, rain-laden wind hit her when
As she sent Rob up with the tarts and cream, and then the coffee, she wondered how she could word a note to Dervish that would force him to respond without giving herself away. And where she should ask him to drop the note off.
Somewhere easy for her to get to, but which wouldn’t lead back to Aldridge House.
The cracks and loose bricks in the wall near Goldfern’s garden door would be easy to get to unseen, and Goldfern was surely a place the mysterious D. would find a reasonable drop-off. It also had no direct connection to Aldridge.
She would need to find the courage to walk down that dark alley again.
She made the brioche dough automatically, thinking of what the note should say. When she was done and standing at the sink to wash her hands, she realized the maids had already done the dishes and gone up, and Rob and Harry were back from their serving duties and talking quietly in the dining room over coffee and apple tart.
She finished her breakfast preparations and went to her room, sinking down on the little chair by her desk with relief.
It felt almost too good to be off her feet. She didn’t want to stand up again and walk to Dervish’s to deliver a note without being seen.
She knew it was cold outside, and from the sigh of rain onthe high kitchen windows it was wet as well. And someone wanted her dead.
She hugged herself, trying to stop a shiver. She could see her father: body crumpled on the cold ground, open eyes staring sightlessly at the silver-rimmed clouds.
She hadn’t looked at the letter he’d died for. She’d been conditioned by years with her father to leave it alone.
But if she was to have any chance of convincing Dervish to reply to her note, she needed to know what the letter contained. And if she was going to risk her life for it, she needed to understand what the stakes were.
The letter isolated her from every acquaintance her parents knew, because she could only give it to the right person. And with the shadow man circling, unknown and disguised, she had the feeling she would only have one chance to get it right.
She flipped her skirt up over her knees and then lifted the hem of her petticoats. Felt for the crackle of paper and slipped the letter out of its secret pocket.
She reached for the small silver paper knife that had been her father’s gift in celebration of her first published journal article, and hesitated.
He wouldn’t be happy about her doing this. She sighed and, in one smooth move, broke the wax seal and opened the letter.
Then read the contents with a buzz in her head.
The Russians were saying they were prepared to break with France and join Britain. The signature at the end of thepage made her blink. No wonder men were prepared to kill for this.
She pulled out a piece of paper with shaking hands and wrote a draft to Dervish, then another and another, until at last she thought she had it right. Then she took a fresh piece and wrote the note out in simple, neutral script. She folded it, waxed it closed, and gnawed on her thumbnail for a while, considering what she should put on the front.
What would get the note brought to his attention immediately? Make him open it as a matter of priority?
If he was the mysterious D., she knew a surefire way. If he wasn’t. . . . She rubbed at her brow and then wrote carefully in Russian:
A most urgent communication for D.
With the Russian letter safely back in its hiding place and her letter for Dervish in her coat, Gigi dug in her trunks for the heavy, fur-lined cloak her father had bought her in Finland. She fastened it around her shoulders, but left the hood down as she stepped into the kitchen.
Rob and Harry were still in the dining room, and she took the stairs to the back door quietly, unlocked it, and slipped the key in her pocket again.
She was grateful for the cloak as a sharp, rain-laden wind hit her when
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