Newbury, his tone neutral. He knew how to play this game. He bowed briefly, putting his hand on Bainbridge’s shoulder and urging him to bow as well. He could feel his friend trembling in anger. He gripped his shoulder all the more firmly, reassuring, but cautionary, too.
Without another word, the two men turned and left the audience chamber, leaving the Queen to revel in her solitude in the heart of her slowly receding globe of lantern light.
* * *
Bainbridge did not say another word until they were standing in the courtyard of the palace beside their brougham cab, not even a civil word to Sandford as he collected their coats and ushered them out with a strained smile. Sandford had once been an agent himself. He had long since retired from active duty, but Newbury knew that he understood all too well the Queen’s temperamental nature and what it was like to be on the receiving end of her wrath.
Bainbridge shot a glance at Newbury, his moustache quivering with barely concealed rage. “I … I…” he stammered loudly, struggling to give shape to his words.
“Contain yourself, Charles. The walls here have ears. Let us repair to Chelsea where we can discuss the matter in private,” said Newbury, his voice firm.
“Must we?” said Bainbridge, bristling with frustration. “That damnable opium fog that lingers in your rooms leaves me feeling quite queasy, Newbury. I don’t know how you live with it.” He banged his cane decidedly on the ground. “No. Let us repair to my house, where at least there’s clean air and somewhere to actually sit down.”
Newbury raised a single eyebrow in surprise. “Very well,” he said, “But we must send for Miss Hobbes when we arrive.”
“Quite so, Newbury,” replied Bainbridge, yanking open the door of the cab and bustling up the iron steps. “Quite so.”
With a sigh, Newbury spoke a few hasty words with the driver and then followed Bainbridge into the conveyance, closing the door behind himself. Bainbridge was glaring out of the window at the palace, his fists clenched on his lap.
It was going to be an interesting afternoon.
CHAPTER
10
“God damn it!”
Bainbridge swung his cane viciously at the side table in the hallway of his home, shattering a vase and sending a notebook and a sheaf of papers sprawling across the floor. “God damn it!” he repeated angrily.
He threw his cane on top of the heaped detritus and stormed off into the depths of the house, bellowing loudly for his housekeeper.
Newbury stood for a moment in the hallway, taking stock. He’d never seen his friend in such a foul mood, nor his face that particular shade of cerise, but then, he’d never seen him treated with such terrible disdain, either. Bainbridge’s reaction might have been funny if the circumstances were different, but the Queen—for whom Bainbridge had always maintained the utmost respect—had placed him in an impossible position.
Everything he was working for, the links he’d been building with men like Angelchrist for nearly a year, she had questioned. Worse, she had implied that Bainbridge had actively sought to associate with traitors. This left him no room to manoeuvre, since the Queen was not to be proven wrong, whatever the truth of the matter. Bainbridge would have to sever his links with the government agency, or else risk everything: not only his relationship with the Queen, but his career, and possibly even his life. Newbury fully expected Bainbridge to do as the Queen had commanded—he was a loyal man, and she had left him with little choice—but he would do it reluctantly.
He could hear Bainbridge now, barking at his valet, Clarkson, in the kitchen. The poor man wouldn’t know what had hit him. Newbury wasn’t overly familiar with the valet. In fact, it was rare that he found himself in Bainbridge’s home—he could probably count the occasions he had visited on both hands. Typically they met in Chelsea, or the White Friar’s, or else
Without another word, the two men turned and left the audience chamber, leaving the Queen to revel in her solitude in the heart of her slowly receding globe of lantern light.
* * *
Bainbridge did not say another word until they were standing in the courtyard of the palace beside their brougham cab, not even a civil word to Sandford as he collected their coats and ushered them out with a strained smile. Sandford had once been an agent himself. He had long since retired from active duty, but Newbury knew that he understood all too well the Queen’s temperamental nature and what it was like to be on the receiving end of her wrath.
Bainbridge shot a glance at Newbury, his moustache quivering with barely concealed rage. “I … I…” he stammered loudly, struggling to give shape to his words.
“Contain yourself, Charles. The walls here have ears. Let us repair to Chelsea where we can discuss the matter in private,” said Newbury, his voice firm.
“Must we?” said Bainbridge, bristling with frustration. “That damnable opium fog that lingers in your rooms leaves me feeling quite queasy, Newbury. I don’t know how you live with it.” He banged his cane decidedly on the ground. “No. Let us repair to my house, where at least there’s clean air and somewhere to actually sit down.”
Newbury raised a single eyebrow in surprise. “Very well,” he said, “But we must send for Miss Hobbes when we arrive.”
“Quite so, Newbury,” replied Bainbridge, yanking open the door of the cab and bustling up the iron steps. “Quite so.”
With a sigh, Newbury spoke a few hasty words with the driver and then followed Bainbridge into the conveyance, closing the door behind himself. Bainbridge was glaring out of the window at the palace, his fists clenched on his lap.
It was going to be an interesting afternoon.
CHAPTER
10
“God damn it!”
Bainbridge swung his cane viciously at the side table in the hallway of his home, shattering a vase and sending a notebook and a sheaf of papers sprawling across the floor. “God damn it!” he repeated angrily.
He threw his cane on top of the heaped detritus and stormed off into the depths of the house, bellowing loudly for his housekeeper.
Newbury stood for a moment in the hallway, taking stock. He’d never seen his friend in such a foul mood, nor his face that particular shade of cerise, but then, he’d never seen him treated with such terrible disdain, either. Bainbridge’s reaction might have been funny if the circumstances were different, but the Queen—for whom Bainbridge had always maintained the utmost respect—had placed him in an impossible position.
Everything he was working for, the links he’d been building with men like Angelchrist for nearly a year, she had questioned. Worse, she had implied that Bainbridge had actively sought to associate with traitors. This left him no room to manoeuvre, since the Queen was not to be proven wrong, whatever the truth of the matter. Bainbridge would have to sever his links with the government agency, or else risk everything: not only his relationship with the Queen, but his career, and possibly even his life. Newbury fully expected Bainbridge to do as the Queen had commanded—he was a loyal man, and she had left him with little choice—but he would do it reluctantly.
He could hear Bainbridge now, barking at his valet, Clarkson, in the kitchen. The poor man wouldn’t know what had hit him. Newbury wasn’t overly familiar with the valet. In fact, it was rare that he found himself in Bainbridge’s home—he could probably count the occasions he had visited on both hands. Typically they met in Chelsea, or the White Friar’s, or else
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