The Devil's Company by David Liss Page B

voice said.

    I looked up and saw the young woman who’d given me her candle looking down at me with an entirely understandable curiosity.

    I HAVE BEEN, I admit, in difficult situations before and one does not survive them without an ability to improvise upon the moment. Rather than suggest she call the estate guardians to take me to the nearest constable, instead I begged her to bring her light down to the floor. While she did so, I slipped a pen knife from my pocket and slid it under the desk. While she held the light for me, I went through the motions of finding it and then rose to a more dignified position.

    “Thank you, my dear,” I said. “That knife, while it may look like a trivial thing, belonged to my father, and I should have hated to lose it.”

    “Perhaps if you had not extinguished your own candle,” she suggested.

    “Ah, well, it was a bit of a disaster. My candle went out, I dropped my knife—you know how such things go. One little accident leads to another.”

    “Who are you, sir?” she asked, peering more closely at me now. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.”

    “Yes, I am rather new here. I’m Mr. Ward,” I said, hardly knowing why the name of that scandalous poet rose to my mind before all others. “I am a new clerk in the service of Mr. Ambrose Ellershaw. I’ve not seen you before either.”

    “I am here most regularly, I assure you.” She set down the candle but continued to stare.

    “Please sit, miss …” I let my voice trail off.

    “Miss Glade,” she said. “Celia Glade.”

    I bowed at her and then we stood together, somewhat awkwardly. “I am pleased to meet you, Miss Glade.” Who, I wondered, could this woman be? Her mode of speech was most proper, and she sounded nothing at all like a servant. Could she be some sort of a female clerk? Was it possible that the East India Company held to such modern notions?

    My confusion was not a little increased by the impropriety of being in so dark and private a space with a remarkably attractive woman of apparent breeding.

    “Mr. Ward, what brings you to Mr. Ellershaw’s office this night? Would you not rather be outside watching the silk weavers toss manure at the guards?”

    “It is a temptation, I am sure, but I must sacrifice my pleasure for my work. Mr. Ellershaw, whom you know to be out of town for another two days, has asked me to review his report to the Court of Proprietors. I left for the day and was prepared to go home when I recollected the report and thought to come back, take it, and review it this night in my rooms. And then I dropped my knife and so forth. But I’m glad to have you here to help me relight my candle.”

    I lifted my taper and allowed my wick to touch hers, and the gesture felt to me so ripe with amorous suggestion that I feared that more than wick and wax might burst into flame. I set the candle down. “Now, if only I could recollect where Mr. Ellershaw said he put the devilish thing. Pardon the coarseness of my language, Miss Glade.”

    She let out a musical laugh. “Think nothing of it. I work among men and hear that sort of talk all the day. Now, as for that document.” She rose and approached the desk, moving into such close quarters with me that I could smell the womanly scent of her. She slid open one of the desk drawers and withdrew from it a leather packet thick with papers. “I believe this is Mr. Ellershaw’s report to the Court of Proprietors. It is a rather lengthy document. You’ll be up rather late if you review it tonight. You might be wise to leave it here and read it in the morning.”

    I took it from her hand. How could she know of its location? Presumably, my lady clerk theory had proved well founded. “In the morning I shall have other work that requires my attention. I thank you for your concern, however.” I rose, and she backed off accordingly.

    With the packet tucked under my arm and one of the candles in my hand, I approached the