go home with him.”
Lizzie’s mouth fell open. “Why?”
“Because I suspect the truth is rather more dangerous. Fetch the bandages and I’ll tell you.”
To avoid the landlady’s questions—asked with a mixture of avid curiosity, sympathy and disapproval—Lizzie pretended to understand less German than she actually did and returned almost gratefully to her victim’s room.
A bowl of gory red water stood on the wash stand which had been dragged over beside the bed. The tweezers and a small red ball had been dropped into it.
Lizzie felt queasy as she set her armful of bandages on the bed. “You got the ball out then,” she managed. The smoking man seemed to be sewing up her victim like a dress seam. She swallowed. “Will he live?”
Johnnie touched her shoulder. “He has a chance. It’s a pity there’s no doctor nearby, but Misha and I are quite used to dealing with such wounds. Our man is strong and fit, so his chances are better than most.”
With almost unconscious efficiency, Lizzie had begun to make a dressing for the wound. When Misha’s needlework was done, she placed it over the wound, running the bandages around his chest to hold everything in place, while Johnnie and Misha lifted the patient for her. That done, they settled him on the pillows and covered him with the crisp sheet and blankets.
“He’s very white,” Lizzie said doubtfully, sinking onto the bed beside her victim. She frowned. “Doesn’t the landlady think it odd that my brother is Austrian, while I speak so little German?”
“Clearly, he’s a half-brother,” Johnnie said.
“Clearly,” Lizzie agreed with a catch in her voice. She cleared her throat with determination. “So why did you make up this ridiculous story?”
“He has no identity papers with him,” Johnnie said, perching on the foot of the bed. “None at all. He arrived here shortly after we did and tried to take your bag when he saw the opportunity. He didn’t expect you to fight back. His coat is vile, I’ll grant you, but I suspect we’ll find a finer one in his possession. His shirt is of good quality, as were his breeches before we muddied them in our scrap.”
Lizzie dragged her gaze away from her victim, twisting around to look at Johnnie, instead. “Who is he?”
“I don’t know. But I suspect he’s an officer of Metternich’s secret police.”
Lizzie’s jaw dropped. She swallowed. “You mean I shot a policeman? Of rank?”
“Well, he’s not Baron Hager. He gets his hands dirty. But he’s not a ten-a-penny spy, either.”
“You can’t know this,” Lizzie protested. “It’s just as likely to be true as the story you made up about our elopement!”
“No,” Johnnie said with apparent regret. “Misha’s seen someone watching our rooms. And your house is almost certainly watched, from inside or out, because of your uncle’s position.”
“Oh no!” Lizzie stared at him. “Then he—this man whom I shot—knows all about the necklace and what we did?”
“I doubt he’s interested. State secrets are what interest him.”
“Well I have none of those and I very much doubt you do, either!”
“I think it’s our connection, from different camps, if you like, that probably drew his attention. I suspect we were seen in your carriage outside the theatre.”
“What do they think?” Lizzie demanded. “That I read all my uncle’s papers and pass the information to you?”
“Maybe.”
“Then who do you give it to?”
“Whoever pays me, I suppose.”
She frowned. “Where are you from, Johnnie? Which army were you in?”
For an instant she couldn’t understand, he hesitated, then he answered quite steadily, “The Russian army.”
She’d already suspected it. She seemed to have developed an unhealthy attraction to Russians of all ranks. Perhaps it made up for her un-Christian hatred of Ivan the Terrible.
“The thing is,” Johnnie said, “The Austrians have spies everywhere. The word is, no one of any
Lizzie’s mouth fell open. “Why?”
“Because I suspect the truth is rather more dangerous. Fetch the bandages and I’ll tell you.”
To avoid the landlady’s questions—asked with a mixture of avid curiosity, sympathy and disapproval—Lizzie pretended to understand less German than she actually did and returned almost gratefully to her victim’s room.
A bowl of gory red water stood on the wash stand which had been dragged over beside the bed. The tweezers and a small red ball had been dropped into it.
Lizzie felt queasy as she set her armful of bandages on the bed. “You got the ball out then,” she managed. The smoking man seemed to be sewing up her victim like a dress seam. She swallowed. “Will he live?”
Johnnie touched her shoulder. “He has a chance. It’s a pity there’s no doctor nearby, but Misha and I are quite used to dealing with such wounds. Our man is strong and fit, so his chances are better than most.”
With almost unconscious efficiency, Lizzie had begun to make a dressing for the wound. When Misha’s needlework was done, she placed it over the wound, running the bandages around his chest to hold everything in place, while Johnnie and Misha lifted the patient for her. That done, they settled him on the pillows and covered him with the crisp sheet and blankets.
“He’s very white,” Lizzie said doubtfully, sinking onto the bed beside her victim. She frowned. “Doesn’t the landlady think it odd that my brother is Austrian, while I speak so little German?”
“Clearly, he’s a half-brother,” Johnnie said.
“Clearly,” Lizzie agreed with a catch in her voice. She cleared her throat with determination. “So why did you make up this ridiculous story?”
“He has no identity papers with him,” Johnnie said, perching on the foot of the bed. “None at all. He arrived here shortly after we did and tried to take your bag when he saw the opportunity. He didn’t expect you to fight back. His coat is vile, I’ll grant you, but I suspect we’ll find a finer one in his possession. His shirt is of good quality, as were his breeches before we muddied them in our scrap.”
Lizzie dragged her gaze away from her victim, twisting around to look at Johnnie, instead. “Who is he?”
“I don’t know. But I suspect he’s an officer of Metternich’s secret police.”
Lizzie’s jaw dropped. She swallowed. “You mean I shot a policeman? Of rank?”
“Well, he’s not Baron Hager. He gets his hands dirty. But he’s not a ten-a-penny spy, either.”
“You can’t know this,” Lizzie protested. “It’s just as likely to be true as the story you made up about our elopement!”
“No,” Johnnie said with apparent regret. “Misha’s seen someone watching our rooms. And your house is almost certainly watched, from inside or out, because of your uncle’s position.”
“Oh no!” Lizzie stared at him. “Then he—this man whom I shot—knows all about the necklace and what we did?”
“I doubt he’s interested. State secrets are what interest him.”
“Well I have none of those and I very much doubt you do, either!”
“I think it’s our connection, from different camps, if you like, that probably drew his attention. I suspect we were seen in your carriage outside the theatre.”
“What do they think?” Lizzie demanded. “That I read all my uncle’s papers and pass the information to you?”
“Maybe.”
“Then who do you give it to?”
“Whoever pays me, I suppose.”
She frowned. “Where are you from, Johnnie? Which army were you in?”
For an instant she couldn’t understand, he hesitated, then he answered quite steadily, “The Russian army.”
She’d already suspected it. She seemed to have developed an unhealthy attraction to Russians of all ranks. Perhaps it made up for her un-Christian hatred of Ivan the Terrible.
“The thing is,” Johnnie said, “The Austrians have spies everywhere. The word is, no one of any
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