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Gambit didn’t try to suppress his genuine delight at seeing Catherine waiting outside of the restaurant where he’d invited her to join him for lunch on Monday. He had been replaying parts of Thursday night over and over in his mind, wondering if there was any chance of repeating the experience with her. Because he was under orders to explain the case to her, he had decided lunch was safer than dinner. But there would be nothing wrong with spending the afternoon together should it come to that. Judging from Catherine’s smile back at him he grew optimistic about the rest of the day. Unless once she knows what I’m about she loses interest, he reflected in an unusual moment of insecurity.
“And your government authorized selling top secret information to expose the seller and buyer?” Catherine asked a while later. She could not conceal her skepticism.
“Not exactly,” Gambit smiled. “When they finally get around to enlarging the dot and constructing the device described in the plans they’ll end up with an extremely powerful blender.”
Catherine rolled her eyes.
She had not expected this when Gambit invited her to lunch – he had seemed to be enjoying the game they were playing as much as she was. She wasn’t quite sure what to do about honesty, especially from a spy. Assuming what he’d told her was the truth and not a fabrication to manipulate her in some as yet unforeseen way. Her lips curled in an ironic smile at that thought. She decided to be blunt.
“Why have you told me this?” she asked. You removed our excuse to go to bed together again. She added silently, and wondered at herself for needing an excuse.
Discomfort flashed across Gambit’s face, quickly replaced by an enigmatic expression.
It is a lie! she thought, eyes narrowing at him. Perhaps there was more to learn from him.
“We don’t want to interfere with your investigation,” he said.
She chuckled, “And you don’t want me interfering with yours,” she concluded. His nod and wry smile confirmed it, but she still suspected the spy’s motivation was self-interest – his people did not care about her success.
“At least this explains the exorbitant price for that painting,” she said, watching him carefully. He had not explained why Emma Knight Steed had donated her painting to their cause – assuming she was aware of the plot. “Charity or not, it was not worth that price.”
Gambit grinned at her, “And you’re offended by the inflation of the value of the artist’s work?”
She smirked at him, knowing that such a motivation was petty compared to national security.
* * *
Nancy Belmont could have sworn that the temperature in her gallery dropped a few degrees when the tall, svelte redhead strode in. Her short tweed jacket was thrown over her shoulders, the slim matching skirt just brushing her knees. Her stockings glistened with the shimmer of high quality. Her shoes, Nancy knew at a glance because she had been drooling over a pair like them in a shop window for weeks, were hand made Italian.
When she stood up behind her desk and extended her hand to greet the insurance investigator her own discount shop shoes dug mercilessly into her toes. Catherine shook her hand and perched herself on the black leather and chrome straight-backed guest chair.
“Are you insured, Miss Belmont?” Catherine asked, turning her head to scan the open gallery space. The many hanging panels had been restocked with paintings by three of the artists Nancy represented. Only a few were Emma’s work – Nancy’s inventory had been vastly depleted at the auction.
She had not expected an insurance sales pitch, if that was the point of Miss Banning’s question.
“Yes. With Lloyds,” she replied. Catherine nodded, her expression unreadable. “But the Steed painting left our coverage as soon as Mr. Bray took it out of the gallery,” she added. “If he’d had it delivered we’d have covered that, of course, but – .”
“Yes, I know,” Catherine interrupted her. “I am not here to dispute coverage of the work. My people will honor Mr. Bray’s request to add it to his policy since it was made before the work was stolen and before he died.”
Nancy nodded. She hadn’t known that Bray had taken care of this detail and she was relieved to find out.
“But you’re really more interested in the other paintings that were stolen, aren’t you?” she asked. Catherine hesitated, watching her for a moment with a curious expression on her face.
“Yes,” she finally said. “But I suspect that for some reason the theft was instigated by the presence of Emma Steed’s painting in Mr. Bray’s home.”
Nancy frowned, a new thought disturbing her. “You don’t think they would have tried to steal it here if he hadn’t taken it home, do you?”
Catherine did not even consider reassuring the gallery owner. “Probably,” she replied. “You should look carefully at your security program.”
Nancy cringed internally. She had spent all she could on the gallery alarm system. Lloyds had signed off on it as adequate for the value of the works she handled, but not much more.
“Why? What would anyone want with the painting? Emma is not well known enough to be worth stealing – and killing -- for.”
Catherine noted Nancy’s use of the artist’s first name and remembered that they had been together at the funeral. Perhaps that explained why she had contributed the painting to the cause. Gambit needed a canvas for his microdot and Miss Belmont had provided one, from a friend.
As Catherine considered this theory Nancy considered her own question. What is it about Emma’s painting that makes it worth stealing and killing for? Why was Steed hanging around near it all evening? Why was Mike Gambit dressed that way and also lurking?
Catherine saw anger form on Nancy’s face. Or maybe she knew nothing about it, but she’s just guessed. She must know Gambit and know what he is.
“Hard to say,” she said blandly. “I take it you are not aware of any reason for it.” It was not a question, but she hoped Nancy would answer.
Nancy struggled to compose herself despite the realization that her friends might have used her in some sort of investigation. That’s the danger of being friends with spies, she reminded herself, although she could not disregard the sting of being deceived by Emma.
“I’m not,” she replied, afraid to say more. Catherine Banning seemed to be very perceptive, and Nancy feared she would give away too much. Annoyance aside, Emma, and particularly Steed and Gambit, trusted her to keep what she knew of their business to herself.
“Do you know Miss Maxine Tellerman?” Catherine asked.
Nancy shook her head, quickly deciding not to pretend she didn’t know why she was being asked. “No. She is not a regular customer of the gallery.”
“And the other bidders?”
“It sounds as if you know who bid, besides Mr. Bray.”
“I would like to see the bids.”
Noting that Catherine had not answered her question, Nancy opened a drawer in her desk and took out a file labeled “Steed, Emma Knight.” She laid it on her desk and opened it to reveal the list of hand-written bids right on top. She had known it was there, and she also knew that it had been nowhere to be found the day after the auction. She had assumed that her assistants had been distressed about the murder and misplaced it, then found it and filed it, not wanting to admit their temporary disorganization. But now she reconsidered. How did Catherine known about Maxine Tellerman if she hasn’t already seen the bids?
She passed the list across her desk and Catherine picked it up by one edge as if handling a delicate piece of evidence.
“Are any of the bidders regular customers of your gallery?” she asked.
“The first two bidders have purchased works from us in the past. Miss Tellerman, Mr. Skinner, and Mr. Bray are – were—newcomers.”
“Wasn’t your event by invitation?”
“Yes, but word gets out and the art crowd turns up. Most of them just want to be seen. We didn’t check for invitations at the door.”
“I am familiar with the habits of the ‘art crowd.’”
Nancy could hear the quote marks around the phrase and she cringed at Catherine’s demeaning tone. Maybe the collectors you deal with are some higher level of being, she thought, but at this level they’re a crowd of eccentrics and people with more money than sense – thank the Lord.
“So you don’t know Miss Tellerman, Mr. Skinner, or Mr. Bray by reputation?” Catherine pressed.
Nancy shook her head, retrieving the list of bids from the desk where Catherine had set it. She looked at the hand-written bids. “No. After the auction I asked around about Mr. Bray and found out that he is a known collector, but he had never called on us before. The other two are unknowns – none of my colleagues have heard of them.”
Nancy had been surprised that the second and third highest bidders were not known collectors. But she wasn’t anymore. They were agents, or villains, connected with Steed’s plot. Poor Mr. Bray was the only real collector and his interest in Emma’s work had gotten him killed. The thought made her cringe, and further fired her anger.
“Thank you Miss Belmont,” Catherine was rising, giving Nancy the impression that she was the visitor being dismissed. She rose as well, offering her hand across the desk. Catherine gave it a perfunctory shake before turning on her heel, her jacket swinging out behind her.
She paused half way across the gallery to look at a piece hanging on a suspended wall panel. It was another of Emma’s, one that she was particularly proud of, Nancy knew. Catherine studied it for a full minute, then turned and walked on out of the gallery.
Nancy sat back down and reached for the telephone on her desk, then thought better of it and stood up, retrieving her handbag from a drawer. She wanted to make this call in the privacy of her own apartment.
“Vivien, I’m going out,” she called toward the back of the gallery. A woman appeared in the doorway to the workroom. “I’ll be back in an hour, an hour and a half at the most.”
“Yes ma’am,” her employee said, removing a canvas apron that covered a simple, elegant black suit. “I’ll mind the store.”
“Thanks.”
* * *
It hadn’t taken more than a moment for Emma to connect the information stolen in the neighborhood with the new opportunity that Oxley had presented to Gambit in his role as a black market merchant. In the following moments she was struck by a series of familiar feelings and responses, some of them positive, some of them embarrassing. The puzzle pieces were taking shape before her – a connection had materialized between the disturbance at the servants’ ball and a leak of secret information that had obviously upset Steed. Gambit’s contact, Oxley, was part of the information chain, as was Siobhan’s friend. Analyzing these clues excited her – the remaining holes represented a challenge that she was willing to rise to. However, that Steed had not confided in her regarding the leak that had upset him left her feeling just a bit empty. Tara’s presence was no excuse, he could have found a private moment to share the details with his wife. No matter that he was constrained by her lesser level of security clearance: she hated not being privy to information that she could use to solve his case. She hated being left out and she knew that Steed knew it but had done it anyway.
As she studied the final design of a missile guidance system that had been sent via messenger to her from Knight headquarters she forced herself to suppress her emotional reaction to Steed’s case. The complex mechanics of the design helped her to think rationally about the situation, and when she did she knew that he was acting as he must.
Besides, there was something else that she could do to counter the useless feeling, and it had nothing to do with Steed’s case.
* * *
Steed stood up and stretched his arms above his head then twisted at the waist one way and then the other, feeling his spine and shoulders loosen. He glanced at the ship’s clock on a shelf and realized that he had been working at his desk for almost three hours straight. A stray thought drifted through his mind and he frowned, glancing at the door: Miss Drake had not been in to offer him refreshment or assistance. He realized that he actually missed her, and that notion truly disturbed him. I am not attracted to her. He dropped back down into his chair. No, I am attracted to her. What man wouldn’t be? But I have no intention of acting on it. That’s what matters. That’s what marriage means. And even without vows I have always been faithful to Emma.
He picked up the short list he’d compiled from the mounds of files and reports on his desk. More than three hours of work had produced three names: neighbors who handled secret information and whose maids, nannies, chauffeurs and grooms had been invited to the servants’ ball. Air Commodore Drucker was at the top of the list with a star. The other two were a civil defense analyst and an industrial chemist working on top-secret projects for the military.
Satisfied with his conclusions, he picked up the phone to arrange for both men to be provided with convincing, false information. He hoped it wasn’t already too late, but if so at least Gambit might have a chance to intercept any real secrets that had been stolen already.
* * *
“Nancy? It’s Emma. Siobhan said you called,” Emma had taken the telephone to a comfortable club chair in the library, stretching the cord across the room from her desk. She had heard the house phone ring while she was in the middle of a telephone review of the missile targeting plans with the head of the design team at Knight Industries. Siobhan had brought her a note about Nancy’s call a few minutes later but she’d had to put off returning it until early evening. She glanced at the case clock, noting that Steed ought to be home soon. But she was glad to take a few minutes to catch up with Nancy. They had not spoken since the auction.
“Emma, thanks for calling back. There’s something I have to ask you, but I’m not sure how to begin.” Nancy had learned long ago to avoid confronting Emma, who could wield a tongue that was sharper than her best epee. But in this case she could not let the matter rest. Having to wait all afternoon to speak to her had not helped. She had returned to the gallery, but been unable to concentrate on anything.
“At the beginning would be my advice,” Emma replied.
“That would be the auction.”
Emma felt herself grow tense and glanced across the room at the drinks trolley, wondering if the soda cartridge had any gas left. Fizzy water had gotten her through the early weeks of this pregnancy, and she had yet to break the habit.
“Go ahead,” she said carefully. During the moment of silence that followed she stood up and crossed the room, trailing the telephone’s long cord behind her.
“You really dislike the painting you donated, don’t you?”
“I’ve told you I don’t think it’s up to snuff,” Emma agreed, wishing she had never said anything about it to Nancy. She centered a crystal highball glass on the drinks tray and picked up the soda bottle.
“And you were willing to donate it for the auction because you don’t like it. But you don’t really want a serious collector to have it – do you?”
“I don’t think there are too many serious collectors of my work,” Emma evaded. She pressed the lever on the soda bottle, but nothing happened. “Damn it!”
“Pardon?”
“Sorry. Steed keeps using up the soda and not replacing the cartridge.”
“Why don’t you just buy club soda in bottles like normal people?” Nancy grumbled. Emma was surprised by the sharpness of her tone: Nancy had never criticized her and Steed’s anachronistic eccentricities before. She liked the hiss of carbon dioxide being injected into the water. But she did not wish to discuss beverages with her friend. She pulled open the drawer in the trolley to hunt for a new cartridge.
“What do you really want to know about the painting, Nancy?” she asked testily.
“Why did you donate it?”
“Because you asked for a painting.” Emma was certain that Nancy had guessed something about Steed and Gambit’s plot, but years of association with Steed prevented her from simply admitting it before gauging how much her friend thought she knew. Cradling the telephone receiver against her shoulder she unscrewed the old cartridge from the soda bottle.
“Let me try again. Is there something about that particular painting? Something that concerns Steed and Mike Gambit?”
The cartridge came loose and slipped through Emma’s fingers, rattling loudly as it hit the mirrored tray. At least it didn’t shatter it.
“Emma?”
“Just dropped something,” she picked up the fresh cartridge. “Nancy I’m sorry. I was unhappy that they used the gallery, but you and it were never in any danger, and the painting did sell for a lot – for charity.”
“Use my gallery for what, Emma?” Now Nancy really was angry and Emma knew she had to be honest or risk their friendship. She and Nancy had grown apart and then close several times over the years, and there had been times when Emma would not have concerned herself with keeping in her friend’s good graces. She had learned at her father’s knee to nurture relationships with men – not romantic involvements but business relationships and friendships that kept her in good stead in the business world. Women friends were not usually useful in that arena, so she had not placed a priority on them. After Peter’s disappearance she had reconnected with some old school friends, including Nancy, and had learned to appreciate having friends to confide in again. And then she had met Steed and his world of intrigue as well as his companionship had filled her life. Only during the tumultuous period between Peter’s return and when she left him and reconnected with Steed had she finally learned the value of friendship with other women. Since then Nancy, Sally Howard, and Amanda Stetson had all become friends who she considered very close, despite the geographical distances between herself and the latter two. Her instinct now was to make amends with her oldest friend.
“Gambit has been working under cover on a case that moved quite suddenly. He needed a way to put something up for sale. Your auction was already scheduled.” She positioned the soda bottle over her glass and pressed the lever. A stream of carbonated soda whooshed out.
“But all we sold were several paintings –.”
“There was something extra on my painting. You even noticed it.”
“I did?”
“Yes. You noticed that I signed it ‘Emma Knight Steed.’ You said that I never use ‘Knight.’ I said that perhaps I’ll sign all the ones I dislike that way.” Emma carried her glass and the telephone back to her chair and sat down.
“So what? Gambit could not have been selling your name.”
“No. ‘Knight’ has something that the other two names lack.” Emma knew that she was not being fair. Nancy could not be expected to guess.
She was wrong.
“It has an ‘I’,” her friend replied. “Or more specifically it has the dot over the ‘i’.”
Emma smiled, wondering if her friend had been reading spy novels in order to feel informed in Steed’s company. “There was information on the painting,” she admitted. “That’s what the bidders were after. I expected the painting to be shipped off to the buyer and destroyed once they recovered the microdot. That’s why I was willing to donate it.”
“How could you not tell me about this? Never mind. Forget I asked.”
Emma had always been a very private person, and the required secrecy of her husband’s profession only played into it. No wonder they were so suitably matched.
“As I said, Nancy, I wasn’t happy about it. But they were desperate for an authentic front, and the timing was perfect. I’m terribly sorry.”
“Why? As you said, the auction was a success.” Nancy was so angry she was resorting to a very rare fit of sarcasm. Emma was at a loss for what to say to make it up to her.
“Still, it was wrong to involve you at all. I’ll speak to Steed about it. It will never happen again.”
“Catherine Banning called on me here today.”
“She said she would do,” Emma frowned, wondering where the conversation was going now.
“Well here’s another item to include in your talk with Steed: his people – presumably Gambit – swiped the auction bids for your painting from my gallery. I know they did because Miss Banning was already familiar with the names of the bidders, and she was not at the auction, so they must have told her.”
“The bid list is missing?” Emma asked as innocently as possible.
“No it is not. It was returned. Tell Steed that if his people are going to break into my place of business at will, then they should finance a better security system for it. If I have to report the break-ins, my insurance premiums will go through the roof. A better alarm will offset it.”
Emma suppressed a grin, not wanting her amusement to come through in her voice.
“I’ll speak to him Nancy. I’ve already told them they can’t use you again.”
“You mean they wanted to?” Nancy’s voice rose half an octave.
“No, in fact, they knew better already. But I reinforced it.”
“Well, thank you.” She did not sound placated at all, but Emma decided to accept her verbal concession anyway.
“Nancy I promise, it will never happen again.”
* * *
“Here you are, the finest blossom in our hothouse,” Steed grinned at his own cleverness as he strode toward Emma down the aisle between orchids on one side and a collection of miniature roses and carnations on the other.
In a moment of whimsy Steed had once considered growing his own boutonnieres, but found maintaining the small rose bushes in his apartment too difficult. Watching Emma study a small evergreen in a rectangular pot and then deliberately reach out and snip off the tiniest tip of a branch he thought back to the case that they had solved during his growing experiment. A giant, Martian, man-eating plant in Surrey – how positively ridiculous. Another one of his reports permanently sealed because half of his superiors didn’t believe a word of it. But that hadn’t mattered a bit to him at the time, because it was just after that case that Emma had blithely seduced him. For whatever reason she had chosen that evening to move their relationship from just good friends to the intense intimacy that they had known ever since. Perhaps that was why he’d given up on the flowers – he already had the finest English rose.
The rose in question set down her clippers and rotated the tiny tree, examining its form, he supposed. When did she start cultivating bonsais? He wondered, looking around the greenhouse. There were two other miniatures amid the jungle of horticultural projects. The glass-roofed and walled extension that was connected to the kitchen housed several big potted plants that spent the warmer months on the pool deck, as well as the orchids and flowering plants that Emma had taken up growing for his buttonholes. There were also bulbs for the flowerbeds and lush hanging ferns that were moved into the house for special occasions, and beds of fresh herbs and even out-of-season vegetables for the kitchen.
Satisfied with her pruning, Emma turned to him, smiling belatedly at his compliment, banal though it had been. He stepped close to her, leaning in over her belly to give her a kiss that was returned with enthusiasm.
“How is the princess?” he asked.
“Blissfully quiet,” she stroked her bump. “Steed, there’s something we must discuss.”
“I know that it might not be a girl --”
“Not that,” she smiled, but he detected an underlying serious current. He wasn’t in the mood for a serious discussion.
“First, where is his nibs?”
“With Siobhan watching the telly.”
“And is dinner nearly ready?”
“No, it’s not even started.” Emma sounded puzzled.
“And Tara?”
“Out there,” Emma looked out through the hazy glass wall toward the swimming pool where their houseguest was doggedly swimming short laps.
“Good,” he cupped her face with one hand and slipped the other around her waist. “I want to get serious about something else before we talk.”
She tensed for a moment as he drew her close, a signal that whatever was on her mind was truly important to her. For a moment he considered dropping his pursuit and offering to hear about it, but his momentary hesitation quickly passed as she relaxed against him and found his mouth with hers.
Emma knew that she could refuse Steed’s advances and insist that they discuss Nancy, but what would be the gain? Since overhearing the women in the sauna she had realized that recently when Steed spent time in his office he came home feeling particularly interested in her. Thinking back, she realized that it had been happening for several weeks. When his advances were not well timed she had deflected them and he had accepted the deferral gracefully. But today she was feeling a bit rangy herself, and an intimate hour in their room would be much more satisfying than a heated discussion of her friend. She kissed him passionately, letting her tongue slip between his lips. He sighed, pulling her closer despite her bulk, his other hand slipping into her hair.
“When you’re shed of this bundle I want to make love to you out here,” he murmured as they parted for a breath.
“I’ll clear a potting table,” she promised, imaging that it would be rather uncomfortable, but with the proper foreplay the romance of the jungle setting would outweigh any splinters. She once would not have imagined making love anywhere but in a bed, and in fact she and Steed did not often stray from traditional locations. But when one of them proposed something exotic, the other rarely refused. The baby growing inside of her was the result of one such experiment.
While Emma smiled at the memory of their bareback riding expedition last summer, Steed thanked whatever benign spirit looked after spies for matching him with a woman who was as secretly mad and passionate as he was.
“Come on,” he found her hand and led her toward the door to the mudroom and the kitchen beyond. They climbed the back stairs to the upper hall to avoid being seen by John in the family room. Steed realized as they walked along the corridor, his arm around Emma’s waist, her body pressed to his, that prior to Tara’s arrival it had been weeks since he’d been in this part of the house. The second floor of the kitchen wing contained guest rooms and baths that he supposed Emma and Siobhan kept closed unless guests were expected. He felt a flicker of shame at allowing Emma to assume the role of housewife and mother without taking any responsibility for upkeep of their home himself. Although she had never complained about it he was certain that she was not completely satisfied. Her work with Knight Industries challenged some of her many talents, but parts of her brilliant mind needed the puzzles and even the risks that his work entailed. Much as he had grown to love being a father, he regretted that creating their family required so much of his beloved Emma. It wasn’t just exotic sex that he looked forward to after the baby was born, but also the occasional fencing match, and her company dealing with the witnesses and villains in some of his cases. Unbelievable as it had seemed when other fathers had warned him that he might grow jealous of his children, he understood now that it was true: Emma was no longer his alone. But for the moment he intended to claim her full attention.
They spent a languid hour in their room. Emma produced a bottle of oil and he applied it to the stretched skin of her abdomen in long, luxurious strokes. He was fascinated by the way her form changed subtly every day as the life within her grew. She shared her mild alarm at how large she was already and he reassured her, repeating her doctor’s words from her last visit.
Although Emma never insisted, he made an effort to join her at her examinations. Her doctor was accustomed to his presence, but the other expectant mothers tended to eye him suspiciously as they sat in the waiting room. Emma assured him that they were just envious of her, for their husbands regarded their examinations as women’s business while he understood that it took two to make a baby.
When she was thoroughly oiled they made love, at first laying on their sides to stroke and kiss, nibble and cuddle, and eventually with Steed behind her, holding her, filling her, and bringing them both to heated ecstasy. Eventually they lay spooned together, eyes closed, hands clasped, completely content. Emma was glad that she had agreed to postpone their discussion of Nancy. This was much more important, and pleasant.
“You said we have something to discuss,” he asked after a while, his breath lifting the hairs around her ear. He wanted to reassure her that his seduction had not been calculated to make her forget.
“Ummmm,” she sighed, not quite ready to emerge from near sleep. He accepted her response, nuzzling his face against the back of her neck. He would cuddle with her for as long as she wanted.
A bit later she reached up to run her fingers through the curls at his temple. Although she couldn’t see them she knew that they were shot with grey like the hair on other parts of his body. She thought it made him look even more sophisticated than ever. He raised his head, turning to place a kiss on her palm.
“Waking up?” he asked softly.
“I suppose we must,” she sighed, awkwardly shifting her weight to roll over and face him. He watched her expectantly. She wasted no time now getting to what was on her mind. “Nancy telephoned earlier. She knows that Gambit broke into the gallery to return the bid list. She’s very angry.”
Steed frowned, eyes narrowing as he considered the implication of her statement.
“What else does she know – Gambit’s motive, for instance?”
“Catherine Banning visited her today and already knew who all the bidders where. Nancy surmised that she had seen the list, and that you or Gambit had shown it to her. She guessed that there was something about my painting that she had not been told. And she did notice the way you and Mike behaved at the auction.”
“So what’s to be done? You said she’s angry, but I can’t change history.”
“I assured her that it would never happen again: you’ll never use her gallery for anything, and you’ll never have your people break in – even if it is to return something.”
“I’ve already agreed to that. It was a bad idea to use a friend in the first place, but you remember the timing.”
“Yes, I know. I told her that, too. But I think she should hear it from you – just the promise not to do it again.”
Steed sighed. He hated discussing his business with civilians, even in such a tangential way. And he knew Emma would not ask him to if it were not very important. He trusted Emma to have withheld the details of the case from her friend, he needn’t even ask her. But, he realized there was a detail that she deserved to know about.
“Laslow Skinner – the other high bidder – .”
“Your man?”
“Yes. He failed to place the high bid as instructed because he was murdered the night of the auction.”
Steed watched her mind spin.
“During the auction?”
“The coroner confirmed the time. In the alley behind the gallery. The rubbish men found the corpse in a bin there the next day.”
“Right behind the gallery?” Emma’s voice rose half an octave. “Nancy didn’t mention it.” She refrained from observing that he had not mentioned it either.
“We kept it quiet.”
Emma flopped back on the mattress, rubbing her temples with both hands. “She’s in danger,” she said, turning eyes dark with concern on her husband.
“That hardly seems likely,” he said.
Emma pursed her lips and stared at the ceiling. She knew he was right, but she could not seem to suppress her irrational reaction: Nancy was no different from so many other innocent victims of Steed’s business. She knew Steed did everything he could to protect the innocent, but never at the expense of his primary objective.
“Will you arrange for someone to watch the gallery until you’ve arrested Mike’s contact, or whoever else you’re after?”
Steed nodded without hesitation. “And I’ll speak to Nancy myself – I’ll promise to never involve her in any way again.”
Emma suspected that it wouldn’t be enough to earn her friend’s immediately forgiveness, but it was the minimum that must be done. She took one of her hands from her own face and reached up to caress his.
“What a strange life we’ve built, John,” she said.
He covered her hand with his, smiling into her eyes. “I wouldn’t change a thing, Emma. Not a single, bizarre aspect.”
She pursed her lips again, clearly struggling with a surge of emotion. “Nor would I John.”
* * *
“Good afternoon Miss,” the thin tenor voice startled Tara. She paused and looked around, realizing that her rambling walk had brought her to the stable. Pierre tugged at his leash, nostrils wide as he also strained to find the source of the voice. The speaker was inside in shadow looking out into the weak daylight, so had the advantage of her.
“Hello,” she said, hearing the tentativeness in her voice. Oh come on, it can’t be anyone who doesn’t belong here, and if it were he wouldn’t have greeted me. She stepped through the wide stable door. “Oh!”
The groom was holding a pitchfork and standing next to a barrow half full of soiled straw. His coarse clothing – a heavy flannel shirt and stained canvas breeches, covered a tall, even frame. His face suggested decidedly English genetic stock. Beside him through an open stall door she saw the rest of the bedding that he was in the process of changing. Dust swirled in the warm air and she noticed an electric heater mounted on the wall opposite the stalls, its coils a cheerful crimson.
Before she could take in much more detail she sneezed quite suddenly.
“Bless you Miss,” the groom said, his tone suggesting the tiniest bit of amusement. Tara wasn’t a horsewoman and she knew it showed – it had been one of the things about her that had disappointed Steed, although he’d never been so rude as to mention it.
Pierre inhaled a long, allergy-free snort near the barrow, his tail standing straight as he considered what creature must make such a smell. His exposure to horses in his urban life was very slight.
“Thank you,” Tara replied, her voice already sounding nasal. “It’s Miss King,” she added. The groom nodded and turned to scoop up another fork full of straw. “Do you do this every day?” she asked, inhaling sharply to stifle another sneeze. It only irritated her throat.
“Yes Miss. Mr. Steed is particular about Commander and Dancer.”
“The horses.”
“Yes Miss.” There it was again, the amusement. Tara pursed her lips in annoyance just before another sneeze welled up.
“And where are the horses?” she asked, not sure why she kept it up. She could just leave – it would certainly be better for her sinuses. But the opportunity to speak to someone new without having to go out and face the world was compelling. “Pierre!” she yanked at the dog’s leash to interrupt him – he had started to lift his leg next to the barrow wheel.
The groom chuckled. “Don’t worry miss, Sullivan does that all the time. The straw will absorb it.”
“That’s why he’s doing it I expect,” Tara observed, watching Pierre sniff the wheel in frustration.
“They’re out in the paddock,” the groom said.
“What?”
“The horses Miss.”
“Oh.” Tara sneezed again and realized that Pierre had managed to do his deed after all. The groom pretended not to notice.
“Well, perhaps I’ll just go see them.”
“Yes Miss.”
Tara pulled Pierre out the way they’d come in and let him guide her around the stable where they found the two horses standing near the fence. Pierre froze, eyes riveted on them, until a distant bark broke his concentration.
“Oh shoot,” Tara sighed. She and Pierre had slipped out of the house without attracting the attention of Gilbert or Sullivan. But it sounded like at least one of the other dogs was outside too. She wondered if little Pierre could handle meeting the horses and dealing with the other dogs all at once. “Come on,” she said, bending down to pick him up. But as the leash slacked he shot forward, pulling her off balance. She broke her fall with her left hand, just saving herself from a mouthful of dirt, but barking her knees and the heel of her hand. Pierre lowered his shoulders and shoved his head under the lowest rail of the fence, inhaling a long noisy sniff of Dancer’s fetlocks.
The horse stepped back from the fence and lowered her nose to sniff Pierre in return. Pierre wiggled his derriere and dug in his rear paws, shoving his shoulders under the fence. Tara rolled to a sitting position, realizing that the endless workouts and swimming were actually having a positive effect on her fitness, and watched her dog’s antics.
“You could have gone over the rail,” she observed as Pierre managed to flatten his hind quarters and drag them under. Dancer snorted at him as he emerged on her side of the barrier and craned his neck up to look at her. He barked once, tentatively and Dancer raised her head to look first at Commander, then over the fence at Tara.
Commander remained remotely aloof.
Pierre barked again and there was an answering bark, much closer this time. Dancer shifted her weight in the way that horses will do when they’re bored, then lowered her head to examine Pierre once more. She reminded Tara of Emma, absorbed in higher matters and only sparing a thread of attention for an insignificant distraction.
“Come on, Pierre, let’s try not to get into any more trouble,” Tara said, getting to her feet. The leash, still attached to the dog, lead under the fence. Tara tugged on it only to realize that she would have to drag her poor dog back under, or release him in order to go to the gate herself. Pierre strained at the leash again, desperate to inspect Dancer’s other three feet and all of the delicious new paddock smells. Tara knew he would run if she let him.
“Little blighter,” she groaned, crouching to reach through the fence between the rails and take the leash, then rising to grasp it through the next higher rails, and finally reaching over the top. Pierre yapped in annoyance at the leash’s new angle – straight up. Dancer took a step away from the fence as Tara stepped up on the lowest rail.
“Miss King, there’s a gate, you don’t need to climb over,” the groom’s voice came just as Tara was straddling the top rail, the hem of her trouser leg rucked up to reveal a swath of pale calf skin. She was certain that her face was smudged with dirt.
She opened her mouth to explain just as Sullivan exploded around the corner of the stable in a jolly, wild run. He skidded to a halt next to the groom and started barking. Tara wasn’t sure whether he was barking at her or Pierre.
Commander flared his nostrils disdainfully in the direction of the dog and Dancer took another step away. Pierre matched Sullivan bark for bark, and after a moment lunged back under the fence. This time Tara lost her grip on the leash. She watched helplessly from above as her dog squeezed under the rail and charged at Sullivan.
“Ho there!” the groom’s voice was suddenly much more powerful than she’d thought. He crouched and intercepted Pierre, holding him by the shoulders a foot away from Sullivan, who stood his ground. Both dogs stopped barking and inspected one another with wary sniffs. “That’s it,” the groom said. “Be nice.”
Tara sighed with relief and carefully swung her leg back over the fence. She stood for a moment on the middle rail, then hopped down to the ground, once again realizing the positive effect or her exercise regime.
“Thank you,” she said, coming up next to the groom and her dog. Sullivan had inched forward and the two dogs were inspecting one another’s heads. The groom loosened his grip on Pierre and, when he didn’t flee or lunge at Sullivan, let him go completely. Tara quickly bent and grabbed the leash. Sullivan and Pierre circled each other for a more full inspection and then Sullivan yipped and darted away, paused to look back, and darted again.
“He wants yours to play, Miss,” the groom said.
“Should I let him?” Tara asked.
“Dogs need to play Miss, same as everyone else.”
Tara pursed her lips at his apparent indifference for Pierre’s safety. “I mean, will he be safe?”
“I’ve never seen that one hurt another dog. Nor any other animal, as I think about it. I reckon if Sullivan likes yours, then Gilbert will be all right with him too.”
“Gilbert,” Tara sighed, picturing the big basset hound. He was much more threatening than Sullivan, who was a terrier like Pierre. “Isn’t he the main dog?”
“That he is, Miss. That old hound is the boss. But if the young one here has made friends with yours, Gilbert won’t go against it.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I guess I know dogs, Miss. Like horses. Now people, they’re another matter.”
Tara smiled, then bent to unclip Pierre’s leash. Sullivan had returned part way and was watching Pierre curiously, as if he had never been restrained on a leash himself. The moment the leash was off Pierre danced merrily toward his new friend. They sniffed each other once again, then took off toward the woods.
“I know what you mean about people,” Tara said as she rose, watching her dog follow Sullivan along the edge of the trees. Sullivan appeared to be looking for something in the grey, leafless underbrush. “They’re baffling some time.”
The groom peered at her for a moment, then looked back at the dogs. “I expect they’ll come home for their supper,” he said as if she had not responded to his earlier observation. “Good afternoon Miss.”
Tara half turned as he touched his cap to her then returned to the stable, taking his pitchfork from where he’d left it leaning against the open door. Feeling surprisingly abandoned, Tara shoved her hands into her pockets and trudged toward the house.
***
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