“Do you really want to know?” Pinchingdale asked quietly.
For a clever man, Pinchingdale could be deuced thick sometimes. “Wouldn’t ask if I didn’t. Waste of time and breath and whatnot.”
“You know what they say about curiosity.”
Something about cats, wasn’t it? “My little sister attends that school. She might be more of a threat to the French than the French are to her” — an eventuality that Turnip found highly likely — “but if there’s going to be trouble there, I want to know.”
“Fair enough.” Pinchingdale drummed his fingers lightly against the trunk of the tree as he sifted through his mental dossier, winnowing the details down to a version he found it acceptable to tell. “One of Miss Climpson’s pupils has a father who is very highly placed in the government.”
Turnip nodded intelligently. Nothing too unusual about that. Took a great deal of blunt to keep a girl at Miss Climpson’s.
“He came into possession of... a very sensitive document.”
From the look on Pinchingdale’s face, this wasn’t going to be a story with a happy ending.
“What happened to it?”
Pinchingdale pressed his eyes briefly shut. “He misplaced it.”
“He what?”
“He misplaced it.” Pinchingdale’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “He can’t remember where he put it. He swears he kept it on his person at all times and he can’t think what became of it.”
Turnip frowned. “Hard to lose something when it’s on one’s person.”
“One would think,” said Pinchingdale drily. “Yet, somehow, he managed it.”
“Could one of the servants have taken it? My valet’s always taking things off for cleaning.” Clothes, for example. Sometimes things got stuck in them, like bills or love letters or little notes to himself to remind himself not to leave notes to himself.
“No,” said Pinchingdale. “We’ve had his staff and his laundry checked.”
Turnip decided not to ask what the former entailed. It was the nineteenth century, after all, and they were Englishmen, committed to fair play, due process, and, well, all that sort of thing, so he doubted there were racks or thumbscrews involved.
“How does Miss Climpson’s come into this again?”
Pinchingdale sighed. “He was visiting his daughter at Miss Climpson’s when the paper went missing. It’s not much of a connection, but it’s the best we have.”
“How long ago?” asked Turnip, with interest.
“About a month ago. The end of November.” The corners of Pinchingdale’s mouth tightened grimly. “He only told us last week. He said he was hoping it would turn up.”
“Huh,” said Turnip. He might not know much about international espionage — his application for active membership in the League of the Purple Gentian had been repeatedly turned down — but even he knew enough to know that such things didn’t generally just turn up. Or if they did, they didn’t turn up where one wanted them to.
It occurred to Turnip that he had left out one very crucial detail. “What sort of sensitive document?”
Pinchingdale regarded Turnip thoughtfully. Somewhere, in the elaborate mechanism of his brain, levers and pulleys were being adjusted as weights were moved from one scale to another. Turnip could see him calculating the benefits and detriments of sharing the information, or, at least some piece of it.
Turnip squared his shoulders and did his best to look trustworthy and close-lipped. And he was. Well, in a manner of speaking. It wasn’t so much that he was close-lipped as that he was so open-lipped that no French spy had ever been able to wade through all the verbiage to get to the essential bits. They generally got bored and gave up.
The silence pressed around them.
“A list,” Pinchingdale said finally. “A list of Royalist agents in France.”
Chapter 20
After a very cold half hour, it was universally agreed that enough greenery had been gathered. This decision was reached largely due to the fact that the footmen had ceased serving refreshments. The Dowager Duchess of Dovedale, wise in the way of men, knew that the best way to move her guests where she wanted them to go was to divert their source of food and alcohol.
Lord Frederick Staines led the way, riding atop the vast Yule log as eight footmen painstakingly hauled it down the path, harnessed with ropes. Lord Frederick waved his hat in the air, exhorting them to move faster, as his friends and the dogs trotted along beside, making indistinguishable yelping noises.
Arabella left the shelter of her tree to fall in with the cavalcade headed back to the house. Behind them, like magic, the torches were being snuffed, the braziers extinguished, the tools collected, the stray ends of greenery swept up. Ahead loomed the immense façade of Girdings House, the windows blazing with candles, the grounds illuminated with torches.
Inside, the festivities would continue, probably well into the night, with flirtation and merriment and gratuitous use of mistletoe. It was an inexpressibly wearying thought. Arabella wondered if it would be considered a dereliction of her duty as guest if she just snuck away and went to bed.
As Arabella detoured to avoid an icy patch at the foot of the stairs, someone jostled heavily into her. Arabella skidded straight into the ice, her stomach dropping sickeningly as she flailed her arms for balance.
“Sorry!” Lord Henry Innes made an unenthusiastic grab for her. He managed to get her reticule instead. As the sky cartwheeled over her, Arabella could hear the string snap and Lord Henry’s bored voice drawling, “Beg pardon, Miss — er.”
A pair of hands clamped down over her elbows. The sky went right-way-up again.
“Dempsey,” said Turnip Fitzhugh, plunking her upright. “It’s Miss Dempsey.”
Lord Henry shrugged, as though he considered it something of an irrelevancy. “Beg pardon, Miss Dempsey. Mind the ice.”
Mind the ice? She had been minding the ice until he pushed her into it.
He followed his friends into the house, leaving Arabella and Turnip at the foot of the stairs.
Arabella looked at Turnip.
Turnip looked at her.
They stood there at the base of the steps and stared at each other like a pair of mutes.
This was absurd.
“Thank you,” Arabella said. Her voice sounded very thin and reedy in the shadow of the great house. Desperately trying to think of something else to say, she blurted, “How is Sally?”
“Well. Sally is well.” Turnip cleared his throat. “And your journey?”
“Wonderfully free of cows,” said Arabella, and had the satisfaction of surprising him into a smile.
Turnip’s face broke into a broad, genuine grin. “Shouldn’t fear for my phaeton, then. Should I?” he added, and Arabella had a feeling he wasn’t talking about his phaeton. Or cows.
He regarded her warily from under his hat brim, which was, Arabella noticed, slightly crooked. Her fingers itched to straighten it.
She tucked her hands safely away by her sides.
“No.” Arabella looked appealingly at him, wishing she had a clue what to say next. I’m sorry, might be a start. So easy in her head, so hard to push past her lips. She dropped her head. “I like your boots. They’re very... shiny.”
“Thank you.” Turnip looked down at his own toes. “It’s m’valet, you know. He shines them.”
“Right,” said Arabella. Maybe she ought to try speaking in French or Latin. She wasn’t doing very well in English. She took a deep breath. “Tur — Mr. Fitzhugh?”
He leaned forward, his hat slipping over his brow. “Miss Dempsey?”
“There you are!”
Turnip stepped back, hit the patch of ice, and went skidding as Penelope Deveraux appeared at the top of the stairs. He landed heavily on his backside with a loud, grunting noise.