She looked into his dark eyes and, with everything in her, she wanted to trust him.
“How can I?” she whispered. “You lie as easily as you breathe.”
He sat back as abruptly as if she’d slapped him. He stared at her for the space of several heartbeats, then down at the floor, his brows wrestling with each other.
“Very well, madam,” he said. “It appears I must trust you.”
Chapter 19
“I’m sure you realize the things one reads in the newspaper are not always the whole story,” he began.
“Assuredly.”
“So it is with people. Sometimes, they are not what they seem. Your father, for instance.”
“I fail to see what my father—“
He reached across the low chest between them and placed his fingertips on her lips. Her mouth tingled beneath his touch.
“Let me finish before you rush to judgment. The world knows Angus Dalrymple as an astute businessman who made his fortune in India.” Trevelyn slowly removed his hand as if loath to sever the brief connection. “However, he was much more than that.”
“You’ll get no argument from me.” She set her tea cup down and looked away to regain her composure. The last thing she needed was to further muddle the situation by giving in to the sparks that leapt between them. “Angus Dalrymple was, I mean, is also a wonderful father.”
“No doubt,” he said. “What you didn’t know is that he was also an operator in the Great Game.”
“What do you mean?”
“Intelligence gathering. Espionage if you will. Dalrymple was one of the best. He ran a string of operatives that stretched from Bombay to the Punjab.” Trevelyn explained. “Her Majesty’s government depends upon the covert reports of men like your father to make policy in India.”
“What kind of policy?”
He spread his hands before him. “We suspect Russia would like to carve up the subcontinent and given the untender mercy the Czar shows his own people, one can only imagine how ill he might use the Indians.”
“Of course, one might argue that we British have misused the peoples of India as well,” Artemisia said. “Blessings of education and trade notwithstanding, there is a simmering resentment among the natives which even as a child I recognized. One has to wonder how we English would like it if a group of armed Hindus and Mussulmen took over the governance of our island nation, even if they claimed it was for our own good.”
“I can’t say I disagree with you, but we can discuss the politics another time.” Trevelyn’s smile brought out the dimple in his left cheek. “The fact is, your father’s work helped expose and end abusive practices by some of our countrymen. His contacts kept him apprised of wandering survey teams, native opinion, any covert agreements made with tribal leaders. It’s vitally important work. If we can stop Russian adventurism or an Indian uprising with means short of actual combat, we will. The right information in the right hands can save countless lives.”
Artemisia took this in with wonderment. She had the utmost respect for her father, but it seemed her esteem for him was still too small. She looked up at Trev.
He was much more than she’d taken him for as well. He was no bored second son who amused himself with play acting and seducing titled widows. “And you too are involved in this ‘Great Game’ somehow?”
His shoulders lifted in a self-enfacing shrug.
“But how does Mr. Beddington and the key figure into all this?”
“That’s the crux of the matter,” Trevelyn said. “When an operative suspects he’s been compromised or, in your father’s case, falls ill, he sends a key. It contains the encoded names of all his contacts. You can see now why it’s so important for me to retrieve it. If the list fell into unfriendly hands, the lives of your father’s agents wouldn’t be worth a feather’s chance in a whirlwind.”
She nodded gravely. “And that’s why you were trying to speak with him.”
“Yes,” Trev said. “Mostly because I couldn’t find the man to whom he sent the key. Your father’s last message told us he’d given the key to Mr. Beddington. We’ve no agent in the corps by that name, so we’ve tried for years, searching out your father’s known associates with no success. Once I discovered the trustee of your father’s estate was a Josiah Beddington, I assumed I’d found him.”
Artemisia frowned. Her father never knew she used the name as a cover for her business dealings. He was too ill by the time she took the reins of the family fortune in male guise. At any rate, he’d never given her anything she’d remotely consider a key.
“I’ve had the devil’s own time trying to find the chap, inquiring at all the clubs a man of his stature might frequent, calling at his office, disguising myself to seek employment.” He cast her a wry smile. “Even posing nude as your model, hoping you’d arrange an introduction. Not the most dignified way to serve Queen and country, you must admit. When I finally meet the man, I have to learn how he’s managed to remain so invisible. It’s a trick that will stand me in good stead. Beddington’s the most elusive subject I’ve ever tried to bag.”
“And once you have the key?”
“Rumors of a Russian incursion into India have been flying fast and furious for some time, but we’ve no way to be sure. If the Czar is planning a venture down the Khyber Pass, Angus Dalrymple’s contacts will know,” Trevelyn said, barely concealed excitement in his tone. “I plan to revive your father’s string of operatives and start where he left off. It’s the next ship headed for Bombay for me.”
Artemisia was surprised at the strange tightness in her chest at this news. Hadn’t she wished him on another continent just that morning? Trev sat down opposite her and leaned forward, elbows resting on his spread knees.
“Now that you know the truth, will you help me? Once I have the key, I will see what can be done to rescue Mr. Shipwash. You have my word upon it.” He reached over and took one of her hands in his. His hand was warm, but the touch sent a shiver up her arm. “Will you take me to Mr. Beddington?”
“It will do no good,” she said with despair.
“How do you know till we’ve tried?”
“Because . . . “ She paused, realizing she was about to hand him information that could sink the entire Southwycke fortune and create a scandal to rock all of London. But there was really no choice. She straightened her spine.
“I don’t need to take you to him,” she said. “You have already been introduced. I am Mr. Beddington.”
He released her hand and sat back in surprise. “You?”
“I use the name Josiah H. Beddington to conduct my family’s business. No one would deal with a woman. Believe me, I tried.” Artemisia knotted her fingers together. “So I invented a male persona and hired Mr. Shipwash to act as my assistant. And I haven’t got any dratted key.” Her face fell. “I don’t know what to do. If anything happens to James, I’ll never forgive myself.”
He sat still as stone for about a minute. Artemisia could almost see the wheels whirring in his brain as he digested this new turn of events.
“You must have it and just don’t realize you do,” he finally said.
“Impossible. I didn’t assume the name Beddington until we returned Home and I began to manage the family business. If your information is correct, my father must have sent the key from India, long before I became Beddington.”
“Did your father give you anything when he fell ill? Anything at all?” His voice was edged with suppressed frustration. “He might have stashed the key inside a small chest or with a box of jewelry. Did you come across anything unusual when you unpacked your household goods?”
She closed her eyes, trying to recall anything out of the ordinary.
“No, he didn’t give me anything and you can rest assured if my mother had found something that didn’t belong with her jewelry, she wouldn’t have suffered in silence,” she said. “You keep calling it a key, but I rather think it doesn’t turn any bolts. What exactly does it look like?”
“It’s a truly cunning devise designed to both send a message and provide the tool to decipher it. It’s made up of a series of wooden cylinders that line up in a prescribed way to decode the list of names that is scrolled in the hollow compartment inside,” he explained. “It’s small. The key would fit in the palm of my hand.”
Artemisia cast back in her mind, but couldn’t recall ever seeing an object that fit Trevelyn’s description. “Would anyone be able to use it?”
“The exact sequence to bring the cylinders into alignment is tricky, but given enough time, a talented cryptographer could work out the code,” he admitted. “That’s why it’s essential that it not fall into enemy hands. Worse yet, since someone else is also looking for Mr. Beddington, it means your father’s last message must have been intercepted by whoever is holding Mr. Shipwash.”
He dragged a hand over his face and stood to stare out the window. “Another dead end,” he murmured.
His words lanced her heart. If Trevelyn couldn’t help her, Artemisia was in dire straits.
If it would do any good, she’d go to St. Paul’s herself and try to reason with the kidnappers. Somehow she must convince them that Beddington didn’t have the key.
But if they believed her, they would have no incentive to release James Shipwash. They might very well do away with both her and James. She could go to the authorities, but she had no great hope the constabulary would do more than blunder about St. Paul’s crypt, frightening the kidnappers off and thus seal Mr. Shipwash’s fate.
The fresh face of James’ young wife rose in her mind. How was she going to explain to Mrs. Shipwash that she was widowed because her husband’s employer wanted to dabble in a man’s world? Artemisia’s thoughts flew in circles, like her cat Pollux chasing his own tail. She, who prided herself on her reasoning ability, could see no way to untie this impossible knot.
Suddenly it was all too much. Without her even being aware of them, tears began leaking from her eyes and leaving runnels down both cheeks. She made no sound, but her whole spirit wept.
“No, Larla, don’t cry.”
Trevelyn hurried to her side. His arms were around her and she sank into the warmth of his shoulder, letting the tears fall. When her whole body shook with a suppressed sob, he cradled her head with one hand and pressed a kiss on her crown, a curiously comforting gesture.
“Please don’t cry,” he repeated. “We’ll figure out something.”
He slipped a finger under her chin and raised her face. Looking into his eyes, she saw herself reflected in their dark depths. Beyond that image, a slow fire began to burn the gold flecks in his brown eyes.
“I won’t let you down,” he said softly. “Trust me.”
She realized suddenly that she did. It was madness itself. Here was a man who’d presented himself under false colors, who lied with ease, whose very character was an enigma, and yet, she’d trust him with her life.