To Sketch a Sphinx - Rebecca Connolly Page 0,4
have some rather lofty connections of your own to boast.”
“One or two,” he allowed as he eased back into his chair, eyeing her with some speculation. “The names of your family?”
“De Rouvroy.” Hal screwed up her face in thought. “And I’m sorry, I cannot recall if he is the direct descendent or his wife.”
Weaver waved that off without concern. “Never you mind, I can unravel the knots of the lineage and peerage, even with Napoleon restructuring of it all.” He smiled and rose from his seat. “Thank you for your hospitality, Hal. I will see you soon.” He nodded and turned to leave the room.
Hal shot to her feet, following. “Fritz!”
He turned, smiling like the godfather she had always known at the use of his true name. “Henrietta?”
She winced playfully, then tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “You never told me when I will start.”
“Did I not?” His smile turned tight and almost formal. “I will need you to come to my home tomorrow evening, just after dark. We’ll have a brief rendezvous and go over the details, and then the wedding and you’ll be off.”
Hal had been in the process of nodding when his words reached her comprehension and she jerked. “Wedding? What wedding?”
Weaver blinked once. “Yours, Hal. Your partner is a man, and we cannot have the pair of you travelling unaccompanied without that protection.”
“We’re falsifying everything else, why not that?” she demanded, color seeping from her face and leaving a cold vacancy behind.
He heaved a sigh, and for the first time, she could see signs of weariness in him. “Come to my home tomorrow, Hal. I promise, I will explain everything.” He smiled again, then left, only the sound of badly squeaking hinges leaving any indication that he had done so.
What had she gotten herself into?
Chapter Two
John Pratt was a sensible man. An intelligent man. Remarkably so, as any number of people would have agreed. He was respectful, respectable, and reliable, all of them to a fault, according to his younger brother. But even he had to pause at the revelation that he would be marrying his partner for this assignment before it could begin in earnest.
Whomever she would be.
Weaver hadn’t thoroughly explained himself when he’d come to John with the proposal, and answers hadn’t been given then. Only his attendance at the meeting today would grant him those, which was a cruel incentive indeed. The plan for the mission had intrigued John, limited though his information at this stage was. The opportunity to be out in the field, something that had always fallen to his brother’s lot, wasn’t something that he’d hoped for.
But marrying his partner? What use was it to send in a female spy if they could not do so without the polite expectations or fear of scandal? Surely, there were capable men who were free to make the journey to Paris with him, and who possessed the requisite skills for the task. It would simplify matters easily for both parties and for the superiors they answered to.
Surely, they meant the appearance of a marriage so that the lady in question would be protected from the scandal of jilting, annulment, or divorce from that appearance of a marriage. How exactly they were going to do such a thing was beyond John at the moment, but he made a point not to question the abilities of the Shopkeepers and their associates.
One could never be entirely sure where their intervention had occurred over the history of Britain.
More and more questions swirled themselves about in his head as he stood in this quiet drawing room at the back of Weaver’s family home, staring at a painted landscape that could have been done in any county in England. The sort of nondescript rolling hill that he had seen in Hampshire, Shropshire, Derbyshire, and Kent. Was the ambiguity intentional or was the artist quite simply not imaginative enough to find a more distinct subject?
He leaned closer, his eyes narrowing, something about the grass not sitting right with him. The brush strokes were smooth, even, hardly distinguishable from one to the next. But where the ground sloped to the creek, the style and strokes changed, grew rougher, almost clumsy by comparison. Hardly noticeable until it was right before one’s eyes, and even then, one had to look.
John was quite used to looking for things that no one else could see. He’d made his life out of it and was well known in certain ranks for it. He had been