Hello Stranger (The Ravenels #4)(37)

“Of course not,” Garrett said indignantly. “You know I never do that.”

“Your face is all red. Your eyes are watery.”

“An inflammatory reaction. I’m hypersensitive to violets.”

Eliza looked alarmed. “Shall I toss ’em for you?”

“No.” She cleared her throat and spoke more softly. “No, I want to keep them.”

“Is everything all right, Doctor?”

Garrett let out a slow breath and tried to reply in a normal tone. “I’m just tired, Eliza. Nothing to worry about.”

There was no one she could confide in. For Ethan’s sake, she had to stay silent. She would do as he’d asked, and forget him. He was only a man.

The world was full of men. She would find another one.

“A good, decent husband of the ould stock, who’ll give you a fireside of children . . .” Would Ethan ever want children? Would she? There was no logical reason for her to have children, or marry at all, but she was astonished to realize it was something she might consider.

A humbling thought occurred to her. When you meet the right man, the list of things you would never do suddenly becomes much shorter.





Chapter 9




The door to Jenkyn’s office had been left slightly ajar. Ethan paused to knock on the jamb, trying to remain outwardly relaxed despite the weight of foreboding at the pit of his stomach. His ability to shut away his emotions—one of his most useful assets—had disappeared. He was all exposed nerves and raw appetite. He felt as transparent as glass, and there were too many lies he had to keep straight.

He’d been like this for the past week, ever since the night he’d spent with Garrett Gibson. The thought of her was deep inside him, at the center of every thought and sensation, as if he existed only as a vessel to contain her.

Life had been a damned sight easier when he’d had nothing to lose. It was killing him not to go to her. The only thing that stopped him was the need to keep her safe.

“Enter,” came Jenkyn’s relaxed voice.

Ethan let himself inside. He’d come into the new government building by way of the back entrance used by servants and junior clerks. Even without the need for discretion, he would have preferred that to going through the brazenly elaborate main entrance and reception rooms, with their plasterwork thickly coated in gilt and the stands of marble columns rising from lapis floors. Ethan found it suffocating. The ostentatious interiors were intended to proclaim the power and grandeur of an empire that ruled almost one quarter of the earth’s surface and refused to yield even an inch of its territory.

It had been at Jenkyn’s insistence that the collection of contiguous offices under the roof of the newest building at Whitehall had all been shut off from each other. The Home Office kept all connecting doors perpetually locked, so no one could walk from there directly to the Foreign Office, India Office, or Colonial Office. Instead, visitors had to go down into the street, walk the outside length of the building, and ascend another staircase. Free communication between offices would have made Jenkyn’s scheming and plotting more difficult.

The corner office provided a view of a nearby building that had originally contained a cockfighting pit. Ethan suspected Jenkyn would have preferred it if the cockpit still existed: he was the kind of man who enjoyed blood sports.

The air was hot enough to braise a plucked capon. Jenkyn always kept a fire lit, even in summer. The spymaster cut an elegant figure, his build long and stiletto thin as he occupied one of two heavy leather smoking chairs positioned in front of the fireplace. Orange flickers played over his thinning blond hair and austere features as he regarded Ethan through distal spirals of cigar smoke. His eyes were a shade of cinnamon brown that should have appeared warm, but somehow never did.

“Ransom,” he said pleasantly, nudging a table-top cigar stand toward him. “We have much to discuss this evening.”

Ethan hated the taste of tobacco, but a cigar from Jenkyn was a mark of favor that no one refused. As he sat, he took a cigar from the carved ebony stand. Conscious of the older man’s attentive regard, he performed the ritual with care. Jenkyn had always emphasized the importance of details: A gentleman knew how to light a cigar, how to sit a horse, how to make introductions properly.

“You’ll never pass for a born gentleman,” Jenkyn had once told him, “but you’ll at least be able to mix with your betters without calling attention to yourself.”

After clipping the end of the cigar with an engraved silver cutter, Ethan lit a long match and toasted the outer binding. He put it to his lips, rotating it slowly while igniting the filler, and released the draw expertly.

Jenkyn smiled, something he rarely did, perhaps out of the awareness that his smiles gave the impression of a feeding predator. “Let’s attend to business. Did you meet with Felbrigg?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s got his back up this time?” Jenkyn asked disdainfully.

There was a vicious rivalry between Jenkyn and Fred Felbrigg, the commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. Jenkyn and his eight secret service men had become direct competition for Felbrigg and his team of a half dozen plainclothes “active officers.” Jenkyn treated Scotland Yard with open contempt, refusing to collaborate or share intelligence. He had said publicly that London police were incompetent, a pack of fools. Instead of using them for extra manpower, Jenkyn had sent for Royal Irish constables from Dublin.