Read A Spy in the House for Free Online Page B
Authors: Y. S. Lee
“Speechless?”
“I suspect you of trying to make me speechless.”
He was really very handsome when he smiled like that. “Perhaps. But I’d like to try conversing with you as well. Will you grant me the next waltz?”
“Oh, I couldn’t. . . .”
“Don’t tell me your card is full.”
“Of course not.” She didn’t even have a dance card. “But I shouldn’t dance.”
He looked amused. “Is it forbidden?”
“Of course not. It’s only that — I’m not . . .” Mary gestured helplessly.
Michael’s gaze traveled over her lightly, admiringly. “You look well equipped for dancing: female, two arms, two feet . . . that I can see, at any rate.”
She had to laugh at that. “You are being difficult on purpose. I mean that I am not one of the young ladies. You ought to dance with someone else.”
“I’m not an eligible bachelor. It’s practically your responsibility to dance with me, you know.”
“On the contrary . . . there seems to be a shortage of male partners. If you’re so intent on dancing, you’d better ask one of the younger girls. That should be perfectly safe.”
“I say, Gray!” commanded one of the men in the doorway.
“Coming!” Michael called. “This conversation is not finished,” he warned her smilingly. “I’ll be waiting for that dance.”
She flashed him a cheeky look as she stepped around him. “You may wait all you like.” Rounding the corner, she slipped down the corridor with a smile lingering on her lips. Perhaps flirting wasn’t as difficult as she’d thought.
Both the noise level and the temperature fell somewhat as she neared the back of the house. The only room at this deserted end of the corridor was Thorold’s office. The servants were below, feverishly producing more iced drinks, more food, opening more champagne.
Mary tried the door handle. Locked, naturally. She extracted a sturdy hairpin from her bun and crimped it deftly. Picking locks had always been one of her favorite parts of her old job: looking out for intruders while simultaneously listening to the tumblers of the lock required immense focus. During her training sessions at the Agency last month, she’d been pleased and surprised to find the old knowledge flooding back. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the talents she’d acquired as a young thief were all still there. She had struggled more with new skills, like code cracking. Now, however, she found that her nerves were unused to the pressure after all these years of ladylike respectability, and her hands shook in an alarming fashion. She stopped and forced herself to draw five deep breaths in succession. If she didn’t calm herself, she’d only scratch the lock, lose her hairpin, and have to go back to the drawing room empty-handed. It was a sobering thought that helped to steady her fingers.
Her second attempt was much better. Almost immediately, she could feel the inside of the mortise lock — visualize the tenons revolving in their neat patterns. A brief burble of laughter from down the hall made her freeze, but its source didn’t appear, and she continued her work. The last lever clicked into place, and she grinned. So satisfying.
The handle was well oiled. A glance inside confirmed that the room was empty, and she slipped inside, closing the door silently behind her. The heavy velvet curtains were open, and a blend of moonlight and garden torches half lit the room. She wouldn’t need the stub of candle tucked in her pocket.
She turned to survey the office. To her right was Thorold’s desk, square and massive and completely bare. Behind the desk sat a pair of filing cabinets, a tall wardrobe, and a drinks table with several well-filled decanters and a set of glasses. To her left was a series of glass-fronted bookcases filled with leather-bound books with gold-embossed spines. The windows were against the back wall.
She frowned and chewed her lip. She couldn’t expect a miraculous discovery. Indeed, she told herself sternly,
“I suspect you of trying to make me speechless.”
He was really very handsome when he smiled like that. “Perhaps. But I’d like to try conversing with you as well. Will you grant me the next waltz?”
“Oh, I couldn’t. . . .”
“Don’t tell me your card is full.”
“Of course not.” She didn’t even have a dance card. “But I shouldn’t dance.”
He looked amused. “Is it forbidden?”
“Of course not. It’s only that — I’m not . . .” Mary gestured helplessly.
Michael’s gaze traveled over her lightly, admiringly. “You look well equipped for dancing: female, two arms, two feet . . . that I can see, at any rate.”
She had to laugh at that. “You are being difficult on purpose. I mean that I am not one of the young ladies. You ought to dance with someone else.”
“I’m not an eligible bachelor. It’s practically your responsibility to dance with me, you know.”
“On the contrary . . . there seems to be a shortage of male partners. If you’re so intent on dancing, you’d better ask one of the younger girls. That should be perfectly safe.”
“I say, Gray!” commanded one of the men in the doorway.
“Coming!” Michael called. “This conversation is not finished,” he warned her smilingly. “I’ll be waiting for that dance.”
She flashed him a cheeky look as she stepped around him. “You may wait all you like.” Rounding the corner, she slipped down the corridor with a smile lingering on her lips. Perhaps flirting wasn’t as difficult as she’d thought.
Both the noise level and the temperature fell somewhat as she neared the back of the house. The only room at this deserted end of the corridor was Thorold’s office. The servants were below, feverishly producing more iced drinks, more food, opening more champagne.
Mary tried the door handle. Locked, naturally. She extracted a sturdy hairpin from her bun and crimped it deftly. Picking locks had always been one of her favorite parts of her old job: looking out for intruders while simultaneously listening to the tumblers of the lock required immense focus. During her training sessions at the Agency last month, she’d been pleased and surprised to find the old knowledge flooding back. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the talents she’d acquired as a young thief were all still there. She had struggled more with new skills, like code cracking. Now, however, she found that her nerves were unused to the pressure after all these years of ladylike respectability, and her hands shook in an alarming fashion. She stopped and forced herself to draw five deep breaths in succession. If she didn’t calm herself, she’d only scratch the lock, lose her hairpin, and have to go back to the drawing room empty-handed. It was a sobering thought that helped to steady her fingers.
Her second attempt was much better. Almost immediately, she could feel the inside of the mortise lock — visualize the tenons revolving in their neat patterns. A brief burble of laughter from down the hall made her freeze, but its source didn’t appear, and she continued her work. The last lever clicked into place, and she grinned. So satisfying.
The handle was well oiled. A glance inside confirmed that the room was empty, and she slipped inside, closing the door silently behind her. The heavy velvet curtains were open, and a blend of moonlight and garden torches half lit the room. She wouldn’t need the stub of candle tucked in her pocket.
She turned to survey the office. To her right was Thorold’s desk, square and massive and completely bare. Behind the desk sat a pair of filing cabinets, a tall wardrobe, and a drinks table with several well-filled decanters and a set of glasses. To her left was a series of glass-fronted bookcases filled with leather-bound books with gold-embossed spines. The windows were against the back wall.
She frowned and chewed her lip. She couldn’t expect a miraculous discovery. Indeed, she told herself sternly,