Page 23 of Beauty and the Thief

“Then you’ll work with Mr. Tattle starting tomorrow.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Baron rose. “Good. We are all in agreement?”

He seemed to be speaking to Cal, who nodded.

“And let’s make sure we keep this tête-a-tête between the three of us. Yes?”

“Of course, my lord.”

Cal shrugged. He had never been accused of having loose lips. He started for the door again at the same time Miss Murray did, and meeting her there, stepped aside with a flourish to allow her to pass. She scowled and stomped away. She might be a comely lass, but he pitied the man who had to marry her in truth.

***

BRIDGET LIKED HAVING other women in the house. Initially, she’d considered the arrival of Miss Galloway and Miss Vaughn a problem. They couldn’t be put in the dormitories with the men, and that was only the first of many considerations—where the ladies might eat, if they would have the same training, what was to be done if the men harassed them.

But Baron had waved all of her concerns away, telling her he was certain she would conquer all the logistical obstacles and make the women feel welcome. But sitting in the dining room with Miss Galloway and Miss Vaughn—Lucy and Margaret as Bridget now had the privilege of calling them—Bridget was the one who felt as though she’d been welcomed. The two of them had been nothing less than inviting and kind. Lucy Galloway was the more vivacious of the two. She flashed her dimpled smile constantly and chattered about everything from pistols to petticoats. She was so very pretty that Bridget couldn’t help but be slightly envious. Who wouldn’t want flawless skin, deep brown eyes, or glossy dark hair?

Margaret Vaughn was much more reserved and not conventionally pretty. She had corkscrew red curls and spectacles. As Bridget was also a redhead, she had fought with freckles her entire life, keeping out of the sun lest she acquire more. Margaret had a smattering on her face, which didn’t seem to bother her. She didn’t wear powder to conceal them and didn’t smell of the lemon solution Bridget’s mother had always applied to her daughter’s skin to bleach the freckles. Moreover, Margaret spoke of books she’d read and her political and economic ideas without hesitation. Bridget had always been careful to keep her opinions to herself. She might work for Whitehall, but the men there certainly didn’t want her insights...except when they needed her skills. She’d always felt something of a round peg surrounded by square holes, but with Margaret she felt as though she’d found a kindred spirit.

Two mornings after the meeting with Mr. Kelly in Baron’s office, the three sat at a round breakfast table in a small parlor in the back of the farmhouse. A cheery fire crackled in the fireplace and the parted brown-and-white checked curtains revealed nothing but snow-swept fields. The other women had been speaking of their training in languages. As they both spoke fluent French and Italian, they’d been assigned to Russian with the instructor everyone just called Mr. Dom because his actual Russian name was long and complicated.

“I still haven’t managed to decipher the alphabet,” Lucy was saying as she buttered her toast. “I don’t know how you get on so well.”

“Do you read Greek?” Margaret asked, sipping her tea. She rarely consumed anything more than tea before noon. “Russian reminds me of ancient Greek with a bit of Byzantine influence.”

“I’m sure it does,” Lucy replied blithely. “But I’ve always done much better with Latin. Why can we not spend all day in evasive maneuvers or weapons? If we just shoot people, we won’t have to speak to them at all.”

Margaret looked appalled, but Bridget let out a short chuckle. “More than one man who has come through here has said the same.”

“No doubt. Most men are quite economical when it comes to words.”

“Many women are as well,” Margaret observed.

“I am not, and it vexes me that Russian still eludes me,” Lucy said. “I learned Italian in three weeks. After one week, I still can’t say anything interesting in Russian.”

“What about you, Bridget?” Margaret turned to her. “Do you speak other languages?”

“Some French, but languages aren’t my specialty.”

Lucy leaned forward. “Ooh, what is your specialty?”

“If we’re allowed to ask,” Margaret added.

It wasn’t a secret here at The Farm, though it was certainly not public knowledge. “I’m a cipher. I’m good with codes, both breaking and creating them.”

“No wonder Uncle Winn finds you so invaluable,” Lucy said. “I imagine almost every message he receives is coded.”

Bridget smiled and sipped her tea. Even among friends she was careful not to reveal too much.

“I heard Mr. Slorach is quite good at ciphers as well,” Margaret added. “Qwill raves about him.”

Lucy dropped her toast. “Duncan Slorach seems to think he’s God’s gift to the Crown.”

Bridget exchanged a look with Margaret.

“He beat her in target practice,” Margaret said in a stage whisper.

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