Lord Crayle's Secret World. Lara Temple

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      Out of nowhere he remembered a children’s book he used to read to his brother and sisters. It had been about the adventures of a young page, Cedric the Small, an unlikely little hero whose determination to save his family from the evil Knight Mercur led him both into and out of trouble. It was a classic story about brain over brawn, but it had been Cedric’s mix of warmth, vulnerability and mischief that had made him so appealing. Miss Trevor was like a female version of Cedric. And Cedric got into trouble as often as he managed to get out of it.

      ‘So you think you can open the safe?’ Michael asked curtly, forcing himself back into the moment.

      ‘Yes. I would need a glass, preferably crystal. Would you like me to try?’

      He smiled slightly at her defiant confidence. And at the fact that he believed her. He doubted she would promise what she didn’t feel she could deliver.

      ‘Not at the moment. Deakins for one will be delighted to meet you.’

      ‘Who is Deakins?’

      ‘He’s one of the instructors here. He specialises in all sorts of less-than-legal skills. In fact, I think the two of you will deal admirably.’

      Anderson shot him a quelling glance, but Michael ignored him.

      ‘Perhaps we should tell you what you will be doing over the next few months. Before you become an operative agent, you will undergo a schedule of training, including a physical regimen, politics and a variety of other topics. If you complete your training to our satisfaction, you will join the others on whatever mission is assigned. Are you still interested?’

      Sari nodded, trying and failing to keep her mouth prim. She didn’t even trust herself to speak yet, she was so excited.

      ‘Good. Anderson will take you around to meet the instructors. And I believe I mentioned that you should find accommodation not too far from the Institute,’ Michael added practically. ‘Penrose can help.’

      ‘Thank you, I will keep that in mind, Lord Crayle, but George knows London quite well.’

      ‘Will you come with us?’ Anderson asked him as they stood up.

      ‘No, I have some matters to attend to. I just received the latest reports from Denby and I want to review them. Come by when you’re done, Anderson. Enjoy your tour, Miss Trevor.’

      She nodded hesitantly as he walked out. She was almost relieved he wasn’t coming with them. It was hard to be natural under the scrutiny of his cold grey eyes. Or rather, it was hard to be unnatural. She wanted so much to present herself as competent and worthy, but somehow she felt too...exposed when he was watching her. It would be easier to concentrate with just Anderson there.

      * * *

      An hour later Anderson entered Michael’s office, and Michael glanced up from the documents he was inspecting.

      ‘Well?’ he asked, taking in his friend’s relaxed smile.

      ‘Well, you were right and I was wrong. I think she’ll do just fine. I’ll work on a schedule for her as of next week. Give them time to find accommodation and settle in the area first. What an extraordinary young woman...’ He trailed off.

      ‘A nonpareil,’ Michael said drily after a moment. ‘So, what training are you considering?’

      ‘Well, given our experience in the Varenne case, I thought she should brush up on her social skills. She’s not completely green—she spent three years in country society out near Oxford, but she was never in London society, so the finer points of Almack’s are lost on her. Albermarle will be happy to have someone to train aside from the usual roster of ruffians as he calls them. Paretski on politics and Antonelli will start her on a physical regimen including fencing. And Deakins, of course.’

      ‘Of course. Sabotage.’

      ‘All right, Michael, what’s wrong?’ Anderson asked with uncharacteristic bluntness. ‘This was your idea, but you’re about as enthusiastic as mud.’

      Michael considered his words carefully.

      ‘I’m not sure we can trust her.’

      ‘If you don’t trust her, then why the devil did you recruit her?’

      ‘That is different. I trust her to carry out whatever mission you impose in full faithfulness to you and King. I do not trust her...motivations.’

      That was not quite the word he was looking for. In fact, now that he thought of it, he could not completely pin down where his feeling of unease stemmed from. Perhaps it was the undefinable quality of his discomfort that bothered him most about her. He preferred to know where the threat was coming from.

      ‘I think you’re just miffed she almost put a bullet through you.’ Anderson snorted.

      ‘You’re probably right,’ Michael conceded with a self-deprecating smile. ‘What a blow to my self-esteem!’

      ‘She’s meeting Antonelli at ten o’clock next Monday morning,’ Anderson said after a moment. ‘You should come by and have a look.’

      Michael felt a surge of affection for his gentle, always-conciliating friend. It was a constant wonder to him that someone so averse to discord could derive such pleasure from managing a band of spies.

      ‘I will be there.’

       Chapter Six

      The following Monday morning Michael closed the door of the salle d’escrime quietly behind him. Both Antonelli and Sari were completely concentrated on each other and the clash of their foils. Antonelli was clearly a master fencer, guiding and correcting without a word or a discordant gesture. What surprised Michael was that the young woman was good, if unorthodox in her style.

      She wielded her foil like a sabre, with long smooth strokes, coming in from irregular angles and forcing Antonelli to adjust in ways Michael knew must feel unnatural for him. What was most surprising was that the old master had not pinned her down, disarmed her and given her an earful for not respecting tradition. He had certainly done so to Michael during their first encounter some twenty years ago. Where the devil had she learned this?

      Finally, Antonelli took the full offensive, drove her back off the strip and flipped her foil out of her grip with a powerful lunge.

      ‘Touché, et bien touché.’ She saluted with a breathless laugh, her cheeks flushed.

      Antonelli gave a slight bow, his greying hair still almost perfectly coifed. Only the faintest sheen on his face denoted he had exerted himself at all.

      ‘Et bien joué,’ he returned. ‘But you need a firmer grip, signorina. And there is too much swing in your arcs. Each should be an inch shorter; do not waste energy slicing the air. Fluide, mais courte.’

      She stood to attention as Antonelli rattled off his criticism, fully focused, her hand unconsciously responding to his comments. Michael smiled. So far it seemed the only person who brought out her prickliness was himself. He took a couple of steps СКАЧАТЬ