The wooden fence pressed up against her shoulder blades, but still Jones advanced. It was far from subtle, his trick of standing too close in order to pressure one, but it was effective none the less. "Still working, sir. Hasn't told me aught."
"And in all the time you've spent with him, you've surmised nothing?"
Mary wrinkled her brow. "Sur-what, sir?"
"Surmised: observed. Guessed. Reckoned."
"There'll be a reckoning, but not the sort you had in mind," said a caustic voice behind them.
Mary squeezed shut her eyes. Rescue and trouble at the same time.
"I told you to clear off!"
"Mr Easton!" Jones had his party voice on. "What a pleasure to see you again; I don't believe we were properly introduced yesterday."
"We never shall be. Now get off my building site."
"Would it be overly pedantic of me to point out that we're not, in fact, inside the building site?" Jones grinned at James's expression. "I don't suppose I could interest you in giving us an exclusive, sir. No? A pity. Well, I must be off. You mustn't blame young Quinn for talking to me, y'know – I waylaid him, not the reverse. Well, cheerio, then."
The sudden hush as Jones sauntered away was entirely in Mary's head. The street itself was as raucous as ever but her primary awareness, as she followed James through the site entrance, was of his uncharacteristic and ominous silence. She remembered perfectly well what he'd said yesterday: if he caught her talking to Octavius Jones again, she would be disciplined. He hadn't then let on that he'd recognized her, of course. But she doubted that would make the slightest difference.
James marched into the tower entrance without a glance over his shoulder. Mary followed meekly. It wasn't as though she had a choice. As soon as they were alone, she blurted out, "I can explain."
He didn't seem to hear her. Instead, he stared hard at a spot a few inches over her head and said in a low, taut voice, "Tell me, who the hell are you, really?"
She opened her lips to reply, then paused. It was an excellent question – and right now, she had no idea how to answer him. She was Mary Quinn, of course. But also Mary Lang. Secret agent. Orphan. Ex-thief. Ex-teacher. Englishwoman. Half-caste. And she was none of the things she'd represented to him in the past. He had every right to be livid.
"You can't even tell me that?" His voice was bitter. "At least answer me this: is there really a Fordham?"
She blinked, startled. "No. Of course not."
The tension in his jaw eased a little. "And Jones – he's really a journalist?"
"Of sorts; he writes for the Eye on London." This wasn't what she'd expected. James's lines of questioning were usually focused, rational. These questions made no sense, unless he was actually jealous… and that seemed more like a preposterous hallucination than lucid observation.
"Were you following me last night?"
That, at least, gave her ground to stand on. "How could I have been? I was at the Wicks' house first."
"You could have anticipated where I was going."
"For that matter, you could have followed me." The possibility had cost her some sleep that night.
"Assuming I knew who the hell you are." His words were bitter, but his tone less acid. He was looking at her now, those dark eyes trying to read her mind. "What the devil are you doing on a building site in boy's clothing, Mary? If that's even your name."
"Of course it's my name." It was the only part of her identity she could honestly share with him.
"Well, that's a start, I suppose."
She bit her lower lip. "Do you really want to know why I'm here?"
He made an oddly helpless gesture. "Who wouldn't? Don't you think I feel an ass? You saved my life last year; you pulled me out of that damned Lascars' refuge. But you don't even trust me enough to tell me what you're doing now."
She hadn't thought about his feelings – not in that way. But he was right. She could at least offer him a coherent, reasonable explanation for her presence here. It was a long way from telling the truth, but it might satisfy him for the moment, even if doing so made her feel wretched. Spying was all very well. She loved disguise, and acting, and all the covert skills in which she'd been trained. Yet she hated this sort of duplicity, lying to someone whom she-
Mary cut off her train of thought. She couldn't afford to pursue it. And James was, after all, still waiting for an explanation. It was time to produce her story. "I – I'm researching a book." The words sounded foolish the instant they left her lips, but she could hardly backpedal now. "Investigating, I suppose you could say." She paused, waiting for his reaction, not meeting his gaze. When he didn't reply, she stumbled on. "It's about the working poor in London. Whether it's possible to make ends meet on a labourer's wages, and the daily details and textures of an errand boy's life. How they live, really. It's why I'm here right now, as Mark Quinn, and also why I was at Wick's house, nosing about in the guise of a rich, charitable lady."
James's eyes widened as he listened, but unlike many others, he always listened in silence. He was intent on her every word and when she stopped – she couldn't bear to string out the lie – he let out a long, low whistle. "Never dull, are you?"
She smiled crookedly. "That's quite a compliment, coming from a man who's just returned from India, survived malaria, and been appointed to this safety review."
He waved his hand impatiently. "But I'm just a stick-in-the-mud professional man. What you're doing is really radical! I mean, Henry Mayhew does those interviews of poor Londoners in the Chronicle, of course. But for someone, especially a woman, actually to live the life? That's original."
She cringed. As though she hadn't felt fraudulent enough without his excitement and admiration. And what would she do when he asked to read her work-in-progress? Then, with a pang of regret, she remembered she would no longer be in contact with James at that point. This was a cover story to protect the assignment. Once this was over, she would have to take care not to run into James again, if she valued her work as a secret agent. "I'm not sure whether it'll work out…" she demurred.
"I've wondered about the life of an errand boy. How do people treat you?" A new thought occurred to him and he frowned. "You must often be in situations that are dangerous for a lady."
"Oh…" Despite her best intentions, Mary found herself warming under his protective scrutiny. "I manage."
"I'm sure you do." He looked her up and down, slowly, carefully, and she felt a deep, tingling blush begin at her toes. It was all very well running about in breeches when others supposed you male, but now she felt distinctly underdressed. "Trousers become you," he murmured.
"Had-" She cleared her throat. "Hadn't we better get to work?"
He grinned. "The correct response, when one is complimented, is 'Thank you'. You've not forgotten your manners already, young lady?"
"That's not the sort of compliment one pays to a lady."
"I'm so sorry. I don't think the etiquette manuals cover this sort of situation." He leaned in close, his lips all but grazing her neck, and inhaled. "Mmm. You smell good, too."
She nearly choked. Took a step backwards, until her back met cold stone. "Th-thank you."
"That's better. May I kiss you?" His finger dipped into her shirt collar, stroking the tender nape of her neck.
"I d-don't th-think that's a good idea."
"Why not? We're alone." His hands were at her waist.
Her lungs felt tight and much too small. "Wh-what if somebody comes in?"
He considered for a moment. "Well, I suppose they'll think I fancy grubby little boys."
At that she burst out laughing, and the shift in mood lent her strength to push him away slightly. "I've another question: when did you recognize me?"
He released her with visible reluctance. "Immediately, of course."
"But you didn't let on! Why not?"