"I suppose you rather did. You're not worried about Nancy any more?"
"No." She truly wasn't. At this moment, in his presence, it seemed ridiculous that she ever had.
He'd had a wash, too, and removed his tie and jacket. She'd no idea whether this was to put her at ease in her undressed state, or whether he expected to undress further. The idea made her tremble, although she wasn't afraid. Not in the usual sense, at least.
"Your hair." He touched the shining strands. "Were you sorry to cut it?"
She shook her head, a tiny movement, lest he withdraw his hand. "I didn't think about how it felt. It had to be done."
"Will it take long to grow back?"
"I don't think so. It grows so fast."
"Mmm." His fingers slipped down to explore the curve of her neck. "This was a weak point in your boyish disguise, you know."
"What – my neck?" Even her disbelief sounded breathless.
He smiled. "Too long. Too slender. And" – he leaned down to plant a light kiss on her collarbone – "not nearly grimy enough."
She exploded with laughter. "Is that a complaint?"
Mrs Vine entered, balancing a heavy tray. She set it down and turned to Mary. "I beg your pardon, Miss Quinn, but in preparing your trousers for laundering, I found this in your pocket. Do you wish to retain it?"
"This" was the twisted paper she had filched from Reid that afternoon; the thing she'd been trying to remember before tipsiness and James pushed all logic and strategy from her mind. She seized it with an over-loud "Yes, thank you!" Her horror must have been evident in her face. But Mrs Vine remained as carefully expressionless as ever, merely inclining her head before leaving the room with swift, noiseless steps.
"What is it?"
In answer, she unfolded it carefully and showed it to him. "It fell out of Reid's pocket at the pub this afternoon."
"It fell? Or did you help it?"
She grinned. "No, I didn't steal it. But neither did I restore it to him." She turned it over and pointed to the dark pencil marks that seemed to grow from one corner of the envelope. They formed a simple design of tall, narrow triangles, every other one of which was shaded in. "Is this familiar?"
James swallowed hard. After a frozen moment, he nodded with obvious reluctance. "It completes the circle."
"Does it?" She hated the expression of misery on his face.
"Of course it does," he snapped. "It wouldn't convict him in a court of law, but those marks – they're inarguable. Harkness can't help but draw them when he's thinking with a pencil in hand. They're all over the accounts ledger, and his working drawings, and now they're here. This envelope is proof that he's connected with the bricklayers' thefts."
"Reid may have pinched it."
"What would Reid want with an old envelope? No, never mind that. Think of it the other way: Harkness's involvement explains how the bricklayers could steal so much for so long."
She was silent. The envelope markings showed clearly enough that it had passed from Harkness's hand to Reid's, at the very least. It wasn't a pay packet, so that could safely be ruled out. And it was a dainty piece of stationery – much too small to contain architectural drawings, for example. She smoothed the envelope under her fingers. It was well-worn, dented at the corners and grubby with finger marks. It had never been addressed, never stamped – and that was logical enough, since who would trust illicit information to the penny post?
As she stared at this bit of evidence, a new sense of dismay rose within her. If Reid and Keenan had become reconciled this afternoon, Keenan would now be aware that she, too, knew about their scheme. And even if Reid and Keenan were still at odds, Keenan might still have extracted the information from Reid. Mary had no doubt that he was ruthless enough to turn on his friend and colleague; perhaps even to use violence to gain his end. Either way, a dangerously angry man would be after her. And she doubted that Harkness would be present to rescue her, this time.
She shivered. This was her fault. Her own foolish, overconfident doing. She ought never have tried to press Reid for information. What had got into her? And her inner voice immediately returned the answer: it was more that she had got into the pub. The beer had emboldened her, and the sociable ease of the place had given her licence to utter things she'd never have dared on site. What had she done?
"What's wrong?" James's voice was sharp with concern.
She shook her head.
"Tell me, Mary. You must."
"'Must'?" Ah: the authoritarian aspect of his character. She'd nearly forgotten.
"Yes, 'must'. Things are different now, between us." He seized her hands and shook them, but gently. "We both feel that, now."
She looked into his eyes for the briefest of moments and their expression made her tremble. She was exultant, blissful, terrified and, half a second later, utterly in despair. Only her emotions were true, here: everything between her and James was still a lie. And she would never be able to tell him the truth about herself. Not without betraying the Agency and the women who had saved her life and made everything possible for her in the first place.
"Mary."
Her name again, on his lips. The very thought of it made her want to weep, but she hadn't the luxury. Instead, she drew a deep breath, nodded, and told him of her confrontation with Reid. She could reveal that much. When she'd finished, she glanced at his face again, reading the concern – no, alarm – she saw there.
"We must report this to the police."
"Report what? That I accused a man of theft?"
"That a man with a violent temper, whom we strongly suspect of theft, may have cause to do you harm. You're too clever not to see that whatever Reid knows, Keenan soon will."
"The police can't do anything about that. What d'you propose – having a bobby trail me about the site on Monday?"
His lips tightened. "You're not going to site on Monday."
"There! Again!"
"What?" He was genuinely mystified.
"Ordering me about, like a dim-witted child."
"I don't think you're dim, much less a child."
"But you've just told me what to do."
"I've just told you the sensible thing to do!"
"But that's just it – you're telling me!" Could they have a lovers' quarrel when they weren't truly lovers? It seemed so. "You've no right to make decisions for me."
His jaw tightened. "This isn't about rights; it's about common sense."
"So you're saying that if our positions were reversed, you'd accept my command not to go to work on Monday?" Her temper was rising fast, but at that moment she didn't care.
"There's no need to be theoretical about this. The difficulty is what it is."
"And you are what you are!"