Bodice Ripper

Mary tried to sleep, and when someone knocked on her door and called in with Davis's voice, she wished that she had managed it. Perhaps she'd have been able to pretend that she wasn't here, or that she in her dreams she'd invented the danger she was in.

But that comfort wasn't going to be granted to her, and thinking about it would only hurt in the long run. She'd only known him a few long days, but Mary found it hard not to trust James. He would fix things for her, or he'd die trying.

What made her more nervous, though, was that she was quickly getting the impression that the same could be said for her uncle.

James was larger. He clearly had spent more than his share of time in the gymnasium, and if it came down to a fist fight, she thought that James would win. His looks, of course, were another victory for him.

But that was where it ended. Besides that, her uncle was better-funded, better-experienced, and better-armed. James looked like he could take any one of the men that Oliver had brought with him, but not two. Oliver had four that she'd seen, though she hadn't looked to see whether or not they stayed.

So, she reminded herself as she pretended to take the time to get dressed, it was absolutely imperative that she let things go by. If she let anyone think that she was onto them, then there wouldn't be any stopping them.

These weren't the type of people to spare her because she was family, and they weren't the type to spare her because she was a woman. If she threatened them, then she'd be dealt with. James could have taken any one of them, but Mary could not.

She went straight to the library without taking breakfast, and immediately opened another book. She tried to read; the best lie is a true one. But she quickly realized that wasn't going to work, so she settled for moving her eyes over the page.

She needed a way to tell her uncle that she wasn't a threat, that she wasn't involved. She'd been pretending not to be involved before, and it felt as if the easiest way to go back to it was to use the same lie she'd used before.

The clock chimed and she nearly jumped out of her seat. She looked up, and realized that it had been nearly two hours that she'd sat there in her reverie. Davis was standing just inside the door.

There had been a time, only a few days ago, when she might have been comforted to see him there. He had reminded her of her father. Now it seemed as if he was a constant reminder that her uncle couldn't be defied, that he was always watching.

She opened her mouth to ask for something to eat, but the words never came. She croaked and stared, open-mouthed. Then she gave up and looked back at her book.

Davis cleared his throat, and then she realized that he hadn't been standing there for long.

"Yes?" She looked up again, and the word came out automatically.

She didn't sound afraid or panicked, she hoped. It could have passed for distracted, if she hadn't known better. She had to hope that Davis wouldn't know better, though she knew it was an unlikely hope at best.

"Your Uncle will see you now," he said. She was almost surprised at how disinterested he sounded, as if everything was going according to some strange, twisted plan.

She set her book aside and rose to follow him. She followed a few steps behind as they wound through the halls, until they came to the study. For a moment, a dozen images flashed through Mary's mind, different encounters from the past week.

It made her miss James, though they'd only been apart a few hours. When Davis opened the door and pushed it open for her, she nearly gasped.

It almost seemed like a completely different room. The furniture was the same, but where there had been messes and scores of papers pressed into haphazard stacks, there were now bare shelves. The only books in the room were well-used war manuals with names that Mary didn't recognize on them.

"Ah, Mary. The last time I saw you, you were this high!"

He put his hand a little higher than his knee to show her. It was true, and she realized now why she'd always been a little afraid of him from her childhood memories. He seemed as uncomfortable in the room as she'd seen anyone anywhere.

If James had seemed like he would be suited to soldiering, he had at least seemed like someone who could fit in other places as well. Oliver had none of that.

He looked like he could only be comfortable chasing the next far-off battlefield. He was approaching sixty, she could see, but his body was big and brawny. He carried himself with a straight back, but his eyes were searching constantly. Cataloging everything he saw, as if at any moment something might dart out of the shadows.

"Uncle," she said cautiously.

"Listen, I've just finished going through Mr. Poole's reports. Capable man, that boy, I must say I was surprised."

She wasn't sure what he meant by it, whether he was referring to the work he'd done, or the work that the burglar had fabricated to cover for the missing slips. She wasn't going to ask him to find out.

"If you say so, sir."

He watched her eyes and pursed his lips. For a moment, he almost looked sad, as if he re

gretted something. Then the look was gone.

"It seems as if your father had some financial troubles. I trust he didn't tell you anything about any of that, though, did he?"