The Spymaster's Lady by Joanna Bourne

off-key. I have a particularly fine baritone.”
    â€œSo does an ass. Don’t sit up.” Roussel, the innkeeper, already had Doyle’s red valise ready on the dresser. Lockpicks and a collection of subtle weapons were lined up in the barbering kit, disguised as complex grooming aids. There was a choice of scissors. “I’ll cut that coat off.”
    â€œMore wardrobe sacrificed to the needs of the Service.” Adrian’s lips quirked. “Take it. Take it. We’re sick of one another’s company. I’ve been wearing it—what’s it been—three days?
    â€œFour, since you got shot.”
    â€œAh. I lost a day.”
    â€œThat day was no loss. I was there.”
    They spoke French. Even alone, even in this inn that belonged body and soul to the British Service, they never broke into English. It was one of the thousand habits that kept them alive. Voices change when they change to a new language. Grey’s own voice was refined and smooth in the drawling Toulouse French he affected. In English, his normal tone was a grating deep growl, heavy with the underlay of his native West Country accent.
    He rolled his sleeves back and selected a pair of scissors. “There are sharp points on these. Hold still.”
    â€œBehold me, motionless as a clam.” Adrian let his head fall back onto the pillow. “We shouldn’t have brought her here. We could have dumped her in any of those villages.”
    â€œI need her. You, I can dump in a Normandy village and say good riddance.” He cut through wool and the heavy silk of the waistcoat and the linen of the shirt. “Lift your arm. Yes. That’s got it.”
    â€œYou’ve brought a French agent to a British Service shelter house. This is Roussel’s bailiwick. He’s going to want to slit her throat.”
    â€œRoussel doesn’t get everything he wants.” The bandage beneath was heavy with fresh blood, stiff and brown at the edges. Five, six snips, and he cut it away.
    Adrian curled up to peer at his chest. “Looks like a hell of a mess from here. How is it?”
    â€œNot bad.” Under a plaque of gummy dried blood, the wound was draining thin, straw-colored liquid. Was that normal? He kept his opinion off his face. “Better than I expected.”
    The Hawker, unfortunately, could read any man living. He leaned back and opened and closed his hand a few times and looked away. From the open window came the faint sound of men talking at the tables outside. “Any chance for a doctor?”
    â€œRoussel doesn’t trust the local man. We’ll manage on our own.”
    â€œHow intrepid of us.”
    The fever was down, fought to a temporary truce by the Hawker’s leathery toughness. That couldn’t last much longer. This sneaky, brilliant boy was going to die because Grey couldn’t risk getting a French doctor to him. Because they’d been too slow running down an alley in Paris four days ago. Because he’d sent Hawker into France in the first place.
    He was going to kill the boy tomorrow, digging that bullet out. Damn and damn and damn.
    Roussel’s daughter had brought up water. Grey poured some in the basin. It was hot, almost too hot to touch. “We’ll clean up. We’ll eat well and sleep soft tonight. Tomorrow we put more distance between us and Paris, then stop and pull the slug out.” He made himself study the jagged pucker of red skin. “You’ll have a beautiful scar.”
    â€œIt will add to my manifold charms. Who digs into me—you or Doyle?”
    â€œWe talked it over. My hands are better with small work.”
    â€œYou flipped a coin. I know.” Adrian sketched a grin. “We could wait till England. I know a man in Chelsea who has a fine, artistic way with a bullet.”
    â€œCoward.”
    â€œFervently. Tomorrow then. If you’re set on this, I suggest you choose someplace private. I will