and Evie’s happiness, and that must count for something. She turned for home, for a warm cup of tea and hot buttered toast, and the hope that in the post a letter from Johnny would be waiting.
* * *
In his office in London, Tarquin March studied the wire in his hand. It was the fifth Gabriel had sent since his elopement, each more forceful than the last. He wasn’t going without a fight, and Tarquin respected that. Quentin had pushed for putting Gabriel out of things altogether. Insubordination must be punished, he’d insisted.
But Tarquin knew how useful initiative and instinct could be. He dropped the wire and picked up a photograph. It had been taken hastily, by one of his own fellows posing as a tourist. He had sent a copy to Gabriel, but the other had come directly to Tarquin, along with a few others—all of Gabriel and the girl. There was a file on her, as well, now. Evangeline Merryweather. A girl with scarcely any past, and perhaps not much of a future if she meant to spend it with Gabriel Starke. Tarquin studied the faces, feeling a thousand years old. His work had aged him, but he could not remember ever being quite that young. Or ever that happy. In the photograph Gabriel had scooped up his bride and she was laughing up into his face, her expression adoring. Gabriel was smiling down, but even in that moment, there was a new hardness to his jaw, a tension at the corner of his mouth that told Tarquin he was struggling with his decision.
Tarquin dropped the photograph. The file holding all of Gabriel’s information and his previous four wires was still sitting upon his desk. At his elbow sat two rubber stamps. Active and Inactive.
He took off his spectacles, polishing them thoughtfully, then pushed a button, ringing a bell outside his office. Within seconds, his secretary slipped in, as discreet and silent as a shadow.
“You rang?”
“How is Jack doing? Will he be suitable?”
The shadowy secretary shrugged. “Possibly. He’s undisciplined, of course. They all are. But they all have potential.”
Tarquin replaced his spectacles and considered the stack of files on his desk. Each was tabbed with a name, and he flicked through them, skimming swiftly. “Jack, Sebastian, Stephen,” he murmured. There were others, and he flicked through these, as well. Gabriel’s file landed on the top.
He looked up at his secretary. “Quentin thinks I should let him go over this elopement business.”
The secretary shrugged. “Quentin Harkness lacks imagination. Of course, in my experience, most men do.”
A small smile touched Tarquin’s lips. “Hence the charade that you’re merely my secretary.”
The secretary shrugged again. “We’ve been over this a thousand times, Tarquin. This office is an ivory tower. Whoever sits in that chair is removed from what really goes on in this place. If I am out there, amongst the typists and the delivery boys, I can keep my finger on the pulse of everything that happens.”
“I know. It’s just bloody awkward.”
“Not for me. The other secretaries think you’re simply too mean to employ a man and hired your sister to avoid spending a penny more than you had to on a secretary.”
Tarquin smiled, and anyone who knew him from the office would have been astonished at the change it made. Gone was the solemn grey bureaucrat and in his place was a serious man with handsome features and green eyes bright with mischief. It was a side to him no one saw anymore—save for his sister.
She crossed the room and put a hand to the file on the top of the stack. “We’re going to give him another chance, Tarq. It’s the right thing to do. He’s impetuous and rash, just like Jack, but we’ve got some good steady souls in there to help them along. They’ll find their way.”
He reached out his hand for the file and gave it to her. She rolled the rubber stamp onto a pad of red ink and pressed it to the file. Active.
“This one’s on you if it goes wrong,” he warned
* * *
In his office in London, Tarquin March studied the wire in his hand. It was the fifth Gabriel had sent since his elopement, each more forceful than the last. He wasn’t going without a fight, and Tarquin respected that. Quentin had pushed for putting Gabriel out of things altogether. Insubordination must be punished, he’d insisted.
But Tarquin knew how useful initiative and instinct could be. He dropped the wire and picked up a photograph. It had been taken hastily, by one of his own fellows posing as a tourist. He had sent a copy to Gabriel, but the other had come directly to Tarquin, along with a few others—all of Gabriel and the girl. There was a file on her, as well, now. Evangeline Merryweather. A girl with scarcely any past, and perhaps not much of a future if she meant to spend it with Gabriel Starke. Tarquin studied the faces, feeling a thousand years old. His work had aged him, but he could not remember ever being quite that young. Or ever that happy. In the photograph Gabriel had scooped up his bride and she was laughing up into his face, her expression adoring. Gabriel was smiling down, but even in that moment, there was a new hardness to his jaw, a tension at the corner of his mouth that told Tarquin he was struggling with his decision.
Tarquin dropped the photograph. The file holding all of Gabriel’s information and his previous four wires was still sitting upon his desk. At his elbow sat two rubber stamps. Active and Inactive.
He took off his spectacles, polishing them thoughtfully, then pushed a button, ringing a bell outside his office. Within seconds, his secretary slipped in, as discreet and silent as a shadow.
“You rang?”
“How is Jack doing? Will he be suitable?”
The shadowy secretary shrugged. “Possibly. He’s undisciplined, of course. They all are. But they all have potential.”
Tarquin replaced his spectacles and considered the stack of files on his desk. Each was tabbed with a name, and he flicked through them, skimming swiftly. “Jack, Sebastian, Stephen,” he murmured. There were others, and he flicked through these, as well. Gabriel’s file landed on the top.
He looked up at his secretary. “Quentin thinks I should let him go over this elopement business.”
The secretary shrugged. “Quentin Harkness lacks imagination. Of course, in my experience, most men do.”
A small smile touched Tarquin’s lips. “Hence the charade that you’re merely my secretary.”
The secretary shrugged again. “We’ve been over this a thousand times, Tarquin. This office is an ivory tower. Whoever sits in that chair is removed from what really goes on in this place. If I am out there, amongst the typists and the delivery boys, I can keep my finger on the pulse of everything that happens.”
“I know. It’s just bloody awkward.”
“Not for me. The other secretaries think you’re simply too mean to employ a man and hired your sister to avoid spending a penny more than you had to on a secretary.”
Tarquin smiled, and anyone who knew him from the office would have been astonished at the change it made. Gone was the solemn grey bureaucrat and in his place was a serious man with handsome features and green eyes bright with mischief. It was a side to him no one saw anymore—save for his sister.
She crossed the room and put a hand to the file on the top of the stack. “We’re going to give him another chance, Tarq. It’s the right thing to do. He’s impetuous and rash, just like Jack, but we’ve got some good steady souls in there to help them along. They’ll find their way.”
He reached out his hand for the file and gave it to her. She rolled the rubber stamp onto a pad of red ink and pressed it to the file. Active.
“This one’s on you if it goes wrong,” he warned
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