Jenkyn blew out a stream of smoke. “You’re right, of course,” he said after a moment. “Even the strongest opponents of Home Rule can’t claim that Ireland has been ruled justly. However, Irish independence isn’t the answer. The damage it would do to the Empire is incalculable. Our only concern is what’s best for England’s interests.”
“You know I live for queen and country,” Ethan said flippantly.
Undeceived, Jenkyn studied him closely. “Does it weigh on your conscience that innocent lives will be lost as a result of our efforts?”
Ethan gave him a sardonic glance. “I have no more use for a conscience than I do for neckties. I may have to wear one in public, but I don’t bother with one in private.”
Jenkyn chuckled. “This week I want you to help Gamble with some security arrangements. It’s for a charity event at the Home Secretary’s private residence. A number of MPs and cabinet ministers will attend. With all the recent political unrest, one can’t be too careful.”
Ethan’s pulse quickened. More than anywhere else in the world, the London house occupied by Lord Tatham, the Home Secretary, was the place he most wanted access. But he frowned at the mention of William Gamble, a fellow secret-service agent who would have been perfectly willing to shoot him on command. Jenkyn often liked to play them against each other, like a pair of bull terriers bred for the pit.
“Security isn’t Gamble’s strong suit,” Ethan said. “I’d rather make the arrangements by myself.”
“I’ve already put him in charge. Follow the procedures he lays out, to the letter. I want you to focus on the exterior of the house, and provide Gamble with an analysis of any landscape features or structures that might pose a risk.”
Ethan sent him a mutinous glance but didn’t argue.
“You will both attend the event,” Jenkyn continued, “and of course, you’ll keep your eyes and ears open. Gamble will pose as an under-butler.”
“And me?” Ethan asked warily.
“You’ll be a speculative builder from Durham.”
That placated Ethan slightly. He might enjoy lording it over Gamble a bit at the event. However, Jenkyn’s next remarks extinguished the flicker of satisfaction. “As an enterprising young man about town, you would likely be escorting an eligible lady to the soirée. It would make your guise more believable. Perhaps we should find someone to accompany you. An attractive and accomplished woman, but not one so highborn as to be beyond your reach.”
There was no specific threat in the words, but they caused a swooping plummet of his stomach. Without even thinking, he began to regulate his breathing in the way the guru in India had taught him. Let each breath flow smoothly . . . four counts in, four counts out.
“I don’t know any ladies,” he said calmly.
“Is that so?” he heard Jenkyn ask, affecting mild surprise. “I was under the impression that lately you’ve been keeping company with quite an interesting lady. Dr. Garrett Gibson.”
Now Ethan’s stomach no longer felt like it was swooping. It felt like it had crashed through a window and was plummeting in a shower of broken glass. Any time Jenkyn was sufficiently aware of a fellow human being to mention his or her name, their life span became statistically shorter.
Somewhere within the iced-over machinery of his brain, he registered that Jenkyn was speaking again. “Never stub the end of a good cigar, Ransom, it doesn’t deserve a violent death. Let it burn out with dignity. You haven’t answered my question.”
Ethan looking down at the collapsed foot of his cigar, which he hadn’t even been aware of crushing into the ashtray. As the flood of ruined smoke bit inside his nostrils, he asked tonelessly, “What question?”
“Obviously I would like you to tell me about your relationship with Dr. Gibson.”
Ethan’s face felt stiff, as if it had been covered in plaster and left to dry. He needed to produce a smile, something that looked genuine, and he searched frantically through the chaos of his thoughts until the phrase “scrotal chafing” came to mind. That was enough to help him crack a grin. Relaxing back in his chair, he lifted his gaze to Jenkyn’s, and saw a hint of surprise at his self-possession. Good.
“There’s no relationship,” Ethan said easily. “Who told you there was?”
The older man ignored the question. “You’ve been following Dr. Gibson to the Clerkenwell area. You accompanied her to a special evening market and visited her home afterward. What would you call that?”
“I was trifling with her.” It required the full force of Ethan’s will to remain calm as he realized he’d been shadowed, almost certainly by another agent. Probably Gamble, the disloyal prick.
“Dr. Gibson is not the kind of woman one trifles with,” Jenkyn said. “She’s unique. The only female in the entire British medical profession—what does it take to achieve that? Superior powers of mind, a cool disposition, and courage equal to any man’s. If that weren’t enough, she’s reportedly quite pleasing to the eye. A beauty, even. Regarded as a saint in some circles, a she-demon in others. You must be fascinated by her.”
“She’s a curiosity, is all.”
“Oh come,” Jenkyn said with amused chiding, “she’s a good deal more than that. Even Dr. Gibson’s sharpest detractors won’t deny that she’s extraordinary.”
Ethan shook his head. “She has a high way with her. Hard as flint.”
“I’m not displeased by your interest in her, my boy. Quite the opposite.”
“You’ve always said women are a distraction.”
“So they are. However, I’ve never asked you to live like a monk. A man’s natural passions are meant to be exercised in moderation. Prolonged celibacy makes the constitution irritable.”
“I’m not irritable,” Ethan snapped. “And I’m no more interested in Dr. Gibson than I am in staring at a bucket of dirt.”
Jenkyn appeared to suppress a smile. “Thou doth protest too much.” Seeing Ethan’s lack of comprehension, he asked, “Haven’t you read the copy of Hamlet I gave to you?”
“I didn’t finish it,” Ethan muttered.
The older man was obviously displeased. “Why not?”
“Hamlet spends all his time talking. He never does anything. It’s a revenge play with no revenge.”
“How do you know, if you haven’t finished it?”
Ethan shrugged. “I don’t care how it ends.”
“The play is about a man who’s forced to face the reality of human depravity. He lives in a fallen world, in which ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ is whatever he decides. ‘There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.’ I assumed you would have had enough imagination to put yourself in Hamlet’s place.”
“If I were in his place,” Ethan said sullenly, “I’d do more than stand around making speeches.”
Jenkyn regarded him with a touch of fond paternal exasperation. Something in that interested, caring look pierced down to the place in Ethan’s heart that had always yearned for a father. And it hurt.
“The play is a mirror held up to a man’s soul,” Jenkyn said. “Read the rest of it, and tell me about the reflection you see.”