“Even if youknowsomething, see the details that others missed and piece together some scandal, or read someone’s expression that makes you think they’re lying, you must keep it to yourself. When you find the right man, I’ll help you talk with him about your remarkable work for king and country in the War Office, but till then, protect yourself, protect your heart. Likely you’ll see through all the bad apples, but in case…”
Joan took a few steps toward him and placed her hand on his shoulder. “I understand, and I will be careful. Chances are even if I slipped up, it would be easily explained as a coincidence. I’ve worked with you long enough to know how to be on my guard.”
“True, but multiple coincidences lead to suspicion, and I don’t want you to be the focal point of any of theton’s bile in their gossip.”
“Thank you.” Joan squeezed his shoulder. “I’m thankful for a big brother like you.”
“Even if I’m an overbearing tyrant?” Morgan asked, releasing a tight chuckle.
“Even if you’re an overreacting, overbearing, maniacal tyrant,” she answered.
Morgan released a breath. “With Father and Mother gone, and then when Percy died in the fire… I don’t want to lose you too. Even if only to heartache.”
“You won’t, but you will be taking your life in your hands if you don’t leave now so you’ll be back in time for the ball,” she teased, attempting to lighten the mood, but the mention of fire had her on edge slightly. Ever since they’d lost their brother in the blaze, she’d been fearful of that element.
Morgan’s eyes widened, and he clasped the folder to his chest, then took his leave. “Be back in two hours at the most.”
“We’ll see,” Joan called out as he disappeared from the library.
Releasing a breath, she looked to the desk where the papers had rested. Her skill was hopefully going to save a life today. The missives were two letters sent from the same source; one was a decoy, the other the real message. Without information concerning which one was a ruse and which was accurate, the War Office didn’t know which location was the correct one, since each missive held a different destination. It was a smart precaution in case the messenger was caught—which he had been—but it wasn’t enough. Not when the War Office had someone like her in their ranks. Though any information and questions were passed through her brother, Joan had developed quite a name within the office.
It was Morgan who had coined her alias, Saint. It was brilliant, really, since she was named for Joan of Arc, thus giving a fitting nod to her namesake.
It had started when she was in leading strings, when her father had worked for the War Office as a handwriting analyst. As a student of graphology, he kept Camino Baldi’s bookTrattatoon his desk as a reminder of the power of the written word in deciphering clues about the writer. Baldi’s book, coupled with Charles Grohmann’s treatise on inferring character from handwriting, had been elemental in her father’s work of studying the handwriting of a potential criminal or threat given in writing.
The late earl had traveled to Germany to talk to Professor Grohmann and returned with piles of notes, which had fascinated her. Thankfully, her father had encouraged her reading, and as she watched him work, she’d learned how to apply what she’d read. One day, she was in her father’s office looking at the same paper as him. When he denied finding anything suspicious about it, she’d placed her hand over his, halting him from shifting the parchment to the side. The memory was still strong in her mind as she recalled the scent of his tobacco that clung to his jacket and the crackling of the fire in the hearth. There was a small discrepancy, one that was almost imperceptible, in the second line of the missive.
“Father, look.” She pointed a dainty finger and lightly traced the shape of the T. “See, it’s different from this one. Look at the slope and angle.” She paused as her father looked closer.
It was the first time she had spoken up, had dared to prove she understood and that she could apply such knowledge.
The earl had nodded his approval, made a note, and from then on, welcomed her assistance. They had worked together until he passed away suddenly and the War Office lost a valuable mind. Morgan, aware of her penchant for deciphering and studying handwriting, offered her an option for continuing the work she’d loved so well. He had begun working for the War Office the year before, under the careful watch of their father.
Through his connection, Morgan devised a plan—one that both protected her and set her free to do what she loved, an arrangement that made her feel like her father was still somehow close by. Her brother gave her a job.
The War Office was desperate for another analyst. And as it so happened, there was one available. Morgan said the person wished to remain anonymous and went by an alias: Saint.
It took some convincing, and a little hint that perhaps the anonymous person was actually Morgan, before the War Office agreed, but agree they did and Joan went to work.
Her learned skill wasn’t glamorous. She didn’t see visions like her namesake, or have waking dreams of archangels, nor did she anticipate saving all of Great Britain in some heroic crusade. No, but it was satisfying to make a difference.
Even if she was never given credit for it.
The clock chimed two, and she jumped at the sound of it. If her mother were alive, she’d be bustling about, reminding Joan to be ready for her potential callers.
But her mother wasn’t alive. Nor was her other brother. Or her beloved father. It was only Morgan and her now, the last of them. Her heart pinched at so much loss. The fresh loss of Percy, Morgan’s twin, was the most potent as it was only a year and a half old. Closing her eyes, she took a moment to mourn their memories, and then breathed deeply through her nose. No, they wouldn’t wish for her to pine away for them. They would encourage her to move on, to live a joyful and full life. So, with that truth in her heart, she started up the stairs to her second-floor rooms.
Her suite was in the same wing as that of her brother. Her lady’s maid was waiting with a brush, a determined gleam in her eyes. Joan took a seat in front of the vanity and closed her eyes, wishing she had remembered to grab a book from the library.
Too bad, she’d have to endure an hour of hair brushing, tugging, and pinning without anything to read. As the maid began, Joan’s mind wandered.
Tonight was her debut and so much could happen, or nothing at all. Which was the beauty of it… One never knew. And for someone whousuallyknew, it was a delightful adventure.
The unknown.
Three
The carriage moved at a snail’s pace in the long line of attendees for the Penderdale rout. Rowles had already been waiting for fifteen minutes, and likely it would be another ten before he made it to the front of the drive. It was the event of the week: the debut of Miss Morgan, an heiress in her own right. But Rowles knew her as his best friend’s little sister. It had been an age since he’d seen her, his teaching at Cambridge taking up most of his time and energy. And when he did visit London, a ballroom was the last place he wished to be in attendance.