The Body at the Tower

Twenty-nine





It was a slow, torturous climb – much worse than the last one. Although James was quite ready to lean on her, they stopped to rest every twenty steps, then every dozen, then every few. He was breathless and shaky, with a pallor that couldn’t be blamed entirely on the yellowing distortions of gaslight. At the one-third point, he collapsed onto the cool stone floor and remained there, in a huddle, for several minutes.

“James.”

“Just a minute.” He fumbled in his breast pocket and brought out a narrow parchment envelope. Tipping his head back, he poured the contents – a powder of some sort – into his mouth, swallowed, and made a face. “Gah. All right. What?”

She stared at the paper in his hands. “What – what the devil was that?”

“Willow-bark powder, of course. What did you think?” Amusement flickered across his weary features. “Some dangerous poison brought back from my Oriental travels?” He grinned at her sheepish expression. “Powdered opium? The demon that’s sapping my youth and beauty?”

“Listen,” she said rather more severely than necessary, “we’re losing time. I’m going up ahead, to see what’s happening.”

He shook his head. “We’re going together.”

“That will take another hour, if not two. We can’t wait that long. Keenan’s already at the belfry and I don’t want to meet him on his way down.”

He climbed to his feet, a trifle unsteady but already looking more energetic than when he arrived on site. “It won’t take that long. I feel much better.”

She examined his face suspiciously. “You don’t look quite as ghastly, that’s true.”

“Still rubbish at flattery.”

“Willow bark wouldn’t have that kind of effect. Especially not such an immediate one. All it does is ease pain and fever.”

He shrugged. “All right, so it wasn’t pure willow bark. But let’s not waste time bickering. Come on.”

She couldn’t argue. They resumed their climb on the narrower flights of stairs, winding their way higher into the hazy air, the sunset, the rapidly falling night, none of which they could see. James seemed to gain strength as they went. His hand on her shoulder became lighter, his breathing easier, his step quicker.

“What exactly was in that powder, James?”

“That’s ‘Mr Easton’ to you, Mark Quinn.”

“Oh, stop dodging the question.”

He sighed. “Mainly powdered willow bark, as I said. And something a friend of mine picked up in Germany, a mild stimulant derived from a tropical leaf. Nothing to be concerned about.”

“Doesn’t seem very mild to me. How much did you take?”

“What a nagging old granny you sound. Enough to get the job done.”

“And after that, I suppose I’ll have to scrape you from the cobblestones.”

“Oh, I have Barker for that.”

They climbed in silence until the final stretch, when James placed a hand on her arm. “We ought to have a plan.”

“We don’t even know what to expect. We’d need to know that before making a plan.”

“Well, here’s my theory: Harkness and Keenan are up there, conducting their business. I’d like to know whether Harkness is truly involved with the thefts, and to what extent. Let’s get close and listen for as long we can before having to act.”

“Of course. But what do you intend to do, at that point?”

“Hold him until the police arrive.”

“Hold Keenan? Good luck.”

“The two of us together – three, perhaps…”

Mary looked at him. His eyes were very bright, even by gaslight. Glittering with suppressed fever, perhaps – but more likely the effects of that stimulant. He was vibrating with impatience and excitement, a rather un-James-like condition. She suddenly wondered if he’d be the steady, intelligent ally she had assumed – and then set aside that doubt. There simply wasn’t time for it. Whatever happened, whatever he did, she would simply have to improvise and hope for the best.

As they crept up the final few steps, Mary was very glad she’d been up once before. The sun would now be low on the horizon and she was uncertain of how well lit the belfry might be. Without a rough idea of its dimensions and layout, she’d have no idea what she was seeing and almost no chance of remaining unseen. It hardly counted as an advantage, but it comforted her nevertheless.

“Mary?” James was so close behind her that his whisper tickled her ear.

“Yes?”

“My physician warned me sternly against excitement of any sort.”

She almost giggled. “Shut up, James.”

“Can you see anything?”

“No, and I can’t hear, either!”

But suddenly, she could. Male voices, clear and close by.

“You paying or not? I ain’t got all night.”

“Neither have I, Keenan.” Harkness sounded oddly calm. “Neither have I.”

The voices were so near that Mary instinctively shrank back into the warmth of James’s body. He placed a hand on her shoulder. If it was meant to comfort, it did rather the reverse: his fingers trembled, very subtly and very quickly, and she wondered again about those powders he’d taken. She’d never noticed his hands shake before – had marvelled, rather, at their steadiness under pressure. Tonight they vibrated.

“Well then?”

“Oh, you’ll get what you deserve, Keenan. I’ll make sure of that.”

“You ain’t threatening me, Harkness. I ain’t afraid of you.”

“Ah – and here is what’s interesting: I’m no longer afraid of you.”

There was a pause.

“You didn’t think of that, did you? What happens when silly old Harkness is no longer frightened of you?”

Another pause.

“No smart rejoinder from you, Keenan? You’re not generally short of one.”

“Stop your blathering: you paying up or not?”

“I’m not.” Harkness took a deep breath, and Mary heard the smile in his voice. “Did you hear me? I’m not going to pay you any longer, you blackmailing devil.”

James sucked in his breath sharply. Mary tensed – it sounded loud in her ear – but Keenan and Harkness continued, fully absorbed in their exchange.

“I did a few sums earlier today,” said Harkness conversationally. “D’you know how much you bled me for, Keenan? The total of what I’ve paid you and Wick both, these past ten months?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “It seemed quite manageable, at first, one pound a week. Then two. Even five. I could manage five, although I expect it was divided between you three, so to you it didn’t seem so splendid after a while. It was ten pounds – ten pounds a week! – that broke me. Such a paltry sum, really: a couple of new dresses for my daughters, the cost of a party given by my wife. But all told it came to more than two hundred pounds.

“And here’s what I’d like to know: I can see how I’d have spent it. I’ve a wife and family. Daughters are expensive and sons even more so. And I suppose Wick had a family, too – poor souls. But what did you do with your eighty pounds, Keenan? That’s what I can’t understand.”

“Go to hell,” snarled Keenan. “If you don’t pay up, you know what’ll happen to you.”

“The question of hell is in the hands of the Almighty. But you might have gathered by now, Keenan, that I’m no longer afraid of what you might do to me. In fact, I’m almost looking forward to it.”

There followed a long silence, during which Mary carefully leaned past the doorway at the top of the stairs. James did likewise. The two men were, as she’d imagined, in a far corner of the belfry. Harkness had his hands braced against the half-wall, as though he were admiring the effects of sunset over the London streets. His posture was deceptively casual but the set of his shoulders, hunched and stiff, revealed his underlying tension. In contrast Keenan, who stood facing him, leaned slightly forward, poised for a physical struggle. Yet there was a curious rigidity in his stance, as though he didn’t know how to manage the situation before him. Harkness’s desperate serenity robbed him of his most effective weapon: the threat of violence.

“Then why’d you call me here?” growled Keenan. He clenched and unclenched his fists as though he could feel Harkness’s soft, loose neck between his fingers.

“Why, to tell you of my decision, of course.”

“Up here? What’s wrong with the office?”

Harkness smiled and looked out over the city. “It’s a beautiful evening. I wanted to enjoy the view.”

“I don’t give a damn about the view.”

“You might, if you consider what your future holds.”

“What’s that, then?”

“Breaking stones, at best.”

For just a moment, Keenan blinked with surprise. Then, he gave a sudden bark of laughter. “You outdone yourself there, Harky. Don’t you know if I go to gaol, you’re going too? I’d lie myself black in the face to see you get more time than me.”

Harkness, too, was smiling – a curious bend of his lips that had as little to do with humour as Keenan’s laugh. “You’re not as clever as I’d expected, Keenan. I confess to a touch of disappointment. You know,” he went on, straightening now and leaning against the edge of the belfry, “you’ve a certain low, criminal cunning not uncommon to your class. But your problem, Keenan, is that you lack imagination. You can’t possibly imagine what I’m thinking or feeling right now. And that will be your downfall.”

“Rubbish,” growled Keenan, swinging away sullenly. “All rubbish. How the hell you going to get me in trouble while covering over your own part? You took half the profits; you fixed the bloody books.”

Harkness’s gaze, intent on the glowing horizon, never wavered. That intense serenity transformed his entire face, returned to it colour and even a little youth. And then Mary became aware of the greatest difference in his appearance: the twitch was gone. Harkness’s left cheek was entirely still and smooth. “I’ve no interest in covering my own guilt. Far from it: I’ve left a letter detailing the entire scheme.” He swung to meet Keenan’s surprised face. “Yes, everything from the time I caught you thieving. I’ve set out why I agreed to turn a blind eye and even falsify the accounts, in exchange for half the profits. Also how your friend Wick discovered our plan, and began to blackmail me. It took me a while to work out that you were behind that neat trap, you know – setting him onto me like that. Such crookedness was entirely beyond my experience.”

“No more, though,” sneered Keenan.

“You’re quite correct.” Harkness’s tone was austere, schoolmasterly. “I’ve done wrong, grievous wrong. And I shall atone for it.”

“How?” Keenan’s tone turned suspicious. “What’s this letter, and where is it?”

“Ah: the low instinct for survival, coming once again to the surface. Suffice to say, the letter’s in a safe place. You’ll not find it. But the authorities will, you may depend upon it, and they’ll know precisely what happened.”

“All right. Supposing this letter’s real, and supposing some copper finds it, and supposing he believes all your rot. What’s to say he’ll find me? It’s a big town, is London – supposing I stays in it.” He stared at Harkness, who stood, unmoving, staring out over the darkening streets. “Eh? Supposing all that?”

Harkness blinked and smiled, as though emerging from a reverie. “D’you want to know what happened to Wick?”

Keenan’s face became very still. “I know what happened. He fell.”

“But how?” persisted Harkness. “And when, and why?”

“He just did, all right? Accidents happen – specially here, it seems.”

“I suppose they do. But you must wonder why he was up here.”

“No. I don’t.” The voice, cold and stony, also held just the suggestion of a quiver.

Behind her, Mary could feel James holding his breath. If Harkness did intend goading Keenan into an explanation, this was a desperate and foolish method. It couldn’t last. It was only remarkable that Keenan hadn’t already exploded.

She crept forward another few inches, angling for a better view of Keenan’s face. She would now be almost entirely visible to them in the doorway. There was no cover in the belfry, no small nook in which to tuck herself unnoticed. And over them all, the great bell loomed high in the tower’s peak. Black inside, monstrous in scale, it hung there like a lofty, judging god, waiting for the puny humans below to do something definitive. To act, rather than talk.

“I’ll tell you.”

“I said, I don’t want to hear!” The sharp lash of Keenan’s voice reverberated through the small space, ringing slightly in the bell’s great cavern.

“It was his suggestion – Wick’s, I mean – that we meet up here,” said Harkness. He couldn’t be oblivious of Keenan’s rising panic. If anything, he seemed to welcome it. “He insisted, in fact. I didn’t want to meet him at all; tried to put him off for as long as possible. He was only going to raise his demands, you know. Of course you know – you probably put him up to it. Didn’t you, Keenan?”

The master bricklayer glowered, unmoving.

“No matter; we met, at Wick’s demand, here in the belfry after dark. It was perhaps ten o’clock. I was late in arriving, and Wick was displeased. He upbraided me in most vulgar terms. And I – I had lost courage, and permitted him to do so.” Harkness’s left eye twitched, just once. “Perhaps I regret that the most: losing sight of my position as a gentleman.” He paused for a moment before a slight movement from Keenan returned him to the present. “No matter. Wick demanded an increase in his already outrageous bribe: twelve pounds a week, all for keeping silent about my careless bookkeeping.

“I said to you earlier that ten pounds a week broke me. I was a broken man already, although I didn’t know it. But I knew I could not meet his increased demand, and told the scoundrel so in no uncertain terms. He had the temerity to say he would go to my wife, and tell her of the situation; that perhaps she would be willing to sell her jewels in order to preserve my good name. And he – he intimated that if her jewels were not sufficient to satisfy him … well, he spoke only as a low-born villain could…” Harkness paused again to swallow his outrage. When he spoke again, his voice was cool and detached. “No gentleman would suffer such an insult. I lost my temper and we came to blows. We were standing so – Wick here, and I just where you are now.”

Keenan made a startled gesture, then quickly controlled it. “I heard enough,” he said in a low, guttural voice. But he made no attempt to depart. If anything, he inched closer to Harkness, spellbound by the tale.

“Wick was much stronger than I, of course: all that manual labour. And yet when he came at me, I managed to resist with a strength I hadn’t known I possessed. We grappled,” said Harkness, almost in a tone of wonder. “I don’t understand fighting – physical violence has always made me ill – but I wasn’t afraid. If anything, I enjoyed it.”

“You devil! You’re enjoying this, too.” Keenan launched himself at Harkness, seizing him by the throat. The older man stumbled back, falling heavily against the stone half-wall. It must have hurt, for he was bent backwards over the ledge, but he made no sound of pain or fear, even when Keenan began to throttle him, voice high now with fury. “You bloody devil! You pushed him, didn’t you? You tricked him into coming here, and you pushed him off the ledge.”

“Stop!” That clear, commanding voice was James’s, echoing into the hollow of Big Ben as he sprang past Mary towards the two men. The belfry was small, James’s legs were long, and in just a few strides he was upon them.

He wasn’t quick enough. Keenan started up at the sound; beneath him, Harkness flailed. Their combined movement was enough to topple Harkness over the lip of the half-wall. It was a curious way to fall, Mary noted mechanically. Harkness ought to have tipped back head first, if at all; and if so, he should have taken Keenan with him. Yet here they were, with Harkness outside the belfry and Keenan within, balanced precariously on his belly, hanging over the ledge. There was a sharp, panicked cry – whether from Harkness or from Keenan, Mary couldn’t be certain.

James dived forward and caught Keenan’s thrashing legs, landing with a grunt and a thud. There was a collective, convulsive gasp. Then came only the wind whistling through the open chamber.

Keenan remained perfectly still, still anchored by James’s grip. The upper half of his body dangled outside the belfry, and he made no move to rise. Mary, half a step behind James, dashed towards the ledge and peered over. There, with his large, soft hands wrapped about Keenan’s meaty forearms, was Harkness. His feet dangled against the roof tiles below and he peered up with an oddly composed expression.

At the sight of Mary’s face poking over the edge, however, he frowned. “Quinn? What on earth are you doing here?”

Mary swallowed and remembered she was still in disguise. “Helping Mr Easton, sir. Just hang on, and we’ll get you up.” She was about to add, “Don’t panic,” but it hardly seemed appropriate in Harkness’s case; he was more serene than she’d ever seen him.

Keenan’s face, however, wore an expression of dread and nausea. He dangled, inverted, his face growing steadily redder. “For God’s sake, drag me back!” he cried hoarsely. It was a peculiarly passive position for such an active, aggressive man: if he kicked his legs, he risked dislodging James, his anchor. And Harkness was beginning to slide from his grasp.

Harkness looked mildly perplexed, as though he couldn’t quite remember how he’d come to be dangling three hundred feet over the cobblestoned streets of Westminster. And then his expression cleared. “Is that you, Easton, keeping this scoundrel from falling to his death?”

James emitted a half-gasp, equal parts exertion and amusement. “Yes, Harkness. I haven’t the weight to drag you both back up.”

“Well, I shouldn’t worry about that,” replied Harkness in an astoundingly conversational tone. “I’m quite prepared to meet my Lord and Saviour.”

“So soon? Surely not.”

Keenan’s darkening face reflected Mary’s astonishment. “This ain’t no tea party!” he yelped. “You, boy! Help drag me back inside before my arms drop off!”

Mary grasped one of Keenan’s legs and pulled, but her meagre body-weight was insufficient to make a real difference: Harkness and Keenan carried at least twenty-five stone between them, and she and James weighed significantly less. To pull them up, against gravity, was impossible without some sort of aid. And there wasn’t time to go for help.

She looked at James. “There’s all sorts of rope up here. We could use that.”

James nodded, sweat beginning to bead his forehead. “Good. I’ll show you the knots to use.”

“There’s a simpler solution, my boy,” came Harkness’s voice, much muffled by wind and stone. “I had hoped to take Keenan with me, but that clearly isn’t to be, if you’re holding him. But once he lets me go, you ought to be able to save him for the police.”

There was an instant, general outcry.

“He’s gone mad!”

“What the devil are you on about, Harkness?”

“What d’you mean, once he lets you go?”

“Just what I said,” said Harkness, maddeningly cool. “I assume, Easton, that you and the lad heard enough of our conversation to work out what’s happened.”

James assented with a grunt.

“I’m out of choices, my dear boy. Death is my only desire now.”

“You daft old fool!” snarled Keenan. “Go on, then, I’ll let go of you, and you’re welcome! I got witnesses as to say you wanted to die.”

“No!” snapped James. “If you let him fall, Keenan, I’ll push you over the edge myself. Harkness,” he continued, trying to sound reasonable now, “we’ll discuss this once you’re safely in the belfry, not now. Quinn, get those ropes.”

Mary scrambled towards the nearest coil of rope, a remainder from the installation of the great bell. She wrapped it about Keenan’s ankles, knotted it soundly and anchored the other end using rings embedded in the stone wall. And then the real labour began.

With their feet braced against the lip of the central air shaft, she and James began to pull. The rope was thick and strong, and there were no obstacles in their path. Keenan was nearly half inside to begin with, and Harkness a consistent, if dead, weight at the other end. Yet almost as they began to make progress, a furious tussle began on the precipice.

“Oi!” cried Keenan, “he’s a-going, he’s a-going.”

“Hold him!” barked James. “As you value your life, hold on to him.”

“He’s let go of me!”

“Then hold tighter!”

They retracted the rope in hard-fought increments, one inch, even half an inch at a time. Sometimes they made no progress for the stretch of a minute, so great was the effort of raising those two large, struggling men. It was James, Mary thought, a rivulet of sweat running down her forehead. Despite his heroic efforts, he was beginning to flag. The hectic glitter in his eyes was gone, his colour ashen beneath the rosy flush of exertion, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

He caught her assessing glance. “Pull harder!”

She nodded, although she was already pulling with all her might.

Somehow, somehow, Keenan’s torso inched towards them, dragged painfully over the open ledge. He was very still and completely silent, waiting, holding, concentrating. At long last, his armpits hooked the edge of the half-wall.

“Steady there!” gasped James, relief plain in his exhausted face. “We’re coming to help pull up Harkness.”

It took them only seconds to reach the ledge. In that interval, with a single, defiant movement, Keenan threw his hands up. “There! Ain’t that what you wanted?”

The scream that sliced the air was dreadful, shrill enough even to stir a ghostly echo from the bells. It seemed to pierce Mary’s skull. Futile though it was to do so, she stumbled towards the ledge. Scanned the rows of neat shingles, the elaborate Gothic traceries, then craned below to the shadowy cobblestoned yard. At that moment, the sun dropped fully below the horizon and a new, almost tangible darkness fell over the city, cloaking from view the body she knew must be splayed below, broken and bloody.

An instant later, she cried out in surprise as a rough hand seized the back of her collar and she was whisked into the air to dangle, like Harkness, over the beautiful slanted roof of St Stephen’s Tower. The seam of her collar bit into her throat, constricting her airway; the tips of her toes grazed the stone of the belfry wall. It was Keenan, of course. What a fool she’d been to come anywhere near him, now that he was safe.

James rushed towards her, only to be stopped by a commanding gesture from Keenan. James stood perfectly still, his expression sick with horror. His lips worked, forming the first syllable of her name.

Alarmed though she was, Mary still had her wits. She shook her head in a very slight movement. He mustn’t reveal her gender now; doing so would only give Keenan more power, more delight in hurting her. She focused on James’s face, tried to project her message using only her eyes.

“Ta for the lift,” grinned Keenan. “Sorry about Harkness.”

“Bring the boy back inside,” said James, his voice vibrating with tension and exhaustion. “Keenan, you don’t know the trouble you’re making for yourself.”

“Don’t I, though? Seems to me you’re awful fond of this useless little whoreson. Seems as you’d do anything for him.”

“He’s a good lad.” James’s pulse hammered in his throat.

“Your special little lad, hey?” Keenan looked contemptuous. “You don’t look the back-door sort, but I suppose I don’t know about all that Greek stuff.”

She was so close. Every couple of seconds, the toe of one of her boots bumped against the half-wall. She focused on that, at this moment her one scrap of hope. Better to think about that than of the choking sensation in her throat, the blood roaring in her ears, the sheer terror turning her limbs to water. If she could just gain half a second’s purchase, a tiny bit of momentum … if only there were a handhold, a pillar, anything she could use to pull herself forward.

“What d’you want?”

Keenan grinned. “Now you’re talking. What I want, Mr Fancy Safety Engineer, is for you to forget this last couple hours ever happened. You ain’t come here. You ain’t seen Harky. And you most surely ain’t seen me.”

“Agreed,” said James promptly. “Now bring him in.”

“No,” croaked Mary. James was entirely a man of his word. Without his testimony, they’d never convict Keenan, and they all knew it.

“Ain’t nobody taught you not to contradict?” Keenan raised her yet higher and grinned as her breathing became laboured. “Less you fight, longer you’ll live.”

“I’ve already agreed to your terms,” said James. “Bring him in.”

“Oh, that ain’t all,” said Keenan easily. “You’re going to fix your report so whosoever asks, me and Wick got nothing to do with anything. We’s just two harmless brickies minding our own business, and Wick’s death’s a proper tragedy.”

“What else?”

As James and Keenan bargained, Mary’s sensitive ears caught a new sound outside the tower. Above the remote babble of urban life, a new sound intruded: a long, shrill whistle, and then the heavy thud of boots on cobblestones. At least two pairs. Running.

James and Keenan seemed oblivious of this new development, near as it sounded. And, dangling in mid-air like a worm on a fishing hook, Mary couldn’t turn to see anything. But she closed her eyes and listened, and the noises began to sort themselves out in her mind, so clearly could she visualize them. A police whistle. A pair of bobbies giving chase. Even, perhaps, the clang of the site gate. The boots kept galloping, and now they changed in sound. They were no longer running flat out, but were instead taking smaller, faster paces. What could cause that? She reckoned she knew. And the thought of it made her open her eyes and smile broadly.

“What you grinning at?” snarled Keenan, jerking her close for better inspection.

It was all the chance she needed. “This,” she said, and kicked him in the groin.

A roar of pain. A blow to the chin that damn near knocked her unconscious.

Blindly, Mary hung on, and after a few seconds realized she was clinging to the lip of the belfry. The hard pressure against her chin was the stone ledge. A steady trickle of blood seemed to confirm this, although she felt no pain.

“My God, Mary! Hold on!” James was there, his face white and frantic, wrapping his long hands about her forearms.

“Keenan! Where’s Keenan!”

James didn’t even glance back. “Sod Keenan; he’s run off. Can you hold my wrists?”

She could. A minute later – surely less, although it felt like more – she tumbled over the ledge into his arms. He fell back onto the floor, squeezing her tightly, pressing her against his chest so hard it hurt. His heart was thumping at a furious pace, his chin digging into the top of her head.

“My God, Mary. Oh my God. I thought – oh, Mary.” He covered her hair and face with fierce kisses, and when she hugged him back, he groaned and laughed at the same time. “You careless, daring, vicious, damned little fool. You nearly died, purely for the satisfaction of kicking him in the—”

“I didn’t,” she protested, laughing now, too. “I miscalculated. I thought I was further inside than I was.”

“Oh, well, that’s all right, then.” He rolled her onto her back. “Idiot.”

“Who’s an idiot? You were about to agree to all of his outrageous conditions, just to—”

“To save your life,” he agreed, kissing her again, so hard she could scarcely breathe. “Damned foolish of me.”

“He’d never have kept his word. You’d have sworn all that, and he’d still have knocked me off the ledge, just for the fun of it.”

“I suppose you’re going to scold me now for letting him escape.”

She examined his face carefully. His eyes were bloodshot, his pulse going far too quickly and his skin hot and dry. Clearly, that dubious “stimulant” he had taken earlier was wearing off and in a moment he would be desperately ill – and grumpy to boot. But despite all this, she could think of no one else she wanted as much as this; no other place she’d rather be. “No,” she said thoughtfully. “I’m not.”

He feigned shock.

“I think he’s been caught. Listen.” They paused then, and through the wide air shaft they heard the echoes of heavy-booted steps, grunts of exertion, a roar of defiance. “The police are on their way up.”

“Hmph.”

“‘Hmph’? That’s all you can say?”

“Well, normally I’d be very pleased…”

“But not now?”

He kissed her again, deeply and sweetly. “How long have we? Five minutes?”

“Less, I think.” Still, she clung to him and kissed him again.

“Bloody England – a bobby on every street corner.”

“Mmm. And if we don’t sort ourselves out, they’ll arrest us, too.”

“Only me, I think. I’m willing to risk it.”

She laughed at that, struggling to slide out from beneath him. “And what of me and my spotless reputation?”

A new voice, sardonic despite its breathlessness, sounded in the room. “I’d say it’s rather too late to worry about that, miss.”

Mary closed her eyes and groaned. Damn, damn, damn.

James’s head snapped up at the first syllable. Then a broad grin spread across his face and he collapsed back to the floor. “Thank God,” he said, sounding suddenly exhausted. “Take us home, Barker.”