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Lucy narrowed her eyes. “How do you know about that?”
“This is my camp. I know everything that goes on here. Good day, ladies.”
Bridget stared after him, while Margaret and Lucy stared at her.
“Reporting to Mr. Tattle?” Lucy said. “What is that about?”
“I’m sure it’s only an administrative matter.” Bridget looked down as she spoke. She wasn’t a very good liar.
“Perhaps Baron has a mission in mind for you,” Margaret suggested.
“I’m not an agent,” Bridget said. “I’m a secretary.”
“Why can’t you be both?” Lucy asked. “Anyway, I’m off. I have evasive maneuvers, so I had better change into trousers.”
“I have ciphers.” Margaret rose.
“So does Mr. Slorach,” Lucy said. “Tell him to prepare to lose at noon.” And with a laugh she swept out of the room.
Margaret looked at Bridget. “Interesting that she knows Duncan Slorach’s schedule.”
“You think she fancies him?” Bridget asked.
Margaret lifted a shoulder. “I don’t think she hates him as much as she thinks she does.” She went to the open door. “Enjoy your morning.”
Bridget had planned to enjoy her morning. She had letters to decode, more to write and code, and reports on the various agents to compile for Baron’s perusal. Was she to put all of that aside?
Instead of donning her coat and hat and leaving for Mr. Tattle’s room, she tapped on Baron’s office door.
“Come!”
She opened the door tentatively. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Not at all.” He was seated at his desk, reading a paper, but he secreted it inside a file when she opened the door. “You’re wondering if it’s really necessary for you to see Tattle.”
“I don’t presume to question you, my lord. I wondered what you’d like me to do about the work I have on my desk.” Perhaps the mention of incomplete work would sway him.
“Give it to me. Whatever I don’t finish, you can have back this afternoon.”
She blinked at him.
“Don’t look so surprised. I was decoding and creating ciphers before you were born.”
“Of course. I...I thought you had more important tasks.”
“I do. And now you do as well. Report to Tattle. The letters and reports will wait.”
With no excuses remaining, Bridget trudged across the field toward the building where the classes were held. She wondered if she’d actually expected Baron to give her some sort of reprieve. He didn’t have to grant her anything. He was the director of the Royal Saboteurs. She served at his pleasure. They all did. And if he wanted her to learn an accent, she’d do it.
She pushed open the building door, grateful to step inside and out of the cold. The wind had been relentless the last day or so, rattling windows and tree branches until icicles rained down below the barren branches. This dormitory was two-stories. The instructors’ rooms were on the first floor and the classrooms on the ground floor. One passed through an oval drawing room with doors that opened to the various classrooms. Tattle’s room was on the far side. The door for ciphers was ajar, and she saw Margaret and Mr. Slorach sitting at desks, pens at the ready, listening to Mr. Qwill. The door for evasive maneuvers was also open, but that room was empty. It only contained a few chairs at any rate. Evasive maneuvers was almost always held outside. The explosives classes met in another building about a half mile away to keep dangerous materials away from other people and flammable structures.
She tapped on Tattle’s closed door then opened it. The room was arranged to facilitate conversation. Chairs, a couch, and a chaise longue were gathered in a center grouping near the hearth. A worn but serviceable rug covered the wooden floors. Tattle himself sat alone at a small desk off to one side. He smiled and stood when she entered. “Miss Murray. Do come in.”
“Did Baron—”
“Yes. I’m expecting you. We will be working on your Irish accent today.”
“I don’t have an Irish accent.”
