The Agency: A Spy in the House by Y. S. Lee

Author:Y. S. Lee [Lee, Y. S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Candlewick Press
Published: 2010-10-25T16:00:00+00:00

They detoured north instead of crossing the river directly onto the Isle of Dogs. He stopped in a seedy alley in Holborn where he jumped down from the carriage, held a muttered conference with a dirty, one-eyed old woman, and climbed back in, his arms full of grubby cloth.

She wrinkled her nose. “Phew. What the devil is all that?”

“It’s a dress.”

“Oh, no. I’m not putting that on. It stinks of last week’s washing up.”

“It smells of the people.”

“And how will that disgusting object aid our inquiry?”

“One of us is going to distract the warden and the other is going to slip in the back way.”

She sighed. “I suppose you’ll be going to the front door and I’ll be sneaking in the kitchen door? Why can’t I be the lady and you the smelly servant?”

“You can’t pass as a lady without a maid in tow.”

She glared at him for a moment, but his logic was inarguable. “Fine. Close your eyes,” she ordered, drawing the carriage blinds.

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, you know.”

“You haven’t seen mine before.”

He grinned but closed his eyes obediently. “You’re awfully prim for a woman who runs about in the middle of the night wearing breeches.”

It was more difficult than one might expect to change dresses in the confines of a carriage. It didn’t help that she had to go largely by feel and that her own dress had so many respectable yards of fabric to its skirts. After a few minutes of struggle, she managed to get free of the mustard-colored creation and thrust it toward James. “Here. Hold this.”

“That took long enough,” he snorted.

“I didn’t say you could look yet!”

“Still not dressed?” It was a stupid question: she wore a light corset over a thin chemise and plain muslin pantalettes. If she stepped out of the carriage, she would probably start a riot.

“No!” She folded her arms protectively over her chest. “Shut your eyes again.”

There followed several more minutes of rustling before she said, “All right.”

When he opened his eyes, she was tying on a much-battered bonnet. “The color suits you.”

“I don’t look bilious?” She grinned back, despite her trepidation.

They drew up round the corner. “I’ll meet you back here in half an hour.”

The Imperial Baptist East London Refuge for Destitute Asiatic Sailors was located in Limehouse, near the East India Hospital. Composed of two grimy redbrick terraced houses knocked together, it was identified by a large, tarnished brass nameplate on the front door, next to a similarly neglected bell. Eyeing its sad façade, Mary was suddenly relieved that she wasn’t the one providing the distraction. The last thing she wanted was to be seen here.

She picked her way through the alley that ran behind the row of houses. It was full of the usual rubbish — scraps, slops, ashes — and heavy with the odor of rot. The back door of the refuge was no better and no worse than any other in the row. Its paint was blistered and peeling off in sheets, and the window beside it was boarded up.

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