Free A Spy in the House by Y. S. Lee Page A

Miss Thorold.” He was at the drawing-room door when he turned to glance over his shoulder. “And Miss Quinn . . .”
    She arched one eyebrow.
    “Dare I fear you’ll say ‘good riddance’?”

The letter was addressed to G. Easton, Esquire, but when James saw the postmark, he opened it anyway. A brilliant grin lit up his face, and he went tearing across the main office to his brother’s private room.
    “We got it!” he bellowed, bursting through the door. “We’re in!”
    George jerked upright and scowled. “Bloody hell, James, can’t you learn to knock?”
    James thrust the letter in his brother’s face. “Look! The railway contract. In India. We’re going to build railways in India. We break ground in September, which means — my God — you’ll have to leave by the end of the month! Earlier, if possible.” He began to babble on about booking passage and quinine tablets but soon ground to a halt. “George? Are you listening?”
    George looked up from his blotter. “Mm?”
    “This is the biggest contract Easton Engineering has ever won, and you’re going to go to India, and you look like someone’s just stolen your accordion. What’s wrong with you?”
    George heaved an enormous sigh. “She has, in a way.”
    “I don’t follow. Who’s ‘she’?”
    “Miss Thorold, of course. At the party, I told her that I was a musician, too, and she seemed interested, but when I said I played the accordion, she — she
laughed
!”
    James hid a smile. “Well, perhaps she was laughing sympathetically.”
    “It’s no use. She thinks I’m a clown.”
    “That’s not true,” lied James valiantly. He noticed, for the first time, that George’s desk blotter was covered in doodles:
Mrs. George Easton. Angelica Easton. George & Angelica
. The most popular was simply
Angelica,
surrounded by curlicues and hearts and arrows.
    George rubbed his face. “The poets are right: it’s a disease. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I can’t work. . . . She’s all I can think about.”
    “You ate a big dinner last night.”
    “That was different.”
    “Because it was roast chicken?” James tried not to laugh. “Come on, George. There are dozens of girls who’d marry you. Why Miss Thorold?”
    George glared at him. “That question shows how tragically little you know about love.”
    “I’m rather relieved, if this is the other choice.” James indicated the blotter. “You’ll be writing poetry next.” George flushed from his hairline to his collar, and James began to laugh again. “No! Really? Oh dear.”
    “Are you quite finished mocking me?”
    “Never, old chap. But let’s talk about this new railway in Calcutta.”
    “What about it?” George sounded miffed.
    “What do you mean, ‘what about it’? You’re going to be building it in a couple of months’ time! In fact, it’s just what you need. It’s been too long since you’ve taken the lead role on a job, and it’ll take your mind off Little Miss Whosit.” James was genuinely enthusiastic. “In a fortnight’s time you’ll be on a boat, bound for the beautiful, spice-laden East, and all thoughts of Miss What’s-her-name will have vanished from your thick skull.”
    George sat up straight. “Two weeks?”
    “Well, you’ll want to —”
    “But that’s plenty of time!” His eyes brightened and he smiled at James for the first time. “I can easily manage it in a fortnight!”
    “Of course you can,” said James, relieved. This was more like the old George.
    George looked him straight in the eye. “Do you really think so?”
    “Yes.”
    He sprang over the desk and shook James’s hand enthusiastically. “Thank you! Your confidence means a great deal to me. I know you’re not terribly interested in the matter yourself, and for a while you were downright dismissive of the whole thing, but it’s smashing to know that my baby brother supports me —”
    Not interested? Downright dismissive? Of the India job?
James suddenly had the