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“Yes, this morning.”

“Good. Mr. Simmons will be by tomorrow, I believe?”

“Yes.” He sensed a barrier between them today and wondered if it was all on his side. Had something come from Gaspard’s late-night visit to wherever he’d gone? Had she received some bad news?

She took her accustomed seat and opened her book. “Well, let me begin. I need to finish soon.”

“Yes, I’m hoping the surgeon will give me permission to get up and at least begin a few light duties about the house.”

She blinked as if surprised at his words. “Oh yes, indeed. Of course there is no hurry about the tasks, but I do understand how bored you must be.” She paused, her fingers pressing the pages open. “But I was actually thinking of another reason.”

She was looking at him so strangely, a disquiet began to grow in him. “Yes, my lady?”

“I shall be leaving London.”

Her words reverberated in the stillness. If time could be said to stand still, he imagined it must feel like this. “Leaving?” he could only echo.

She nodded slowly, her gaze fixed upon him. How he wished to be able to translate the meaning of her glance, but he had no way of knowing what she thought, could only imagine it was anything like his own thoughts.

“You . . . only just returned,” he murmured.

“Yes, that is so. But summer approaches.” She sighed. “I always leave the city before it becomes too hot.” As she spoke, her words grew firmer as if she were recollecting what she was saying. “There are several friends who have invited me to visit. Then I shall spend
the latter part of the summer with the new Earl of Wexham and his family. The country seat is at Warwickshire. Do you know it?”

“No.” It sounded as if he were not to accompany her. Of course not. He was useless as a butler for the time being. It sounded, moreover, as if she were to be gone for the rest of the summer. His spirits plummeted. “Will you wish me to go there?” he couldn’t keep himself from asking.

She moistened her lips, not quite meeting his gaze. “No, that is . . . not necessary. They have an excellent butler there.”

So, it was over, this little interlude that was but a ripple in Lady Wexham’s sea. He drew his focus away from her and stared at the wall across the foot of his bed. “You will close up the house here?”

“I shall leave the staff here, but they are free to have a holiday if they so wish. Lady Agatha usually spends the summer at the young earl’s estate. Mrs. Finlay will most likely shut the house up when all have left for their own homes. She has a sister in Derbyshire she enjoys spending the months of July and August with. I will, of course, take Valentine and Gaspard with me.”

“I see.”

She hurried on. “Mr. Rumford should be well enough to resume his duties by the time I return. I shan’t be back in London till well into the autumn. The hunting season begins in the north, you know.”

He nodded, knowing nothing about it at all.

She opened the book, smoothing down the pages.

He spared her the uncomfortable chore of saying some trite nicety of how well he had filled in for the older man. “In truth, my—uncle is probably well enough now. I can write him if you wish—or I can stay on here a little while longer if Mrs. Finlay should require any help in closing up the house. It is wholly up to you.” He was satisfied that the words were spoken calmly, as if the prospect of leaving or staying meant nothing to him. He was, after all, only a man masquerading as a butler who had known his assignment would be but a temporary one.

“Oh.” She seemed at a loss for a second but quickly recovered. “That is most kind of you. You may write your uncle that he is to take
his time there. I don’t expect him to return until the autumn. Actually, he may await my instructions until then.

“As for you . . .” She showed the first signs of hesitation, biting her lip, her caramel eyes gazing at him, almost in supplication, but that must be purely fancy on his part. She was probably just wondering how to tactfully put an end to his employment.

“I can leave now if you wish.” He forced the words out through stiff lips.

“Is that what you wish, Mr. MacKinnon?” The words were barely audible.

With them, she effectively turned the tables on him and tore down his defenses. There was no mockery in her gaze, only questioning.

When he said nothing, she moistened her lips again. “I don’t . . . wish to keep you from your family. Or . . . from the young lady who holds your heart.”

Jessamine. How distant his sister’s friend seemed now. What had this lady done to him that he was ready to wreck his carefully constructed plans for the future for the sake of—what? Some rash dream that had no basis in reality, that could never be? “There . . . is . . . no young lady who holds my heart,” he said in halting syllables.

“Th-there isn’t?”

Did she sound relieved or disappointed?

She gave a slight laugh. “I could have sworn the other day it sounded as if you had a young lady waiting in the wings until you had saved up enough to marry her.”

He swallowed, feeling as if something were obstructing his throat. “I—you misunderstood me.” He rubbed a hand across his eyes, searching for an explanation that would sound satisfactory, when he knew there was no such thing.

“I . . . I meant that there is—
was—
a young lady with whom I . . . I
had
contemplated—I mean, if ever I thought of marrying anyone, she would have . . . been my choice, but . . . but . . .”

His words dribbled away as he removed the hand from his eyes and
stared at her bleakly. What was he trying to say? Hopefully, she would not understand. He continued more firmly. “But, at the moment, I am not contemplating matrimony. My life is too uncertain.”

She gazed solemnly at him, no teasing light at his stumbling words. “I . . . understand perfectly.”

They stared at each other for another moment. Perhaps the only words that could be communicated to each other were to be silent ones.

She shook herself with a slight laugh. “Goodness, I must begin reading if we hope to finish the story before my departure. And, to answer your question, you are to stay here as long as you please until Mr. Simmons pronounces you fit enough to travel. And you are not to worry about resuming any duties.”

She looked down at the book, her long dark lashes obscuring her eyes. “I wish to express all my gratitude for your service—”

“Please—my lady!” He held out an arm as if to fend off her words. “Please,” he continued more gently when she fell silent in midsentence, “don’t say it. I did what I had to do, no more.”

She nodded slowly. Finally, with a long sigh, she took up the book and began reading.

Once night fell, Rees took out the coded message and pored over the ciphers again. He’d analyzed which numbers repeated themselves the most often. All he needed to do was find which vowels they corresponded to. What complicated it was not knowing what language it was in. He assumed French, but it could also be in English. Each had its own set of most-often-used letters. Another complication he had found when decoding messages was that the creator would use more than one combination of ciphers for the same vowel in order to make it harder to break.

Feeling restless and frustrated after a few hours, he got up.

He felt his shoulder wound was no longer in danger of reopening, especially if he were only walking around the house. After dressing in only his trousers and shirt, he opened his door a crack. The house
was still, the servants retired to their rooms, and Lady Wexham and her sister-in-law out. He had seen them depart earlier in the carriage.

Lady Wexham had resumed her evening activities, so she was rarely at home until at least midnight.

He decided to continue searching her room. Perhaps it would yield a clue to unlocking the code.

Once he was inside her private sitting room, however, it proved more difficult than the first time to riffle through her personal belongings. This time, he knew the person . . . had held her in his arms . . .

No!
He ruthlessly cut off the direction of his thoughts. He mustn’t let any sentimental considerations sidetrack him now. Too much was at stake.

He focused on her escritoire, having to pick the lock. He dug through every cubbyhole, every drawer, but all he found were dressmakers’ bills, quills, a few steel nib pens, a penknife, and piles of correspondence, all things he’d searched through once before.

He didn’t know what he hoped to find; it was doubtful he’d find a key to the code, but perhaps there would be information about her impending departure. Was she leaving London to escape de la Roche?

He paused, his hands on the back of her desk chair, when he’d gone through everything. What stumped him was the absence of any correspondence about her departure. He would think she would have the invitations to the house parties she had mentioned. Perhaps she didn’t need invitations—perhaps she went to the same houses every summer.

He closed and relocked the escritoire.

He proceeded to Lady Agatha’s room. He wasn’t sure why he bothered now. Didn’t he have enough damning proof against Lady Wexham? What did her sister-in-law’s business concern him? From all he’d observed of the two, they were like two strangers inhabiting the same house, each going her own way with rare exceptions, as this evening.

But perhaps her desk would yield some information about their travel plans for the summer.

Virginia had told him earlier that Lady Agatha’s personal maid was
laid up with a light cold so he knew he’d have her rooms to himself for a few hours.

He was surprised when he first entered her bedroom. It seemed at odds with her austere, disapproving personality. He stepped into a fanfare of lace and gilded furniture, striped wallpaper, plush carpets, paintings and statuettes of shepherdesses and mythological figures.

He made a cursory search of the room, because it didn’t hold many pieces of furniture where things could be tucked away. Instead, he made his way to her sitting room next door. As with Lady Wexham’s room, he began at her desk, the most likely place for information about their travel plans.

Her desk wasn’t locked, and it contained similar things to Lady Wexham’s, the main difference being more of everything. Stacks and stacks of old letters, tied in bundles with ribbons. She didn’t seem to have thrown away anything. He riffled through one bundle with his thumb but decided against taking the time to untie it. Most of the tied stacks looked quite old by the color of the paper.

He came to a narrow locked drawer at the back, beneath the cubbyholes. He tried the other drawers, but they weren’t locked. So he returned to that one and stuck in his skeleton key.

Sliding it open, he found only a notebook. He drew it out and flipped it open. A journal.

He read the first entry. It was dated a year ago. He saw by subsequent entries that she rarely missed a day. So, somewhere, he surmised, she probably had a whole set of journals detailing the minutiae of her life from getting fitted for a gown to visiting Lady So-and-So on such-and-such a day.

He flipped through the pages, stopping here and there to peruse an entry. The name Céline caught his eye.

Céline thinks she can get away with her presumptuous behavior. For too long she has been lording it over me. Ever since Geoffrey died, she behaves as if she were still a countess, when all she is is a penniless émigré. If not for my brother, she’d be working her fingers to the bone in a milliner’s shop.

Instead, she parades around every event of the Season as if she is the first lady of fashion.

Well, she has had her day. I have finally hit upon the way to bring her low. It shan’t be long now!

Rees frowned, wondering what her ominous words meant. He had sensed her antipathy toward Lady Wexham but had never imagined the extent of her resentment. He read further.

After this evening, everything will change. I managed to drop a hint in the viscount’s ear. Ha! All I needed to mention was the word “spying” and I had his attention quick enough. They all think I’m nothing but an embittered old spinster. I showed him I know more of what’s going on. The way they all fawn over her, it sickens me!

Castlereagh gave me his attention soon enough. Took me by the arm into a private room to inquire further.

All I did was drop enough hints that Céline is well placed to spy on both the English and French. Lord Castlereagh patted my hand, promising to investigate further. To leave it all in his capable hands.

Rees held the notebook in his hands, staring at the ladylike penmanship. So, it was her own sister-in-law who had betrayed Lady Wexham. He wondered if she had had any evidence of spying or had merely acted out of spite. He would hazard the latter had been the case.

He checked the date of the entry. March 2.

Only a couple of weeks later, Lord Oglethorpe had given Rees his assignment to go into Lady Wexham’s household masquerading as a butler.

He scanned the remaining entries for mention of Céline’s name,
but there were few references involving Agatha’s role in bringing her sister-in-law to the attention of the British foreign secretary. One or two expressed impatience that the British authorities had not yet exposed Lady Wexham as a traitor.

The more recent ones showed that Lady Agatha had questioned Lord Castlereagh and had been promised that things “were proceeding along the proper channels and not to trouble herself.” She expressed resentment over being brushed aside. That entry was dated a fortnight ago . . . before his wound.

He closed the notebook and set it back in the drawer and relocked it. Little did Agatha know that it was he himself who would ultimately be the one responsible for exposing her sister-in-law—nor yet how reluctantly he would do it . . .
if
he would do it.

He closed the desk and stepped away from it, not liking the conclusions he was coming to.

How could he contemplate not carrying out his duty to his country?