

SOMEWHAT SCANDALOUS

A BRAMBRIDGE NOVEL

Pearl Darling

Magnus&Melinno
Pearl Darling is the author of The Brambridge Novels, a series of romantic suspense books that each feature a potent combination of passion and mystery set within the dazzling Regency period.

All of the titles are complete books, but for those that follow the entire series, each story will provide new information about the mysterious thread that ties the central figures of the Brambridge Novels together.

And which hero and heroine will be the last to fall to love's seductive touch? Follow the series to its inevitable conclusion to find out.

Also by Pearl Darling

Brambridge Novels:

Somewhat Scandalous

Burning Bright

Dangerous Diana

Reckless Rules

Maddening Minx

Final Flirtation

Brambridge Novellas:

Wondrous Web
COPYRIGHT

Published by Magnus & Melinno

ISBN: 978 1 911536 09 03

Second Edition

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2018 Pearl Darling

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

www.pearldarling.com

Cover design by Kim Killion at The Killion Group Inc.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

EPILOGUE

# PROLOGUE

The stale air in the marital bedroom of Berale House hung uncomfortably still. Heavy drapes pulled lankly across the windows closed the large room from the weak Devon sunshine. A four-poster bed stood squarely in the center of the room. The occupant within did not move, or stretch or speak, her bony hands lightly thrown across the covers. She faced away, towards the curtained windows, as if she could see through them to Longman's Barrow that crested the Brambridge cliffs beyond.

Lord Henry Anglethorpe paused at the entrance to the room and nodded to the doctor who returned to the bedside. Closing the door softly behind him, Henry walked heavily across the patterned hall rug and jolted with leaden steps down the central stairs of the house, trailing his hand on the warm wooden banister.

Halfway down, he stopped and gazed at the wall where a small portrait hung lopsidedly in a simple dusty wooden frame. A hatless blond-haired man towered over his female companion whose sharp nose pointed knowingly out of the canvas. The man held the woman's hand and looked at her with an intensity that burned, whilst with his other hand he grasped a gold pocket watch lightly by its chain.

Henry reached out with a finger and tilted the frame to hang level, before tentatively touching the raised paint on the curves of the brush strokes with which his friend Peter Beauregard had painstakingly covered the canvas.

"She's gone, Father," he said softly to himself, but in part to the painting, his eyes unwillingly following his father's gaze to meet those of his mother. Her bright blue eyes brimmed with life, laughing with his father, laughing at them all.

Those eyes were gone now, belonging to the thin shade he had left in the upstairs room. He closed his own eyes briefly, so similar to those in the canvas. "Mama should be with you now."

Turning away, Henry pulled the watch he had inherited from his father out of his pocket and flipped open the casement lid. One of the o'clock on Friday the 1st of February. He closed his hand over the scratched gold casing of the watch and thrust it back into his waistcoat pocket, taking a sharp intake of breath as his knuckles grazed against the cold metal of his mother's rings that the doctor had given him before he left the upstairs room.

Henry took a step forward to descend the stairs again, but paused. He looked back at the man in the portrait, catching the eternal outward stare. "I still have the watch," Henry muttered directly to the unmoving form. "And I remember what you said, Father. I will look after Victoria." He didn't wait for the response that would never come. Hunching his shoulders, he turned again and started back down the stairs.

The door to the drawing room stood open, the air within almost as close as it had been upstairs. Henry's sister lay prone on the sofa, hands under her head, staring into the fire which overheated the already warm room.

Henry took a deep breath as he entered. "Victoria, you have to stop..." He ground to a halt not knowing how to continue. Without bothering to flip out his tail coat, he sank onto the sofa next to her. "I am afraid it is bad news," he said simply. "Mama is dead."

Victoria turned her gaze to him, a gaze that stared right into his eyes, but somehow did not connect. "Mama is dead," she repeated.

Henry nodded. "She slipped away peacefully not half an hour ago. The doctor said she went in her sleep."

"Peacefully?" Victoria shifted a hand onto her side and turned back to staring into the fire.

Henry rubbed tiredly at his eyes. "It's for the best."

"It's for the best to die of a broken heart?" Victoria still did not meet his eyes. "For six months she wouldn't let us see her. What is the point in falling in love if all you have left in the end is yourself?"

Henry ran a hand roughly through his overlong hair. His sister's words thrust through him with a burn. They echoed his own thoughts. What was the point if in the end you pushed away everyone you loved for the sake of another who would never come back? When you could stay as you were, an autonomous island, unaffected by the passions of others, not relied upon for succor or relying on others in turn? That way you never let anyone _down_. He looked back at his sister on the sofa. "We should be thankful that Mother and Father had very little time without each other."

Victoria rubbed her nose slowly against the remaining hand beneath her head but still would not look at him. "Why couldn't it have been someone else's father that died? To be murdered in broad daylight, surrounded by strangers—" she stifled a sob. "Lord Stanton enjoyed telling me all the details."

Henry gritted his teeth. "Despite his large house, our Brambridge neighbor is a drunk and a fool. He knows nothing, Victoria."

But she wasn't listening to him. "And now we are alone."

Henry picked up Victoria's free hand and held it in his large palm. "I know."

She pulled her hand away and pushed it roughly back underneath her head with the other. Drawing her knees up, almost to her elbows, she tightly closed her eyes. "And you've decided to pick up where Father left off."

"I—"

For the first time she straightened and opened her eyes and turned to look at him. "Don't think I didn't notice Lord Granwich leaving the house in London two weeks ago. I know who he is. I know Father worked for him too."

"I had to—"

"He was probably the reason Father died. Working for Granwich. Working for the Crown. And now you are going to join them." She turned away from him. "Why did it happen? Why _us_?"

Henry shook his head and sighed. "I don't know." He grasped his fingers to his father's pocket watch again, and rubbed at its casing with his thumb, feeling the scratches on its lid where the watch had fallen to the ground as his father had lain next to it, bleeding to death, surrounded by a crowd of anonymous passersby.

Despite not knowing, he _was_ going to find out why his father was murdered—and what his father was looking for when he died—if it was the last thing he did.

# CHAPTER 1

A few years later...

Miss Agatha Beauregard folded and refolded the obligatory handkerchief she held lightly in her hands and dabbed at the edges of her dry eyes as a shovelful of dirt fell on her grandfather's coffin with a thud. The vicar's voice droned of pity and piety.

No one cried.

No one could have cried, for Agatha was the only mourner at the graveside. The household staff—what was left of them—were finding themselves other positions. They certainly didn't care for the last menial vestiges of Lantham Beauregard's life.

Agatha clenched her fist around the handkerchief. And neither did she.

"Would you like to say a few words?" The vicar smiled tentatively at her across the grave.

She relaxed her grip on the handkerchief and looked down at the soil piled on her grandfather's coffin. "No." Her gaze lifted to the headstone that lay in the grass at the side of the plot, mechanically reading the words her grandfather had dictated himself before he died, ' _In loving memory..._ ' Quickly she turned her head away to stare at the lychgate where they'd rested her grandfather's heavy coffin for an instant before dropping him in the dark earth. _Loving_ wasn't something that she would have associated with the man who had shown neither she nor her brother affection since they had arrived in the bleak and desolate Hope Sands years before.

Her own abiding memory of the lonely village on the windswept coast of North Devon would be of her cold, long, thin room, and the hours she had spent in it in punishment.

The vicar bobbed his head and peered through his spectacles earnestly, rubbing a hand over his Bible. "He was a God-fearing man." He didn't give Agatha time to respond. "I understand that the will has been read." A note of hope tinged his voice.

"Yes."

The vicar raised his head piously to the sky. "The church roof is leaking, dangerously near to your family pew. Of course God provides..."

Agatha folded her arms. "Gracious. What terrible news." She watched as the vicar brought his head back down to pin her with a beady gaze. His bushy eyebrows twitched a little as he rearranged his face into a semblance of avuncular charm.

"You know, I am getting older, and I have no wife." The vicar coughed onto his Bible and continued. "You have no husband and if you were to drop some of your novel ways I'm sure we might do well together. After all, I hear you are well versed with running a household—"

Agatha unfolded her arms and stared at the portly man. "That is a very kind offer," she said with reluctance. Of course it was kind. To take in a woman such as her, a woman that no other man would have. Although he might have waited until after the funeral to broach the subject. She stared at the gold brocade of his rounded cassock. It was advantageous, of course, that she was the granddaughter of the prosperous Lantham Beauregard, and the money that she would inherit could prop up the vicar and his lavish spending.

She would be dropped like a hot stone, however, once he found out that there was _no_ money.

Agatha wrapped her arms around her body and shivered. The descent into poverty had been gradual. Nothing had changed for her, except that in addition to her normal punishments of blacking the grates and taking out the slops, she peeled endless potatoes and vegetables for the household table and the dinner parties that her grandfather would hold for his 'friends'.

"Can I offer you some tea?" The vicar started to walk around the grave, carefully staying away from its crumbling sides.

Agatha edged away. "No, thank you. I must get back to the house. There are many items to sort out, as you can imagine." Actually there weren't. They'd already cleared the house and attics of anything valuable. She had no idea what she was going to do next. But there _was_ her very interesting latest experiment to attend to, the recreation of a clepsydra—an ancient Egyptian water clock. She'd set it up at the back of the house against the water butt where no one could see it. And after that—Agatha gulped back a small hysterical laugh. Grandfather's death and funeral had been rather _untimely_.

The vicar nodded. "I understand. Very difficult when someone dies. Is your brother coming back to help you? Perhaps we could discuss our union with him when he arrives?"

Agatha nodded as her hands clutched at her notebook in the pocket below her skirts. She'd left Peter's letter within it, his writing scrawled across the crumpled, paint spattered page.

Dearest Agatha, I am afraid you cannot come and visit us as I am currently painting for a grand exhibition. You will understand this has been my dream. I have already sent some paintings to London, but I have so many more to finish. You can come soon. I wish you to meet your niece. She reminds me of you, though her curiosity extends more to what it feels like to be a bird, rather than how a bird flies. Unfortunately we are also coping with her other grandfather dying. We've buried him in a small village called Brambridge under the name John Smith. He said that he'd always wanted to be a plain old English man. Claire exploded in a flurry of French when she read his wishes. Anyway, I realize it has been many years since you saw me, but I have made arrangements in the meantime—

The gravediggers stopped shoveling wet soil onto the grave, and started throwing clods of turf on top of the mound as it started to rain. Agatha's jaw set in a straight line. Never mind his utterly self-centered outpourings. Frustrating, capricious and entirely predictable Peter hadn't said _what_ arrangements.

Of course it was likely there were no arrangements at all. In the years since her brother had deposited her at Hope Sands, stayed a short while and left, she had only seen him once with his wife and child. His initial letters had been full of tales of when he was going to come and get her and release her from their grandfather's tyranny. Later his promises had reduced to fantasies of visits. And after he had arrived once, and been chased away by Lantham, then his letters mentioned only his family, his priorities evidently superseded by the immediate need to care for those closest to him.

Agatha watched as puddles of water trickled down the newly turned earth. _Damn_. The rain really would foul up her experiment.

Opposite her the vicar shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, great droplets slapping loudly against the hard cover of his heavy Bible, obviously waiting for a response.

Sedately Agatha gave him a nod. "I will arrange to visit you when my brother arrives." She turned on her heel, and walked slowly back through the cemetery towards the road.

Outside, her bedraggled horse leaned against the flint churchyard wall, its back bowed from years of use. Agatha threw a final glance to the graveyard as she passed under the lychgate. The vicar had already disappeared into the church. The gravediggers rested on their spades smoking well-worn pipes from the side of their mouths as they talked.

Letting out a breath, she slumped, her shoulders falling onto the top of her corset that was laced so tightly that she was hardly able to breathe. It had been her tribute to the passing of Lantham Beauregard. Wearing her mother's dress that she had found two days before in a neatly packed trunk in the attic.

Her hands clenched against her skirts as she stepped out from the shelter of the lychgate. Despite leaving her trunk behind, it was evident her mother had escaped, and now, with her grandfather's death, she was going to do the very _same_. For buried between the sparkling clothes and elegant shoes, Agatha had found a small leather pouch of sovereigns.

She _really_ didn't trust Peter's idea of arrangements. In fact in true artistic fashion, the reality was that she fully expected him to have forgotten his much younger sister, as he had conveniently done for the last ten years or so. And just for that she was going to visit him, only for a short while. For after all, after him, despite their large age difference, she had nothing left. Her mother had died of typhus and her father of war wounds, not long after she was born. In reality her grandfather, Lantham Beauregard had raised her. Raised her as a convenient servant in his household. She certainly was _not_ going to marry the vicar and become someone else's slave again, this time under the guise of being a wife.

Her horse mournfully raised its head as she approached, the slowing rain running down its mane and falling with small splashes to the ground. Hitching up her skirts, Agatha trudged across the muddy road, the pair of large, serviceable men's boots tied daintily to her ankles sloshing heavily through the puddles.

The horse nickered as she reached him, shaking his bridle with a quick flick of his head and tossing the reins and saddle set for a woman to ride sidesaddle to and fro. Agatha glanced back over the flint wall and unhooked the horse from the tethering post. The gravediggers had finished their talking and now slouched away from her towards their shed in the corner of the cemetery.

Grabbing the pommel of the saddle, she vaulted upwards. With one fluid movement, she threw her legs astride the horse's back. Giving a quick nudge to its ribs, Agatha persuaded the surprised horse into a trot, marveling at the leaden skies that were so reminiscent of the little she had seen of her brother's canvases.

An old, familiar sharp pain burned across Agatha's hand, causing her to lean forward, clutching and grabbing into the horse's mane. She knew, though, that there was nothing there to show the occasional beatings that had started on the day that Lantham had burned Peter's canvases and thrown him out of Hope Sands, and continued for many long years after, till the few weeks before Lantham had died. _Brat,_ thwack, _hoyden,_ thwack, _hopeless,_ thwack, thwack, _spinster, useless old maid_.

As Agatha regained her seat on the decrepit horse she tightened her hands on the reins. She had never set out to be a hoyden, but it had just happened. Just like being an old maid. In truth, she _did_ have an insatiable curiosity that no beating had been able to quell. For example, she had to try riding a horse astride because mathematically it seemed like a much better point of balance than the silly legs-on-one-side and lean-to-the-right saddle that society forced women into. Then there was that _interesting_ little book on mechanical principles she had found. It had passed many a dark day for her, holed up in her room using her brother's pristine old Greek primer to decipher all the symbols on the diagrams. Fortunately she had finished the book before Grandfather had burned it.

And beaten her again.

Agatha straightened in the saddle, unheeding of the rain driving into her face. Men had little if any redeeming features. The evidence was clear. They were all completely _self-interested_ , her brother, her grandfather, the footmen, the vicar...

Agatha sighed. Just another reason why she was now on the shelf. No man from Hope Sands wanted a woman that could actually _think_. Despite her efforts to appear otherwise.

A raindrop slid down Agatha's nose. She nudged the horse into a faster trot with a firm knee and wiped the droplet from her face, rocking with the horse's gait as it wearily sped up.

The shower abated as she arrived back at the house, a small farmstead on the edge of Hope Sands. Its dour windows looked down on her forbiddingly. A weight settled in her middle. It hadn't even been worth hurrying back. Judging by the enormous puddles on the ground, the clepsydra in the backyard would be measuring at least five hours more than it should have done.

Dismounting from the horse, Agatha slowly sloshed up the muddy path to the front door which stood slightly ajar. No one welcomed her into the hall. Within, the doors to each bare room stood open and the fire in the kitchen had gone out. A note on the large oak table explained that the cook, the maid and the footman had found work at the nearby manor. They were terribly sorry, but they had taken the last of the food with them.

That wasn't the only thing they had taken. Standing shivering on the cold black and white tiles of the kitchen floor, it was evident that all the pots and pans were missing. The jars of preserves had also vanished. With a sinking feeling, Agatha peered into the cupboard where they'd been kept, pushing her arm in, feeling to its edges. Nothing remained. Agatha rocked back on her heels. Packed within the glass pots the servants had taken with them would be one jar, so old that the blue furry mold coating the sugary preserve within was crawling up the side of the glass. It had been her fifth attempt at observing the rate of mold growth on jam. She had been about to take her last measurements. She gripped on to the cupboard bottom and hung her head, before pushing herself back upright. It was only _jam_.

Slowly Agatha turned and paced back past the front door, and onwards through the cold, ground-floor rooms. The dresser in the parlor stood bare of the usual blue and white plates, and a dark stain on the floor showed where an armchair had disappeared.

Oh gods. _What else had they taken?_ She backed slowly into the hall before clattering quickly up the creaking stairs in her outsize boots, tripping on the top step, falling to her knees on the rough boards of the hallway.

Her lonely, familiar room loomed in front of her. The door which she had left closed that morning was open, propped in place by the broken remains of her mother's trunk. Where before a mound of clothing had packed the sturdy box, now there was merely an empty space.

Two tears, the only ones she had shed that day, rolled smoothly down her nose. Agatha crawled across the floor of the hall, and pushed the trunk into her bedroom, leaving the door to slam shut behind her. Her throat burned with silent sobs as she pulled herself into a lone, broken chair that stood at the foot of the small cot she had called her bed. She stared sightlessly at the pockmarked wall at the far end of her miserable room. _They were only dresses._ Today was for celebrating. She had her freedom at last.

Stoically, Agatha counted the divots in the plaster of the end wall, again and again, and waited for her breathing to calm. The pockmarks were irregular, and radiated out from a central point, the height of a man's chest. The height of Lantham Beauregard's chest. She hiccupped and rubbed at her eyes. Unfortunately it was yet another experiment she hadn't yet got _quite_ right. But that didn't matter anymore. She hadn't needed to use it. Lantham Beauregard was dead. Dead of flu for all things holy.

She stopped mid-motion, a hand still fisted to her left eye. A faint squeaking noise vibrated outside the room, but _inside_ the house. Straightening in the chair, Agatha withdrew her hand and cocked her head, freezing as it happened again.

A sickness rose in her stomach. She bit her lip as the third step on the stairs squeaked, and then the sixth step let out a low groan.

_Who was it_? Surely the vicar wasn't so keen on their union that he had followed her home? No, surely he wasn't that sort of man—

The seventh step of the hall stairs moaned. Agatha glanced down at the bedroom floor to the left of her chair. The staff had missed the bowl and potato knife she used to peel vegetables as they cleared the house of goods to sell. Bending sharply over the arm of the chair, she picked up the bowl, placed it in her lap and laid her right hand inside, lightly holding the bone handle of the knife in her palm. The bone was sticky against her skin. She drew the knife out in one fluid motion and pointed it down the bedroom, towards the door.

_No_. She glanced at the end wall where the pockmarks had formed from the prolonged embedding of a small knife flying at high speed through the air. As if he was still alive her grandfather's voice rustled in her head. _Think you can harm a man by throwing knives? That's a circus trick for skilled people. Not for unwanted spinsters such as yourself._ She huddled in the chair. She hadn't been able to do it. Throw the knife before he had been able to enter her room, and lash her through the thin cotton of her dress. Despite her avid reading of the book on mechanical principals, she'd never managed to get the action quite right to hit any target three times in a row.

Standing quietly, Agatha pushed the knife into the pocket beneath her skirts and, gripping the solid bowl, shuffled to the bedroom door. Her heart thumped loudly in her ears as she waited. The handle on the door twisted slightly and paused.

It stayed motionless. But then a glint of light sparkled as it moved slowly around again. Agatha straightened and breathed in quietly. She shifted her grip slightly on the bowl and raised it above her head. _Good God._ Who was there?

The door opened inwardly on its hinges, propelled by a sharp push. But no one stepped through.

"I wouldn't come in if I were you," Agatha said, her throat tightening sharply. She coughed, trying to deepen her voice. "Go away and no harm will come to you."

A low laugh resounded in the hallway. The intruder thrust a confident, highly-polished boot through the doorway paying no attention to her paltry threat. Agatha's eyes traveled unwillingly upwards, as more of the figure revealed itself, taking in the pristine, white breeches encasing muscular thighs, and the expensive-looking tailored coat that hung on broad shoulders. Bright blond hair hung around a forbidding, undeniably male face, dominated by a sharp nose.

"I said, don't come any further. Turn around and go away!" Her voice began to shake slightly but she could not take her eyes away from him.

Blue eyes turned to observe her, pinning her to her frozen position. The man took another step in and slowly turned to face her. He smiled slightly, dangerously. It didn't reassure her.

This man was _no_ vicar.

Agatha wrenched her gaze away and clenched at her skirts with her free hand. "Please just go!"

The handsome man frowned and lifted a foot. In one deft movement Agatha swung her arm hidden behind the door, and slammed the peelings bowl down on the intruder's head.

"Good God." The man put a hand to his head and tottered slightly. "What the...?"

_Not hard enough_. Agatha lifted the copper bowl again and, with two hands, whipped it down faster.

The man let out a low curse and sucked at his fingers. "What in the hell are you doing?" he said in a deep voice. He backed away behind the door, out of sight.

_Damn_. Agatha clutched the bowl to her skirts. She should have waited for him to move his fingers away before hitting him again.

For a few seconds there was silence as the man stepped back into the bedroom again, half-in and half-out of the doorway. Agatha watched as he felt at his head with his free hand and then rubbed his fingers against his coat. A red stain emerged stickily on the fine cloth.

"Goddamn it!" The man took his hand out of his mouth. "That was the first time I've worn this coat. Ames will be heartily displeased." He paused and grimaced. "Actually, I rather think he'll laugh. Bloody hell, my head hurts."

Agatha stared open-mouthed, the unsettled feeling from earlier coming back in full force. He showed no signs of leaving. "Wh... who are you?" she stammered. Who was Ames? Scuttling backwards, she fell into her chair. "What do you _want_?"

He looked at her and bowed shallowly. "Lord Henry Anglethorpe, at your service." The blood on his head shone brightly against his long blond hair as he straightened again. "Your brother sent me."

Good God. Agatha slumped in the chair. Peter really had made arrangements for her. Oh bloody hell. She'd nearly brained a _lord_. This was _much_ worse than the discovery of another one of her failed experiments.

# CHAPTER 2

Henry shook his head slowly from side to side. The dark bedroom still rolled slightly as the pain from the wound on his head pulsed through his skull. _By God_ —how had the woman known he was there? This was Peter's sister for God's sake. The Peter who wouldn't have noticed if a gun had fired next to his head if he had been in the throes of painting.

"Are you all right, my lord?" Agatha's voice was clear, precise and not at all remorseful.

Henry took in a quick breath and nodded, and then cursed. Holding his head stiffly, he turned to observe the small figure that sat immobile at the other end of the room, more than ten paces away. The light from a meagre window reflected against red tints in her brown hair, her sallow skin, and the dress that was thirty years out of fashion. Despite the unprepossessing impressions, Agatha hadn't apologized, or greeted him when he had introduced himself. He blinked. That _was_ more like the Peter he knew. Without turning his back on her again, he examined the small bowl that lay on the floor. Potato peelings lay scattered at the base of the door. She'd hit him with a _cooking pot_?

He advanced a few paces towards her and put his hands out in a non-threatening manner. "There's no need to be afraid." God that sounded trite. Why the hell was he doing this? His sister. That was it. He could barely think straight. His head was still full of the man that he had just killed in Wales. _I was the one that killed your father,_ he'd said before Henry had taken his life with one shiver on the trigger of his gun.

Agatha stood up gracefully, revealing a small knife in her hand. Holding it outstretched, she motioned him back with a jerk of her head. Raising his eyebrows, he stepped lightly backwards once, and stopped, his thoughts of Wales vanishing in a puff of pistol smoke. _Interesting._ She'd surprised him again. He paused, struck as a brief ray of sun broke through the clouds to shine through the window. Her skin wasn't sallow. It was a beautiful peaches and cream that begged to be touched, framed by twisting curls of bronze.

"I repeat," she said briskly. "What do you want?"

Henry folded his arms and took an uneven breath. "Your brother asked me to take you to London for a season. I was on my way back from business in Wales and thought I would collect you myself."

"Collect me?" The disbelief in her voice was palpable.

"Look out of the window." The beginnings of impatience tugged at him. They needed to leave before darkness fell. It was a long way back to London and he had already delayed the journey longer than he had planned. Just being back in the county where his mother had died made him itch. He hadn't had to detour there from Wales to get back to London but his sister's black moods were becoming more and more frequent, and Agatha was his last throw of the dice. He'd been inclined to ignore Peter's request, but when Victoria's latest companion had left to seek a position elsewhere, worn out, it had seemed like a sensible idea to combine the two needs.

Henry watched as Agatha backed to the window and looked out. He could see the top of the carriage from where he stood. He'd left it outside the front gate. His groom had been cleaning his nails with a knife when he had dismounted and the coachman had been examining the trigger mechanism on his blunderbuss. He hoped they had put them away.

Agatha looked back at him, disbelief evident on her face. "A season? But why? You don't know me. And besides, I am a little old for a season."

He rubbed at the bristles that coated the underside of his jaw as his stomach rumbled loudly. "I promised your brother in exchange for some of his paintings." He sighed as she raised an eyebrow. She didn't believe him. He'd thought to couch it in nicer terms, but even Peter's letter hadn't expected any more than a paid position. "At the very least you can be my sister's companion."

Agatha furrowed her brow and clenched her hands more tightly on her knife, her outdated worn black dress rustling as she moved.

Henry wiggled a cramped toe inside one of his boots. "My sister makes her debut this season. She should have someone to share it with. She tells me she is lonely." He made no mention of his sister's worrying melancholies. "She would benefit from the older company."

Agatha's knuckles whitened on the hilt of the small knife. "I will think on it."

What on earth was there to think of? Henry had seen the state of the farmstead as he'd walked through it, the ransacked cupboards and the lack of servants. He smoothed down his coat one last time, and refolded his arms. "I have brought you a maid. There is no need to be concerned in relation to propriety. You have ten minutes." He paused, his eyes still on the knife. "And you can bring the peeler with you."

Agatha stared at him for a few seconds and then slowly walked back to her chair. Without taking her eyes off him, she stopped, turned, hitched up her dress, and put out a foot that revealed the unmistakable round toes of a large boot that still carried a crust of mud around the rim.

Standing on one leg, she made a swinging motion and stepped a large pace. She completed three more paces and then knelt on the floor, her dress pooling around her.

At no point had she blinked or broken his gaze. Henry resumed jiggling his toe in his boot. Despite himself he was beginning to _enjoy_ the situation.

Agatha slumped forward and blinked. "Oh bloody hell." She rubbed at her eyes.

He frowned. She couldn't keep saying that. Victoria was a young lady, a debutante. Young ladies did not curse in polite company. No scandal could attach itself to the Anglethorpes.

Perhaps Agatha _wasn't_ a good idea as Victoria's companion after all.

His frown grew deeper as Agatha bent over the floor, the soft silk of her dress whispering over the boards. The wooden planks creaked as Agatha slid the blade of her potato knife into a crevice in the floor. Pushing down on the handle, she levered up a small length of the polished wood.

Henry blinked as Agatha proceeded to lie on the floor, pushing her arm into the hole she had revealed. He looked at the ceiling as she groped around, the small movements causing her body to sway in the soft dress. He cleared his throat to wash away the unfamiliar dryness that had gathered.

Glancing back from the ceiling he grunted in surprise. The room was empty.

Her voice floated in from the hallway. "I'm ready. What are you waiting for? I thought you were in a hurry?" A clinking of metallic objects thumped in the hall.

Striding out through the door, he caught a glimpse of Agatha's skirt as she clumped down the stairs. Her hand shoved something in her pocket, a large weighty something that chinked slightly as she stepped downwards.

Taking the stairs two at a time, he hurried after her. But she wasn't trying to run away. She waited outside by his coach for him, an old cloak around her shoulders, back straight and an expectant air on her face. She caught his obviously frustrated gaze and despite her stillness, her nose twitched. Opening her mouth, Agatha inhaled, and coughed, spluttering and clutching at her cloak.

Henry stopped, his foot coming down hard in a muddy puddle, memories of a scene from the past washing over him, his mother laughing herself into a coughing fit by the family coach, tapping her feet, whilst his father fiddled around in the hall trying to find his gloves, just weeks before he died.

He swallowed and pulled at his cuffs to cover his discomfort. Was she laughing at him too? "Bags?" he said tersely.

Agatha clutched at her cloak and gasped before letting out a last large huff. "The staff took everything. Including my clothes."

Henry jerked his head at his groom. The lithe man showed no emotion as he opened the coach door for Agatha, although his eyes flicked between them. Henry shook his head warningly. The groom gave a wide smile and jumped back onto the carriage, holding on to the wig that Henry had given him that morning. Henry sighed. He would deal with Ames, his loyal but insubordinate valet, later. Getting him to masquerade as a groom had not been a good move. But then, it seemed that Agatha hadn't really noticed Ames' mirth, or taken note of his presence.

Inside the coach, the waiting maid who had been sitting in the middle of the seat shifted to the other side. Agatha hesitated for an instant, and then, putting out a decisive hand, gathered up her cape and climbed in.

Drawing in a breath, Henry pulled himself in after her and slammed the door shut. The coach horses leapt into motion. Bracing himself against the wood of the coach he turned and dropped onto the velvet seats opposite Agatha, studying her blank face as the coach left her home, enveloped in a new downpour of driving rain that was rapidly turning into sleet. But Agatha stared resolutely forward at the seats of the coach to his side, neither watching the house through the window nor giving him a second glance.

Henry drew in a sharp breath. He recognized the expression on her face.

He _hated_ Devon too. He hadn't been back to the family seat in Brambridge since his mother had died.

Settling back into the corner, he rested his head against the cushioned side of the carriage and reviewed the scene from the cold bedroom in the farmstead. Agatha had nearly killed him, the first person to come close in years. If the pot that she had thrust so forcefully down on his head had been made out of stone instead of soft copper she'd have broken his skull.

He rubbed at his nose and pushed his hand into his waistcoat, feeling at the scratched casing of his pocket watch. "How did you know I was there?" he said slowly, evenly.

Agatha stopped staring at the upholstery and met Henry's gaze. "I beg your pardon?"

"How did you know I was in the house?" he repeated.

"The third step on the stairs squeaked and then the sixth step," she said as she stared back at him.

It frustrated him. Despite her wide, clear hazel eyes, unusually for him, he couldn't read her.

She raised an eyebrow. "Why didn't you knock at the front door?"

Henry frowned. "It was open," he said shortly. "And it looked as if thieves had broken in. I didn't want to disturb them." He watched as the sunlight glinted off an auburn highlight in her damp hair that curled at her temples. "You knew which step I was on?"

"Hmm yes." She didn't say anything more.

"How?"

Agatha swallowed. "You really want to know?"

He nodded.

She made a slow tipping motion with her hands. "Water absorbed into a piece of wood will cause it to expand in proportion to the amount poured on it. That will in turn affect how much it rubs against the joists." Fumbling under her skirts, she withdrew a small notebook and the stub of a pencil.

Her face had lit up in animation, a heart shape smile punctuating her motions. Henry fingered the apple he'd picked up from seat of the coach, his hands bruising its flesh as an unfamiliar feeling of interest swept over him. "And hence the different pitch of the wood," he said. "I assume you were the one to pour the water on the floorboards?" _Good God_. He marveled, transfixed by her now luminous face that hid a mind that would have rivaled a Greek philosopher.

"Exactly. Potato juice actually. Took a very long time." Agatha frowned, the luminosity extinguished instantly. She opened the notebook, pencil poised in the air. "If you thought thieves had broken in, how did you know I was there?"

An involuntary smile spread slowly across his face. She was _still_ asking questions. And what was she expecting to write in her book? "Oh I knew you were there. I always know where people are. You'll find that out soon enough when we reach London."

Agatha closed the notebook with a snap. "Bloody hell," she said again.

# CHAPTER 3

_Goodness._ Agatha sighed and counted the hairs on the upholstery of the coach for the sixth time that day. It seemed that she was never going to be rid of overbearing males with high opinions of themselves. Overbearing _handsome_ males, a voice whispered treacherously in her head. She sighed again, heavily. The coach journey to London was _never_ going to end.

Henry took a bite of the apple that he held in a large hand. He finished munching and stared at her. "And one last thing, Miss Beauregard. I would ask you kindly not to use cant phrases in front of my sister. She is easily led and it will not do her any favors."

Surely he should have said 'one first thing.' After all this was the first time she could remember Henry speaking to her directly since she had got in the carriage for the first time.

Agatha nodded as he looked at her down his sharp nose. She glanced away, out of the window and sat a little straighter. Each night the coach had stopped at a different inn and they were shown to the grandest rooms. She had bounced, laughing, on the feather beds. It was obvious the maid had never seen such behavior before. It seemed she was lucky the maid hadn't told tales to Horrible Henry. Otherwise she would never have heard the end of it. _Horrible Handsome Henry,_ the voice in her head unhelpfully supplied again.

She sniffed and covered her nose as the odor of rotting cabbages and smoke filled the carriage. London was very different to the bleak and salty Hope Sands. She had never seen so many people in one place. The smells even carried a different kind of pungent quality. The houses crowded around narrow streets that were thronged with people. Parks surrounded by iron railings sat cheek to cheek with enormous mansions. As they passed through one particularly green square, Agatha sat forward and gazed round-eyed at the sight of a gaily striped tent with jugglers and acrobats outside. Hope Sands had certainly never been visited by anything so cheerful. A banner waved in the wind, the words 'Moreno's Traveling Circus' just visible as it flapped in the breeze.

Henry coughed pointedly beside her. With a sigh, she sat back in her seat. Putting out a furtive hand, she felt at the solid mass of gold sovereigns trapped below her skirts. The servants might have taken everything, but they had missed her mother's coins that she had hidden beneath the floorboards.

Agatha took a deep breath and rubbed at her eyes. "Smoky isn't it?"

Henry grunted but passed no comment. She looked up, his dangerous gaze was on her again, his eyes clouded with unreadable thoughts. Clenching her hands in her lap, Agatha looked away and covered her unease by counting the jolts of the carriage over the cobbles. If the average cobble was three inches wide and there were twenty jolts each second that meant that the coach was traveling at around sixteen miles an hour, that really was fast—

The coach stopped, throwing her forward. She caught the brass handle to the coach door and braced her fall, her face turned fully to look through the door window. An enormous villa with stuccoed pillars and large steps up to the front door loomed outside, yet despite its height, the mansion was dwarfed by an enormous hornbeam tree that shed its leaves across the mansion's roof. Agatha pushed herself back into her seat and waited for the coach to move off again.

"My house," Henry said, leaning forward and pushing open the coach door with a large hand.

Of course. It would be. Imposing, shadowy. _Like its owner_. Agatha inhaled, staring upwards as the large black door to the house opened and an army of smartly dressed staff poured out. Henry drew back and gave her a level look from his deep blue eyes. He smelled of soap and spicy smoke. A small ball of tension lodged itself in her chest. She clenched her hands, an unfamiliar feeling of warmth creeping through her.

Pushing past her, Henry leapt out of the carriage and, without looking back at her, held out a hand for her to hold. Despite her warmth, Agatha shivered and stayed where she was.

She watched as a butler hurried down the steps and greeted Henry. "Your letter arrived by mail coach, sir," he said, taking up a prominent position on the pavement as the footmen bustled around him. He was a large paunchy man with a watchful face. "Everything has been made ready." He looked pointedly at Henry's hand. "Can we help you with anything else, my lord?"

Agatha sighed. It couldn't be any worse than Hope Sands. Ignoring Henry's hand, she stepped lightly to the pavement. She lifted her chin as Henry made a growling noise in his throat beside her.

A dainty young lady walked slowly down the front steps behind the butler. "Henry! Henry, you're back." She reached up to kiss Henry on the cheek and turned to regard Agatha. "Is this her?" she said in even tones.

Agatha bristled slightly as she took in the perfect features, blond hair, and bland expression. "I am she," she said in a clipped manner.

The blond angel nodded. "I'm Victoria, Henry's sister. He has told you of me, hasn't he?" Victoria looked worried.

Agatha softened. "Yes."

"Good!" Victoria's pale cheeks pinked, and she became a little more animated, but not much. "Madame Dupont comes tomorrow to measure us up. Monsieur Bertrand starts his first dance lesson the day after—"

Agatha stiffened as Henry cut through his sister's words. "Victoria, why don't you take Miss Beauregard inside?" He signaled to one of the footmen to take the last case.

Victoria took no notice of her brother's chilly tones. "Come and have tea and cake and we'll get to know each other." Her eyes traveled visibly over Agatha's black dress. "You might want to change first."

Agatha gulped, her skin tingling where her gown touched her skin. She had tried hard to make the black dress last for the three days of the journey. Each night she had shut the maid out of the room as she had contorted herself to shed the tight garment. Having sponged herself down with cold water, she had slept in the bed naked so as to preserve the dress and her undergarments.

Unwillingly she threw a pleadingly look at Henry.

His eyes narrowed as he glanced at her. "Agatha was robbed before I could reach her. She has no clothes with her."

Agatha clenched at her skirts. Bloody man.

Victoria gasped. "Henry! You didn't make her wear the same clothes for the entire journey? Why didn't you stop in Salisbury?"

For the first time in the three days that Agatha had known him, Henry had the grace to look embarrassed. With delight she watched as he shook the long blond hair on his head and turned away to stamp non-existent mud off his pristine boots. "Well, I..."

Victoria threw Agatha a determined look. "I have more than enough clothes. We will find some of mine for now until Madame Dupont comes." She slid an arm through Agatha's. "I like your __ boots," she whispered, pulling Agatha up the steps and into the house. Looking down at her own dainty slippers, Victoria sighed. "These silly things never keep out the water. I always have wet feet."

Agatha glanced down at her feet where the rough leather poked out from underneath her dress. Carefully, she examined Victoria's face. There was no trace of sarcasm in the beautiful eyes that looked back at her, nor a twist of a sneer to her rosy lips. Unresisting, she allowed herself to be led into the hall. The ball of tension that had sat tightly bound by the corset in her rib cage unfurled a little with every step.

Henry stopped stamping behind them and pulled his coat around himself. "I will see you later. I have a meeting at Hartley Place," he said quietly.

Agatha waited as Victoria paused on the top step. "Government secrets," she whispered softly in Agatha's ears. "You'd have found out soon enough. But you can't tell anyone."

Agatha nodded. It fitted. As soon as she'd seen him she'd known that he was more than a mere man. Stealthy and fearless. She gulped. Unemotional and unnerving. The perfect man for _secrets_.

Victoria drew away from her, seemingly sensing her discomfort. Pulling back, she stared at Agatha. "What are you interested in?"

Agatha took a deep breath, trying to control her whirling thoughts. "The natural world." It was the truth, but it could cover a multitude of things. She froze as Victoria frowned.

"Science?" Victoria's frown cleared. "That is good news. Henry gave me a rather interesting new book for my birthday. I can't make head or tail of it. You can help me."

"But I didn't say..."

"Oh... did you mean plants and flowers?" Victoria's face fell. "I get rather too many of those to be enamored of them anymore. I suppose..."

Swallowing, Agatha laid her hand gently on Victoria's arm. "No... it is science I'm interested in." She paused. Nothing bad happened, no thunderbolt from the sky, or the chink of a belt buckle falling to the floor.

"Good." Turning, Victoria waved limply to her brother, and then led Agatha further into the opulent house.

Agatha couldn't resist a last glance backwards. Henry stood staring after them, an enigmatic twist to his lips, his bright blond hair flowing back from his face, a strange look in his deep blue eyes. Quickly she whipped her head back round and, with a half step, caught up with Victoria, pressing a hand to her chest. She had been wrong, the ball of tension that had dogged her hadn't disappeared at all.

# CHAPTER 4

Henry ran an impatient hand through his hair, as the door to his house closed behind Victoria and Agatha. He winced as he touched at the slowly healing wound on his head. "Hartley Place," he ordered. As his valet jumped up beside the coachman Henry grasped the immaculately polished brass handles of the still open carriage door and pulled himself back in to the coach with one lithe motion.

Henry hadn't stopped in Salisbury because if he had spent any more time with Agatha he didn't know whether he would have thrown her out of the carriage, or kissed her. He'd never known the urge to be so strong. In fact he'd never been moved in such a way. He'd switched between sitting next to the coach man, feigning sleep in the corner of the carriage and staring at the coach wall just above the curls on her head.

It had nearly killed him.

Henry leaned back against the carriage side and rubbed at his still stained coat as the horses pulled them through the center of Mayfair, but the blood from where Agatha had hit him was well mixed with the soft material. Sighing, he gazed sightlessly back out of the window at the familiar landmarks as they passed, bored with the view. He had traveled the same path from his house many times since graduating from Oxford.

Lord Granwich, spymaster, and prominent member of the War Office, waited for him in the library at Hartley Place. As Henry was shown in through the door, Granwich turned from examining the gilt-decorated bookcases that glinted back the flames of the roaring fire and gave Henry a long look.

"Drink, Henry?" Granwich moved to the sideboard and poured a glass of brandy, his hand hovering over a second glass.

"No, thank you."

Granwich raised his eyebrows and slid the brandy decanter onto the sideboard. "Please sit down." He picked up his full glass and lowered himself slowly into the chair next to the fire.

Henry chose one of the sofas opposite him, regretting the decision immediately. The seat of his breeches sank markedly into the soft cushions leaving his knees higher than his buttocks. Uncomfortably he fought the need to stand again.

Granwich regarded Henry owlishly over the top of his glass.

Henry sighed and gave himself up to the sagging chair. Thrusting his chin upwards, he watched as Granwich shuddered outwardly.

"Hawk," Granwich started. He corrected himself, "Henry—" and then he stopped.

Remaining calm and watchful, Henry flicked a small feather away from the fold of his breeches and waited. It was unusual for Granwich to call him by the nickname which Henry had gained in the last few years, in part for his patrician nose, and in part for the rumors that he located his prey, watched them, and then, some whispered, took them away and killed them with his bare hands. Henry smoothed at the soft material of his breeches and shrugged inwardly, still waiting for Granwich to start again. He didn't mind the name, even though it wasn't true, though—

"Did you find anything in Wales to do with your father's murder?"

Henry nodded. "A man. He died before he could give me any more information."

"Ah. Unfortunate. Living up to your reputation, I see."

"No—" Henry jiggled his knee with impatience. He hadn't meant the man to die.

"And did you find your sister a companion?"

Henry nodded. "I did."

"I trust this one will last longer than the others."

"So do I." Henry paused. "She seems to be of quite a scientific persuasion."

Granwich looked up quickly, his eyes sharp, before taking another sip of the brandy. He continued to speak quickly, as if the niceties were over. "Pablo Moreno is back in town."

Henry nodded with relief as Granwich moved on to business. Pablo Moreno, the circus master with a murky past, had set up his pitch in Vauxhall and had been busy promoting his show in Parliament Square. He'd seen the flags as they'd driven in from Hope Sands. He suppressed the unexpected smile that rose to his lips. Agatha had seemed rather taken with them. "I have my eye on him."

"Good. I asked Fashington, Charles I mean, to keep a look out, but he said he had other things on his plate." Granwich licked his lips. "Last time Moreno and his gang turned up in London at St. Bartholomew's fair, ten people were stabbed and any number of the ton robbed."

"Moreno does seem to have a talent for housebreaking." Henry scratched his head. This was routine conversation. There was no need for Granwich to look more and more nervous _._

Granwich nodded. "Someone in his troupe does at least."

Henry stretched his hands. "I've put someone in with the troupe. They start next week."

"Good, because I don't want bloody Lord Colthaven complaining to me again about Crown standards slipping."

Henry gritted his teeth. Colthaven's political influence was too strong for a man that wasn't even part of the governmental establishment. "We shouldn't need to deal with civic problems. The War Office should be focusing on the political situation, not paltry housebreaking. It's not just about image—"

"Ah. About that." Granwich's faced blanched slightly. "We, that is, other members of the War Office and I, feel that it would be a good idea if you," he coughed, "if you took a wife." Granwich knocked back the amber liquid in his hand and subsided back into his chair.

Henry gazed at the older man, the smoke from the fire tickling his eyes as he refused to blink. So that was what Granwich had been waiting to say. Heat coursed through his body, right down to his feet. He hoped desperately it was the effects of the fire and the enveloping warmth of the over cushioned sofa. Putting a foot out slowly, he stood and pushed the sofa around to shield himself from the flames. Facing away from Granwich, he squared his shoulders and took a deep breath in, and out, blinking furiously. Twisting his lips upwards slightly to mimic the expression of someone that was mildly amused, he turned around and sat down again, careful not to sink quite as far into the chair.

Granwich, however, didn't meet his eyes, merely gazing into the bottom of his empty glass as if surprised to see it finished.

Henry crossed his legs. "A wife? Why? That has nothing to do with politics or spies."

Granwich tipped his glass from side to side, the dregs of liquid rolling in its base and finally looked at him. "You will be able to move about the ton more freely if you don't have to avoid all the dowagers." He stopped tilting the glass and put it down on a low table that sat between them. "When you first started here we discussed what you would need to do as a spymaster."

Henry nodded. Appear like any other member of the ton. Avoid scandal. Make sure that no scandal attached itself to one's family. He'd said nothing of getting a wife.

Granwich raised an eyebrow. "I see you remember. And it is all the more important now. Quite apart from the housebreaking, I've heard that a new French spy is operating in London. I may need you to go after him too. A wife and a wedding would provide an ample distraction to your activities."

Henry folded his arms. It was true that he spent a reasonable amount of time in the card rooms. That was where all the good information was to be gathered. In general the dowagers had nothing interesting to impart. They started most conversations with 'have you met my daughter?' which he was most certainly not interested in. "Not good enough, Granwich," he said.

Granwich shifted uncomfortably, reached out for the glass and then, seeming to change his mind, withdrew his arm again. "To lay it on the line, Henry. Unlike that young man Lassiter that keeps getting feted in dispatches from the Peninsular and whom I am surely going to recruit as soon as he comes back—if he doesn't kill himself first _—you_ are not getting any younger. Many men your age are getting leg shackled now. Guthrie, my old colleague, took the plunge years ago when he was young. His wife's dead now of course, but I wasn't so fortunate and it has dogged me all my life. If you stay single, people will begin to _talk_."

Henry nodded slowly, his cravat pinching tightly against his chin. Dammit—he was only twenty-eight, his best years were ahead of him. A woman would be yet another person to look after. Someone that would want to become close to him. Someone that might rip his world in two like his father's death had done to his mother.

The only wife he could have was one that _didn't_ like him.

Besides, his father's death was still unsolved. The wound on his head began to radiate pain down his skull again. And his lead was gone, dead by Henry's own hands.

Granwich grimaced. "As unpalatable as it might be, Henry, you can't continue to work for us if scurrilous rumors surround your every move. They're already talking about you and that courtesan Celine. She's not the way to keep out of sight. All those red dresses—" Granwich took a deep breath. "Henry, you know about the art of subterfuge, especially given your family history. After all, your father sat in this very room the day before he died and—" Granwich stopped himself.

Henry continued to nod. He couldn't stop himself as horror crept through his veins and seemed to take control of his head, pain radiating with every nod. Debutantes were silly _._ They were simpering misses whose veneer of sophistication covered either heads filled with sponge, or Machiavellian minds ready to entrap their next lord. Courtesans such as Celine, on the other hand, were straightforward. They knew what they wanted. He knew what they wanted. And human emotions didn't come into it.

He stopped nodding with a jerk and put a hand to the back of his aching head. His mind skittered away from the image of his father that Granwich had unwittingly provoked and headed dangerously towards the small figure in large boots with a peaches and cream complexion who had nearly killed him. Her motives were refreshingly obvious. In fact she seemed to actively dislike him. Which made her ideal for—

"I will think on it," he said as further warmth flooded his body.

Granwich sighed, obviously in relief, as a rap at the door sounded loudly over the hiss and spit of the fire. He drew a hand across his forehead. "Come in!"

A tall man with a hard look to his face pushed open the door, waving away the butler that danced behind him.

Granwich smiled. "Ah, Harding. Glad to see you. I think you have met Henry before."

Henry nodded.

Earl Harding grunted a greeting, "Granwich. Anglethorpe." He walked over to an open bookcase with the assurance of a man whose earldom had been continuous and richly provided for since Charles I had promoted his ancestor and made him one of those rarest of beasts, an earl through named lineage, _not_ of a place. He peered inside the shelving before selecting a book and turning round. He leaned against the bookcase and thumbing the book in his hand, sighed in obvious frustration. "I've just been upstairs to see old Guthrie. Tried to talk to him about the campaign in Bisbal that Freddie Lassiter wrote to us about." He snapped the book shut. "I told him we should retire our troops. Wait for the next victory. But Guthrie didn't want to listen. Kept trying to offer me a Foxtone biscuit."

Granwich laughed. "Guthrie always has his tea and biscuits about now. And a sleep later. He's keeping Lord Foxtone's factories in business. Did you know we eat twenty trays a day of Foxtone's pastries here at Hartley Place?"

Harding didn't laugh. Granwich ground to a stop. "Yes. Well I've just told Henry here about those rumors of a French spy."

Henry examined Harding's granite face and wondered if Granwich had asked him to find a wife too. He decided not. Harding was a brilliant recluse who barely went into society. You couldn't get any better hidden than that. But what Harding hadn't realized was that his very reclusiveness made him even more intriguing for all the matrons. That was why Henry didn't hide himself away, despite wishing to.

Harding met Henry's gaze. "At last something better than housebreaking eh, Anglethorpe?"

Henry clenched his fist. _Bastard._ He stretched his fingers. It was only what he was thinking himself. "What do you know of the spy?"

Harding shook his head. "Not much. Renard, our undercover French contact, says the spy passed a few messages out of Brambridge to France. Said the messages were on the way to the Pyrenees. He thought he was running the normal contraband until one of the packets broke open to reveal a pile of documents wrapped in lace."

Henry's heart sunk. "Brambridge, as in Devon?"

Harding narrowed his eyes. "What other Brambridge do you know? That's where we've operated for years. Gods, man, you should have been the first to hear the news. Your father set the operation up—"

Henry rose from his chair, the action instinctive. Harding took a step forward.

Granwich put up his hands. "Stop it!" He got to his feet slowly and turned to face Harding. "I can see what you are doing, Harding, and I don't like it. Go and try your strategy mumbo jumbo on someone else."

Harding stared at Granwich and then at Henry. "More people that don't want to listen." He shook his head and stalked out of the room. "I'm going to meet Lovall at my club."

Granwich put his hand on Henry's shoulder and gently pushed him back into his seat. "Don't rise to him, Henry. Take it as he meant it."

"And how did he mean it?"

Granwich sighed. "He meant that you need to attend to the network down there. Take it back off our hands. Stop concentrating on your father's death and step up to what you have inherited. Bill Standish, the blacksmith in Brambridge that your father recruited to be our contact with Renard, is at his wits' end. That's why all the information is running through our fingers. We can't operate if you don't bloody face up to facts. You need to move on from your father, and attend to the here and now."

Henry put his head in his hands. He hadn't realized his obsession had become so obvious. "I know."

"What are you going to do now?" Granwich raised an eyebrow.

Henry got to his feet in a daze. First, he was going to go back to Mount Street. Second, he was going to eat some food. Thirdly, he was going to get horribly drunk on the last of the Chateau Yquem his father had bought. And finally, he was going to go to Brambridge. Only then would he come back and consider approaching his intended wife.

He swallowed, his throat dry. "I'm going home," he said.

# CHAPTER 5

Agatha drew back to the third step of the stairs as the low voices she had been listening to for half an hour continued out into the hall. Victoria followed her brother out of the morning room and put her hands on her hips.

"But Henry, you've only just come home."

Henry turned to face Victoria. "I know. But you know the work I do."

"I don't like the thought of you going down there. Back to Devon half-cut. You aren't yourself."

Henry's eyes caught Agatha's above Victoria's head. "It was only half a bottle of wine. I'm as much myself as I ever was. I'd like a word with Miss Beauregard, Victoria. Alone, thank you."

Victoria gave a huff. "It has been a half bottle of wine every night for the last three nights." She threw Agatha a sympathetic glance, but walked down the hall and into the terrace room at the back of the house, firmly shutting the door behind her.

"Miss Beauregard." Henry walked to the bottom of the stairs.

"Lord Anglethorpe." Agatha swallowed, dropping her eyes. His gaze was still dangerous, she realized, but now she knew that it wasn't the kind of menacing dangerous that one expected. It was a dangerous gaze to _her_. It drew her in, and heated her insides, caused her fingertips to tingle and her brain to stutter. No man had ever had that effect on her.

"Please come down here."

Agatha looked down at the step that she was on. "No, thank you."

Unexpectedly, Henry smiled.

And her mind stuttered again.

"Just as I thought." He moved on quickly. "I would like you to look after Victoria whilst I'm away." He lifted his chin. "You have had more success than her other companions have had, but I am still worried about her." He sighed. "I wish I didn't have to leave, but—" He reached out and unexpectedly pushed a curl back from her face.

Her mouth dropped open.

Henry turned quickly and strode to the middle of the hall. "I'm sorry. I thought you had something in your hair." He picked up his hat and cane from the hall table and turned, spearing her with his blue gaze. "I would like to speak with you when I come back. Please—look after her."

Agatha nodded, stunned as he strode out of the door. She could still feel where his lithe fingers had brushed against the hairs of her head. In a daze she slowly descended the stairs, and followed Victoria into the back room.

Victoria sat by the terrace windows, fingering her dress, a new one that had been delivered that morning. Agatha moved to sit down beside her, relief coursing through her aching feet as she rested them on the footrest in front of them. They had been badly worn in the last few days, in between dress fittings, and dance lessons. _Torture lessons_ the small voice supplied unhelpfully in her head. She was sure Henry had planned them. But then, she'd barely seen Henry since she'd arrived. Each time they'd met in passing he'd looked at her as if he wanted to say something, but had then stalked away, muttering about the weather.

He'd stroked her hair. _No he hadn't. He'd taken out something that was in it._ For once Agatha agreed to the voice inside her head with relief.

She glanced down at the book which lay between her and Victoria. It was in pristine condition with barely a crease on its leather spine. It reminded her of the Greek primer she had devoured many years before. She ran her hand over its dark crisp cover and pulled it towards her.

Victoria leaned forward and stared out of the French windows to the small back garden and the towering trunk of the hornbeam tree. She glanced back at the book. "Henry thought it might distract me. But no matter how I read it, I am always lost after the third sentence."

_Conversations on Science_ , Agatha read, _by Jane Marcet, First edition 1806._

Victoria fell back in her chair with a huff. "I feel rather a fool. After all in the foreword it does say that this is an elementary textbook written especially with women in mind." She laughed. "But I can't help focusing more on the relationship between the two girls, Caroline and Emily, who are the supposed pupils. They certainly seem rather catty if you ask me." She rolled her eyes. "I'm not interested in their observations on transpiration in boring plants. And what does the B in Mrs. B the teacher stand for anyway?"

Agatha shrugged. "I... I have no idea." Sliding her finger down the center of the book, she opened the bound pages at random. _Gunpowder is a mixture of five parts nitre to one part sulphur and one of charcoal... the constituents of which when heated to a certain degree enter into a number of new combinations... the sudden expansion of which gives rise to the detonation._ With a sharp intake of breath, Agatha closed the book and then opened it again at a different section, _the white of an egg contains a little sulphur therefore when it reacts with silver..._ Agatha flipped a few more pages, and read some more.

Victoria was still talking. "Of course I was terribly grateful to Henry, but—"

Agatha slid forward to the edge of her seat and, tucking the book under her arm, picked a teacup off the table in front of them. Without noticing the tea was cold, she finished the cup and poured herself another. Gazing over the top of the teacup, she blinked at Victoria. "I could lose myself in this book for hours."

Victoria stopped rambling and stared at her. "I beg your pardon?"

"This," Agatha flapped the book under her bent arm, "is a doorway to untold hours of interesting activity." _Much better than torture lessons._ And thinking about a strong finger stroking its way through the curls on her head.

Victoria raised her eyebrows. "Are you quite sure you've recovered from our dancing lesson? I was certain Monsieur Bertrand was going to have a heart attack when you stood on his left foot."

Agatha smiled. "Quite recovered, thank you. I can't help the fact that I'm slightly clumsy."

"Hmm, that would explain why Madame Dupont stuck quite so many pins in your side at the dress fitting."

Agatha winced. "Oh no. She did that out of spite."

"Why on earth did she do that?"

"I suggested that she needed her eye glass reground. It didn't throw a perfect circle of light on the floor when light shone through it. Unfortunately I omitted to mention my reasoning and told her just after she'd commented on my chest measurements."

Victoria pressed a hand to her bodice. "Oh."

Agatha nodded. "I got the feeling she did not like making up dresses for companions."

"You are not a companion." Even though Victoria's voice contained glints of fire it was still monotone. "You're my friend."

A warm flush swept up Agatha's neck _. A friend_. She took in Victoria's dull gaze and thought about their morning of quiet sewing before the dancing, during which Victoria's mood had inexplicably deepened. Stroking the embossed cover of the book with a tentative finger, she sat up. "What you have here," she said slowly, "is a gold mine."

"Goodness." Victoria pulled her wrap around her slight form and sank further into her chair, looking out of the terrace window. Her skin was white against the fading light of the afternoon. "How novel."

Agatha dropped the book to the sofa and took Victoria's limp hand in hers, but Victoria drew her hand away and stared at the floor.

Agatha stood up and tapped her foot on the thick pile carpet, looking at Victoria's reflection in the glass. Suddenly it struck her. "I know what we will do. We shall follow the same experiments that the girls and their teacher undertake."

Victoria frowned and looked up. "Tutelage by Mrs. B?"

"Yes, that's exactly what we'll call it."

The corners of Victoria's mouth twitched. "When do we start?"

Agatha smiled at the small change in Victoria's countenance. It was an opening, that was all it took. "Right away. I have just happened to alight upon a very interesting 'conversation' in my last flick through the book. Mrs. B says the experiment has some scintillating results."

Victoria narrowed her eyes. "Is that your enthusiasm for science talking or Mrs. B?"

Agatha held her breath. Was this the right course of action? She straightened her back. She was a companion now. There was no need to worry about her grandfather, or her marriage prospects. Briefly her fingers burned. She forced a tempered smile onto her face. "All right Mrs. B only says it's interesting. But I still think it sounds worth pursuing. Oh come on, Victoria, don't be a goose." Mentally she crossed her fingers and waited.

Victoria sighed. "What do we need?"

Agatha let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "I think we ought to be able to get everything from the kitchen."

Victoria's face blanched. "I'm not sure they will be very happy about us going down there."

Agatha folded her arms in front of her. "And why ever not?"

Victoria took a deep breath. "Since... Mama died, my brother deals with them. I... I stay out of the house affairs."

Agatha paused. She didn't remember her mother or her father, and she hadn't mourned her grandfather's passing, but it had been at least three years since Victoria's parents had died. Victoria's melancholy was lingering too long. "Perhaps it is time to get back into them."

"Agatha, I can't—what are you doing?"

Grabbing the book in one hand, and Victoria by the other, Agatha towed her out of the room, into the hallway, and opened the door to below stairs. The sound of clattering pots and voices reached them from the kitchens below. Letting go of Victoria and tucking the _Conversations on Science_ under her arm, Agatha clumped down the stairs.

In the lower kitchens, the head cook, Mrs. Noggin, leant over the kitchen table, a pile of pork chops in a wrapping of brown paper open in front of her. Opposite her, a man in a straw boater and white coat dropped his knife to the table with a clatter.

"I ain't coming back next week, Mrs. Noggin. I've got another job on." The butcher scratched his head and picked up his knife again.

"'Tis a pity, Albert, there ain't anybody as good with a knife as you. Why those fillet steaks you gave us—"

"Ahem." Agatha placed a hand over her mouth and coughed, but the cook kept on talking.

"—were right good ones. Mr. Henry ate every last bit as normal, but I was so proud Miss Victoria had a little bit of it. She likes her jelly though. I worry for her, I do—"

Behind her, Victoria took in a large gulp of air. Agatha felt round and grasped at Victoria's hand, squeezing it.

"Ahem," Agatha tried again.

The cook turned her large form in surprise. "Miss Aggie—" She covered her mouth in evident distress. "Miss Victoria... I..."

"I'll be going." The butcher bowed his head and quickly wrapped up the chops. He nodded his still bowed head and, turning quickly, left through the kitchen door.

"Me too."

Agatha swung in surprise. She hadn't noticed another man in the room, and yet she was only just quick enough to see a small glimpse of his back as he disappeared behind the butcher.

The cook opened and closed her mouth a few times before sinking into a low oak kitchen chair. "Miss Victoria," she repeated.

Victoria nodded silently and felt for a chair at the kitchen table. Gathering her purple skirts to her, she pulled the chair out and sank into it. With a sigh, Agatha shook her head and, filling a copper kettle with water, placed it on the still warm stove.

Mrs. Noggin half rose. "Miss Aggie, let me—"

Agatha shook her head. "You rest. I believe Victoria would like to ask you some questions. Victoria?"

Victoria stared at the table. "I... err... Mrs. Noggin... that is to say..."

Quickly Agatha pulled the book out from under her arm and laid it on the table. Opening it with two hands, she smoothed her hand down the page and, pointing at the start of the chapter, slid the book under Victoria's nose.

Victoria swallowed visibly. "Yes. Aha. Mrs. Noggin. It is good to see you after such a long time."

"Oh yes, my lady." Mrs. Noggin sank back with visible relief into her chair. "The last time you came down here was when your father died. Oh dear, I'm sorry..." Mrs. Noggin wiped a cloth at the corner of her eye.

"Three years ago," Victoria said, her voice wobbling.

"Aye. A bonny fifteen-year-old you were. So lively before it all happened. Such an unexpected tragedy too." Mrs. Noggin pressed her hands to her reddening face. "Oh not again! I'm always saying the wrong thing."

Agatha poured some hot water from the kettle into a cup and slid it across to Mrs. Noggin so that her arm obstructed Mrs. Noggin's view. Looking back over her shoulder, she checked on Victoria. She sat as still as a statue, frozen to her chair.

"Mrs. Noggin. We were wondering if you might help us. Oh dear." Agatha pushed the cup intentionally hard against a dent in the table. The cup tilted slightly and splashed hot water across the table's wooden top. "I'm terribly sorry, Mrs. Noggin."

As Agatha had intended, Victoria jumped out of her seat and hurried to a rail of cloths that hung by the sink. Pulling down a towel, she patted at the table. The activity opened the dam that had held her back, the words pouring out of her in a rush as she worked. "Mrs. Noggin, we were wondering if you might provide us with some items."

The sight of Victoria clearing up in front of the cook was obviously too much. "Anything for you, Miss Victoria."

"We need. Ah," Victoria fumbled with the book, "isinglass and wine." She stared up at Agatha.

Agatha smiled. "I'm going show you how my boots that you admired were made waterproof."

Victoria sank back into her chair. "I'm not sure what mixing glass with wine will do."

The cook laughed. "It's not glass. _Isinglass._ It's dried cod. Swimbladder of cod that is. We use it to make that Solomon flummery jelly you like so much." Pushing her chair back, Mrs. Noggin pulled a jar of irregularly shaped white leaves from the shelf of the kitchen dresser. It sat alongside other jars of chutney and, Agatha saw, a large jar of fig jam.

Mrs. Noggin felt under the counter, pulling out a bottle of wine. "Here, Mr. Henry, I beg your pardon, Lord Anglethorpe, didn't finish this last night. I was going to throw it out."

Victoria had turned a very pale pink. "There's fish in my favorite dessert?"

Agatha drew her gaze away from the fig jam. "It doesn't taste of fish, does it?" She ran her finger down the page of the book. "Aha." Uncorking the bottle of wine, Agatha poured a large amount into a glass. "Please could you melt some of the isinglass for me, Mrs. Noggin?"

"Of course I can."

Taking the copper boiling pot of melted isinglass that Mrs. Noggin prepared for her, Agatha poured the gelatinous material into the wine glass. Immediately a thick muddy solid mass appeared and fell to the bottom.

Victoria lowered her head level with the table and stared at the glass. "I thought you were going to do something spectacular."

Agatha glanced at the murky mass at the bottom of the glass and laughed. At last, an experiment that had turned out _right_. "I did."

Victoria thrust her elbows on the table. "I still don't understand what this has to do with your boots."

Agatha picked up the glass and held it to the light. "Most wines contain a substance called tannin."

"Hmm. That's what Henry says gives him the headache after he's drunk the wine." Victoria withdrew her elbows from the table. "Tannin? Anything to do with tanning leather?"

Agatha smiled. "Exactly. In the book Mrs. B says that tannin is used in the making of leather. Animal hides are soaked in a solution of water and tannin made from bark. It turns them into a leather that provides a strong resistance to water."

"But why the isinglass?"

"The isinglass is acting like the animal skin. The isinglass has precipitated the tannin from the wine to form an insoluble compound..." she glanced at Mrs. Noggin's confused face. "Something that's not affected by water."

Victoria poked at the glass. "I can't wear that."

Agatha chewed her lip and tried again. "Animal skin contains a similar substance to the isinglass. It mixes with the tannin, turning the skin into leather which is waterproof."

"Well I never." Mrs. Noggin sat back from the table. "I'm not sure I understood half those words that you used. But I do wonder what Mr. Henry's stomach looks like after drinking all that red wine if that is the case."

"Exactly what one of the girls says to Mrs. B in the book." Agatha snapped the book closed and drew her chair away from the table. She blinked as Victoria laughed unexpectedly. _Finally._

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that." Victoria took the glass to the sink and poured the contents down the drain. "Henry only drinks when he's upset. After he's eaten, of course." Picking up the bottle of wine, she turned it round to see the label. _Chateau d'Yquem 1780._ She froze, the smile falling from her face. "Oh dear. We had better go and get ready for Lady Osbalde's ball now. Quickly, upstairs."

Agatha glanced at the bottle. "I thought Mrs. Noggin said he didn't like the wine."

Victoria pulled at Agatha's arm with tense fingers. "It's not a case of not liking it," she whispered, nodding a goodbye to the smiling Mrs. Noggin. "More, that one doesn't drink Chateau d'Yquem very often as it is so expensive. That bottle is from the last of the wine my father bought." She turned and stared at Agatha. "Henry's drunk most of the bottle. He must have been _really_ upset."

_Oh dear_. Agatha blinked and turned to follow Victoria, catching sight of the jar of fig jam again on the dresser. "Alright," she said distracted. "I'll be with you in a minute."

Lady Osbalde's ball was like all the others. Agatha waited at the edge of the room with a maid whilst any number of admirers whisked Victoria around the room. Victoria was reluctant to dance, but Agatha shooed her away, certain that it would bring the color back to Victoria's cheeks.

She was right. Victoria returned to where they sat with a sparkle in her eyes and more than a tinge of pink along her alabaster cheeks. Victoria's last partner, a man with thick, black hair, and dark sensual eyes held Victoria's hand lightly whilst she sat, but his eyes weren't on Victoria. They were on Agatha.

"Aggie, might I introduce you to Charles Fashington?" Victoria released Charles' hand and let out a satisfied breath. "We've just met."

"Charmed." Charles bowed, his mouth twitching at the edges in a slow smile, his eyes still holding Agatha's. "I feel like the luckiest man in the world to be here in the room with the two most beautiful ladies in the ton."

Agatha smiled weakly. Charles' eyes seemed to look right through her eyes and into her head. Not unlike Henry's. But where Henry's unsettled her, Charles' eyes seemed cold. And he was a shameless liar.

"Charles has just told me he works with my brother," Victoria whispered, flicking out her fan.

Agatha nodded. That would explain the long deep look he had given her then. Perhaps all the men who worked for the Crown in London had the same characteristics?

Charles stepped forward. Agatha blinked, his eyes were no longer cold. Perhaps it had been a trick of the light, or the way he looked when he was thinking? He still kept his eyes on her, however, and bowed again. He put out a hand. "May I have this dance?"

She hesitated, turning back to Victoria. But Victoria nodded, with a happy smile. "Go, go, I think you will have a lovely time." She paused. "I think you might even have some things in common."

Agatha stood reluctantly and frowned. What was Victoria up to? Charles bent and took her hand. "Shall we?"

"Oh, yes, yes of course."

Charles led her onto the dance floor, his steps sure, pulling her along fluidly. Agatha could feel the work of the dance lessons infusing her feet for the first time. As the small quartet of instruments started a quadrille, Charles put his hand around the small of her back and swung her into the throng.

It was breathtaking. Agatha hadn't known anything quite like it, the colors, the lights. She looked up, a feeling of disappointment filling her as she encountered the dark eyed stare and black hair. She licked her lips. The eyes should have been blue, and the hair a shock of blond so bright it would have competed with the candles.

Charles' eyes narrowed as if he could sense her unsettled state. He glanced over her shoulder and back down at her again. "So where is your rescuer tonight?"

"My rescuer?"

"Old Anglethorpe. Victoria told me he plucked you from the darks of North Devon. It must have been a dull place."

Agatha raised an eyebrow. "It was. Nothing but fields and sea." She looked around. "I don't know where Lord Anglethorpe is. I think he's down in Devon. Something to do with the family estates."

Charles nodded. "Being in the country sounds like my ideal." He lowered his voice. "Would you be surprised if I said that I wished I was away from this place, out in the open, looking at nature, studying the way the waves rise, and the clouds form in the sky?"

Yes. She would have been very surprised. But Charles' eyes were clear. He looked at her seriously, both of them executing their steps automatically around the room. "Yes I would be," she said honestly. "Not many of the ton regard the intricacies of the world as something to be studied or enjoyed."

Charles laughed, a long laugh that caused the dancers around them to turn their heads. "Lady Victoria told me that you would be interesting to speak to."

His laugh was infectious. Agatha smiled with him. "You know, you don't have to be in the countryside to enjoy some of the joys of nature," she said, and quietened, wishing she could reel the words back in.

Charles looked back down at her. "You don't?" He arched an eyebrow. "You know of a way to bring it here to the ballroom don't you?"

"I—ah—"

"You will have to show me." Charles' hand pulled her closer against him. "If you don't I'll tell everyone that you have a crush on Lord Anglethorpe." His voice was teasing. He laughed down at her.

Agatha swallowed, a small shiver of fear running through her. It was, she realized as her shiver turned to a burn, rather too close to the truth. She glanced back at Victoria. She'd only been her companion for a few days. What would Henry do if the rumor spread? Did anyone _care_? "I'll show you," she said flatly. "Though it might end up with you bringing an egg with you to one of the next balls we meet at."

It didn't have the desired effect.

Charles laughed again. "Fascinating. How very glad I am that I met you." His arms tightened on her back. "How long did you say Henry was in Brambridge for? I didn't hear."

Agatha frowned. She hadn't said. She glanced upwards but Charles was looking out across the ballroom, guiding them effortlessly through the crowds. "Another week I believe."

# CHAPTER 6

Henry leant back against the unused anvil behind him and waited for Bill Standish to finish pounding a glowing horseshoe that he held within long metal tongs. The heat in the Brambridge forge was remarkable. Bill's arms trickled with sweat, his muscles rippling as he turned the horseshoe over. He was a large man. Henry had used to watch Bill as he worked, never realizing his work for his father.

"When is Renard coming back in?" he said impatiently as Bill showed no signs of stopping.

Bill paused, his hammer mid thrust. "He's not."

"I was told I could meet with him."

"He refuses to set foot in England. I meet him two miles off the French coast."

"You?"

Bill put down his hammer and turned to face Henry for the first time. "How do you think this village stays alive? We take a boat, the _Rocket_ , and we meet Renard. We give him lace, he gives us brandy. And some other things besides."

"Messages for the Crown."

"Yes, like messages. Your father put it all in place." Bill shrugged. "We kept it going. We've been waiting for you to tell us what to do next."

Henry avoided the implied question and pushed back from the anvil. "My father didn't mention you were a sailing man."

Bill put his hammer down on the hearth. "Lord Stanton's son helps."

Henry frowned. "Stanton as in Stanton the drunk, owner of Brambridge Manor?"

Bill nodded. "The neighboring estate to yours. The son's completely different to the father. You should consider him for the future."

Henry nodded. It was what his father would have done. It was what he should have been doing, paying attention, recruiting informants where he could.

"So what are your orders?"

Henry bowed his head. Brambridge was an ideal place to enter England. Henry knew very well that when Bill referred to other cargo, he really meant French émigrés. He stared up at Bill with a long look. "How much do you trust Renard?"

"Your father named him as a contact." Bill shrugged. "It's still not clear who he works for."

"But he was the one that found the documents." Henry frowned. "Keep an eye on every person coming in or out of Brambridge. Open all packages that pass through." He sighed. "I doubt they would use the same method twice, but it would be stupid not to make sure."

Bill nodded. "When are you going to open up Berale House?"

"I'm not. I'm going back to London. I have a ball I need to attend. A week in the damp Fountain Inn is enough for any man."

Bill raised an eyebrow. "It's alright for some."

It was a long journey back to London from Brambridge. And it seemed in that time the world had turned upside down. Henry removed his mud spattered coat and sat down and stared over the breakfast table in his mansion in Mount Street at the unusual sight in front of him. It wasn't the excessive way in which Smythe had said salt from the salt cellar was disappearing unexpectedly, nor that he hadn't been able to find his medicine for an upset stomach when he had arrived home.

It was the sight of Victoria laughing. Laughing without a care in the world to be precise. Slowly his eyes tracked across to Agatha, who leant on the table, examining her bacon and eggs with a magnifying glass. His fingers itched to poke through the curls that crimped around her temples, falling to gently brush the glass in her hand.

"Just what—" Henry took a deep breath. "What are you looking at, Miss Beauregard?" He raised an eyebrow as she looked up at him, the glass still to her face, a long-lashed hazel eye abnormally enlarged through the lens.

"She's examining the bacon and eggs flummery that Mrs. Noggin sent up." Victoria giggled. "Mrs. Noggin is protesting against my ban on fish products in our food. She's sent up bacon and eggs for Agatha on a bed of spinach made of green jelly."

Henry's stomach lurched. "Good God. Surely that doesn't have fish in it?"

Victoria nodded earnestly. "Yes it does. The spinach jelly is made of isinglass, a fish's swim bladder."

"Oh." Henry blinked. He looked back at Agatha, but found with disappointment that she had turned back to studying her plate. "I'm surprised at Mrs. Noggin. I had to reprimand her for spilling some of that wine that Papa brought back." That was the other thing Smythe had talked to him about.

"Ah, about that." Victoria hung her head.

Henry wanted to take the words back. Immediately the smile had been wiped from her face and the light in her eyes extinguished.

Agatha dropped her magnifying glass to the table with a clatter and laid a hand on her arm. "It wasn't her fault." She gazed at him, her hazel eyes now a deep and vibrant green. "We were conducting," she took a breath, "an experiment."

"An experiment?" Henry bit back a curse. _Scientific nature._ He should have seen it coming. "You conducted an experiment with priceless wine?"

Agatha narrowed her hazel eyes, her curls bobbing with her agitation. "We didn't know it was priceless at the time." She edged her chair away from the table.

Henry frowned, she seemed nervous, her back straight. Her lower lip trembled slightly. His hands nearly shot out of their own accord to smooth down her bobbing curls. Instead he sat on his hands. "You should have done," he said quietly.

Victoria stood. "Henry, you are overreacting. Come, Agatha. Let us enjoy Mrs. B elsewhere."

Mrs. B? Who the hell was Mrs. B? He almost groaned aloud as Agatha stood, backing away from him like a nervous animal. Two minutes home and already he'd put a step wrong.

Shoulders straight, and standing ramrod upright, Victoria guided Agatha jerkily out of the room. She paused at the door. "Will you be coming with us to the Colthaven ball tonight? We haven't seen you for a while."

Falling back on his chair, Henry watched the tip of Agatha's enticing curls disappear and nodded reluctantly. "Yes of course."

"Good." Victoria followed Agatha into the hall.

Henry pushed back his plate with a sharp thrust. In the years since his parents' deaths he'd worked at amusing Victoria, trying to draw her out of her black moods, but within a week Agatha had transformed her. And he'd obviously helped by staying out of the way.

Who was he trying to fool? He'd stayed away in Brambridge a few days longer than expected because he had been scared of going back to Mount Street. Scared of speaking to Agatha and asking her to be his wife. Terrified of the future.

But then he'd finished all his work there and more people had started asking him when he was going to open Berale House, and so he'd had to leave.

"Do you think Miss Aggie will be finishing her bacon and egg flummery, sir?"

Henry sat up with a start, embarrassed that he'd been caught, sure that his thoughts showed themselves on his face. "Ames." He nodded at the shadowy footman who held Agatha's plate in his hand. "You had better be sure neither Victoria nor Agatha see you."

His valet nodded and walked forward. He wore no groom's wig this time, his own non-descript features smiling with mirth. "They nearly caught me in the kitchen, sir, talking to Mrs. Noggin and Albert before we went to Brambridge. I was telling Albert about how you recruited me."

Henry grunted. "In the days when you called yourself Jaquard."

"Jaquard Master Gunpowder Maker, actually."

"I stand corrected." Henry raised an eyebrow. "Though I would point out that I recruited you for your ability to hide in plain sight rather than your explosives expertise."

Ames affected a hurt expression. "I wasn't to know that the Grand Green Park Fireworks extravaganza would burn down the mansions on the south side of the park."

"Ames, you were in charge of the extravaganza. You were in hiding for weeks."

"Good point. The hiding part being the piece that caused you to recruit me. Perhaps now would be the time to change the subject?" Ames hurried on as Henry grunted. "As I was saying, although the girls nearly caught me a few days ago, I waited outside the kitchen and listened in to their conversation. They were conducting an experiment to demonstrate tanning leather. It was Mrs. Noggin that gave them the wine."

So Agatha had protected both Victoria and Mrs. Noggin with her comments. But still... "Who is Mrs. B?"

"As far as I understand, sir, she's the teacher in that book you gave Miss Victoria."

Good grief, so this recent episode was also Henry's fault. "Do you know if they are planning any other experiments?"

"No, my lord. Although I understand that in the time that we were away in Brambridge I believe they tried churning milk to make butter, or oxygenated oil as Miss Aggie called it. Very nice it was too, on a scone this morning."

Henry drew a tired hand across his forehead. He couldn't believe he was actually wishing he had arrived home earlier to witness it. "And?"

"Hmm. There have been quite a few other interesting ones apparently. Creating chalk from some lime water Mrs. Noggin found was the one the household was quite interested in."

So that was where his medicine for an upset stomach had gone.

Ames continued blithely. "Drinking remarkable quantities of whey prepared with lemon juice and white wine to see which one created most perspiration..."

Henry fell back in his chair. "Hell in a handbasket! You only take that deathly mixture if you have a cold."

Ames smirked. "The white wine whey worked better apparently, although both girls were quite ill afterwards."

"Smythe told me the girls had had the flu!"

Ames smiled and swung the plate of flummery to the door. "I had better take this downstairs, sir. Mrs. Noggin will be disappointed it hasn't been eaten. She's been ever so proud of Miss Victoria's recovery in spirits."

Henry gripped at his fork, pushing the metal prongs into the tablecloth. "Will you be there at Lord Colthaven's ball tonight, Ames? I think Granwich would expect me to go."

"Of course, sir. I've been chatting to his footmen. Like you asked. One of Colthaven's footmen said that Lord Colthaven has been muttering about trying to find something recently, but the footman didn't know what."

Henry looked up sharply. His father had also been looking for something too when he had died. He dismissed the thought. It would be too coincidental that it would be the same thing, given that he didn't know what either item was. And Henry was meant to be concentrating on Moreno, and the French spy. Not on members of the ton that got up his nose by interfering with the running of the government.

"Colthaven's been seen speaking to Moreno," Ames said softly. "I'm meeting my contact tonight."

Henry stilled. Colthaven _was_ an upstanding member of the ton. But something about him made Henry's skin crawl. "Keep an eye on him."

Ames nodded and closed the door behind him.

Lord Colthaven's ball was a medium sized affair. Neither Agatha nor Victoria would look at him as he handed them out of the carriage. Immediately Victoria was thronged with admirers, her dress fluttering prettily in the strong breeze that rustled through the crowd outside Colthaven's mansion. The cheerful change in Victoria's countenance combined with her beauty obviously held a dangerous allure for all the bucks of the ton. Henry shoved a hand inside his coat and grasped lightly at his watch, following as the group were drawn up and into the house and through the long hallway towards a ballroom.

Colthaven greeted him with a smile at the doorway to the ballroom. "Anglethorpe."

"Colthaven." Henry stared at the red-haired man. Was he just obnoxious or did he have some other motive to his pushiness?

"How are you getting on with finding out who has been behind all the housebreaking this season?"

Henry straightened and met Colthaven's gaze straight on. They were as tall as each other, though the man had many years on Henry.

Colthaven broke the stare first. "Perhaps you might like to speak about it another time."

The man was insufferable. A buffoon. It was laughable that according to Ames, Colthaven seemed to have actually been talking to the man that was probably responsible.

Colthaven laughed genially. "Enjoy the ball. I've gone for an Indian theme." He winked. "Takes me back to my time in India."

Indeed Colthaven had. Golden elephants and serpents and antelopes cantered across wall hangings lit by bright, guttering candles. Henry slid into the ballroom and watched the crowd circle. Further in, he saw Agatha, buffeted to the edges. Despite the glint of the candles on the auburn tints in her hair, the peach dress that she wore would have looked better on Victoria. In the half-light it appeared brown and dull. He tensed as her shoulders slumped slightly, and she pulled her wrap more firmly around herself.

Henry worked his way across the ballroom to her. "Miss Beauregard," he said quietly.

She turned, a small flush of pleasure ran through him as her direct gaze met his. But then she glanced behind him and a full smile spread across her face, bringing her luminous features to life. A sharp elbow pushed him out of the way.

"Oh terribly sorry, Anglethorpe. Didn't see you there. Wanted to say hello to Miss Beauregard." The owner of the sharp elbow clapped a hand on his shoulder and then turned away.

"Not to worry, Fashington." Henry stared at the back of Charles Fashington as he slid away to join Agatha. Charles was always in to see Granwich. His rise in the War Office had been little short of spectacular. Henry frowned. He thought Granwich had said that Charles was too busy to watch Moreno.

Charles didn't look too busy at the moment.

Henry watched as the man produced a small oval item from his pocket and Agatha laughed. She pushed the object into her skirts and looked up at Charles, her heart shaped smile fleeting across her face. Unexpectedly a spear of ice thrust itself through Henry's chest. Clenching his fingers, he strode away.

He couldn't settle at the card tables, nor pick up any of the information that was being passed from one table to the next. A shadow fell across his hand and broke his concentration as he attempted to join a canasta hand. "More champagne, sir?"

Henry dropped the cards on the table with relief. "Deal me out please." Nodding at the other players, he stepped away from the table and took the champagne that the footman was offering.

Ames stared out at him from below an artfully arranged footman's wig, his salt and pepper hair now covered with deep mahogany strands. He spoke quietly. "I can't find my contact, sir, the one that told me Colthaven was looking for something. He seems to have disappeared."

Henry shook his head. "I didn't have high hopes anyway. I'm sure it's nothing." Footmen came and went all the time. He glanced across the card tables back into the ballroom. The laughing couples danced around the floor without a care in the world. Victoria swept by in the arms of a young soldier. Lifting his chin, he couldn't see Agatha in the dancing crowd. "Where is Miss Beauregard?"

Ames held out his tray as a passerby put down their glass. "I believe she is sitting at the edge of the ballroom, sir. She has a maid with her. But she _is_ demonstrating something to Mr. Fashington."

Henry froze. "What the hell?"

"Oh yes. Miss Aggie has quite the scientific following, my lord."

" _Following?_ "

"The ton is divided into those that find her simple demonstrations amusing and those that deem them a little too outrageous. But they amuse Victoria and I think that is why—"

"Outrageous?" Henry drained his champagne glass and nodded at Ames as the bubbles irritated his throat, the memories of Granwich's warnings in his head as he outlined the duties of being a good spymaster. Henry had done everything he could to keep his family inconspicuous ever since, but with Agatha drawing a following, the eyes of the ton would be on them. Why had he stayed away? "We need to nip this in the bud before I—they become a laughing stock. Do you know what Fashington gave to Miss Aggie earlier?"

"No."

"I'm sure I'll find out." Settling his glass back onto Ames' tray, Henry skirted the edge of the card room, hesitating at the entrance to the ballroom. Over the tops of the dancers he could just see Agatha's bent head, her finger jabbing in the air animatedly. He took a step forward, but a small hand fell on his arm.

"Henry," a voice purred in his ear.

He looked down at the stunning woman, her red dress a beacon of seductiveness, her black flowing hair trailing enticingly down across her breasts.

She left him cold.

"Not now, Celine."

"But Henry, you haven't come to see me." Her voice held a seductive note, but the undertones of plaintiveness were not hard to miss.

"Mmm."

She pulled on his arm and then stood on tiptoes, peering out across the room, rocking back to her heels with a harsh laugh. "You haven't been to see me since _she_ arrived."

Henry stared down at her beautiful face and felt absolutely nothing. He always felt nothing. _Except where Agatha was concerned_. "Celine, there hasn't ever been anything between us."

"We use each other, is what you mean." Celine smiled. "I threw Charles Fashington over for you."

"You came to see me gladly," Henry said tersely.

Celine made a moue with her mouth. "Yes. He wasn't pleasant to be with." Her indolent expression held a hint of worry. "He didn't take being thrown over well. Henry, I—" she paused and smiled, smoothing away the worry. She trailed her hand down the side of his face. "Never mind. Come and see me when you are finished with her. I'm sure I won't be waiting long. Perhaps I will have to go back to Charles in the meantime."

Henry lifted her hand away him, catching the disapproving gaze of a matron as he did so.

"Excuse me." He walked away. This was why he never entered a ballroom. That and the aching memories of his mother gliding through the throng, a happy smile on her face as she waited to pull his father out of the card rooms where he would have been gathering information, just as Henry had done. _Dance with me, Henry_ she would say, _your father will be a while yet._

Henry strode quickly away from Celine and the knot of matrons, and, skirting the dance floor, pushed his way through a small crowd of gentlemen that sat gazing admiringly at Agatha, whose plumped out skirts gave her the look of a small button mushroom.

"Now then, if I just lay this spoon on the floor." Agatha leant forward and placed a silver spoon on the ground, next to an egg and her customary small notebook.

"You should apply to the Royal Academy of Sciences," a gentleman at the back of her court said.

Agatha's cheeks flushed. "Do you really think I could?"

Henry coughed and bowed. "Miss Beauregard, I would be grateful if you would join me."

Agatha turned and stared at him before saying something quietly to Charles who sat on her left.

"Are you asking her to dance?" Charles frowned and put out a hand to help Agatha to stand.

Henry breathed deeply. "No." There was no way he was going to ask anyone to dance. "I—I need to consult with her on something in her capacity as my—my—" his mind blanked. His mouth wanted to form a word that he didn't want to acknowledge. Instead he forced others out. "—my sister's companion."

Agatha's small intake of breath was inaudible but visible in the way her chest hitched slightly. Her shoulders slumped, and the quiet confidence that had injected her movements ebbed away. Henry stared at the dancers, suppressing his shame. "Quickly please, Miss Beauregard."

The gentleman at the back spoke again. "Steady on, Anglethorpe, she was just about to show us something interesting with that egg..."

So that was the oblong object that Charles had given her. He stared around at the men. None of them _cared_ for her.

"She won't be showing anybody anything tonight." Henry took Agatha's arm in his and led her away at a fast clip, Agatha trotting to keep up with him.

She wouldn't stay silent. "Why did you need to be so rude? I was just about to show them—" her feet dragged as he laid a hand on the small of her back to push her forwards. She finished in a small voice, "how silver tarnishes in the presence of a little water and the albumen of an egg."

He couldn't stop himself. "It does? How...?" Henry paused, shook his head and sighed, drawing her into a small alcove. This was it. He'd do it now. "Miss Beauregard. When I brought you to London to have a season, I did so as a favor to your brother. A favor which you are sorely testing—"

Agatha sat and moved away from him as he edged onto the small bench. She smoothed her hands over the silk of her skirts. "They asked me to demonstrate it. We discussed it last week at Lady Braithwaite's ball. They seemed interested. And—and Victoria _laughed_."

Henry closed his eyes. This wasn't going the way he expected. He couldn't stop himself, the words poured out of him. "They are interested. They are interested in you as an oddity, engaging in scandalous behavior under my very nose. Everyone knows the Anglethorpe name and what it stands for." _That's why I'm interested in you too. You don't care what I think. I wish—_

"Scandalous..." Agatha bit her lip.

"In the eyes of the ton, any behavior of a woman out of the norm is considered somewhat scandalous, bad ton. It blights the name of that person and of those associated with her." Henry wished he hadn't had to the say the words. He ached for her smile. Anything would be better than the paleness of her beautiful skin.

Agatha's skirts rustled, her curls bobbing as she stared down at her lap. "I... I didn't realize. Would it help if I became a member of the Royal Academy of Sciences?"

"It might... but..."

"I could approach them next week." She looked up with wide green eyes. "That's what I'll do. After all, after I demonstrated—"

Henry felt his hand form into a tight fist. She wasn't listening. She didn't understand what was at _stake_. He took her hand in his. "There will be no more demonstrations, Miss Beauregard. Kindly confine them to my house." He groaned as Celine walked past and gave him a wink.

"But..."

Slowly, reluctantly he let go of her hand. There were too many people about. Henry stood and gazed back across the crowds at her admirer Charles. "No more, Agatha."

Agatha wouldn't look at him in the carriage on the way back to the house. Her mood extended to Victoria, who held her hand and gazed at Henry as if she wished he would disappear.

As the butler let them back into the house in Mount Street, a small leaf from the hornbeam tree that towered over the house whipped into Henry's face. Pulling it away from him with a snort of disgust, he entered the hall and drew a tired hand across his face where the leaf had scratched at it. Dropping the leaf to the floor, he crushed it beneath his feet and kicked it out over the doorstep. Clenching his fingers to his side, he turned, only to catch the wide eyes of Smythe, his butler.

He straightened. "Goodnight." Without waiting for a reply, he trod up the stairs evenly and walked straight to his room.

In his rooms, the footmen prepared a large tin bath and laid out a brush and some soap. The effect of the warm water was calming and the tension of the ball leached slowly from his body. He knew he would need to apologize to Agatha in the morning. He'd completely failed to convey what he wanted to say. Failed to ask for her hand in marriage. At the very least he was going about the right way to get a wife that detested him. Never mind his own feelings. Reaching out a long arm for the soap, he rubbed it along his chest, watching as a generous lather was generated.

Stopping, he sniffed and frowned as the faint aroma of pork filled the air. _Who was cooking at this time of night?_ Rubbing his arm, he continued to clean himself.

The smell of pork became stronger.

"What in the hell?" Henry stared down at the bar of soap in his hand. Mixed in to its yellow texture were black flecks. Bringing the bar to his face, he sniffed and recoiled.

Ames entered and quietly shut the bedroom door behind him. "I've found out what experiment Miss Beauregard intends to do next, sir," he said in a rush.

Henry dropped the soap in the bathwater with a splash. The smell of pork rose again through the air on the steam of the hot bath.

Ames sniffed. "They intend to make soap from homemade potash and lard, sir. Gods, what is that smell?"

Henry slammed his hand down into the bath. "That smell, Ames, is me. You're too late. Agatha and Victoria appear to have made soap using pork dripping as lard." Grabbing a towel from a stand near the fire, he stood and furiously rubbed at his skin. "I need another bath."

"You can't, sir. You've used up all the hot water. It'll be nearly an hour until you can have one."

"Gods, Ames, what have you been doing? You need to keep an eye on her."

Ames swallowed visibly. "Miss Aggie, you mean?"

"Yes... she's a... she's a liability... a... baggage of the highest order!" Slowly a smile spread across Henry's face. A baggage in peaches and cream that had unintentionally paid him back in her own fashion for all of his words.

Ames pulled another towel off the rack and handed it to Henry. "Would you like me to order another bath, sir?"

"Yes. Right away. And tell the coachman to ready the carriage for tomorrow morning. I'd like to take the ladies for a drive."

It was five o'clock in the morning before he slept, and then only fitfully at that. In his dreams, eggs and silver spoons chased him around the grounds of a familiar large house where the Brambridge sea air swirled in the trees. When he tried the front door to escape inside from them, it was opened unexpectedly instead by Agatha. "Your father's not here, he's dead," she said. "Why haven't you found his murderer yet?" _I'm being chased,_ he said, mumbling in his dream. Agatha had not said a word, but raised her eyebrows in disbelief. A crash sounded behind him. He'd looked back, the egg and the spoon lay splattered against the steps.

# CHAPTER 7

Agatha sat back as the wind ruffled her hair, enjoying the gentle pace of the horses as they sped through the park. Henry gave her a smile as the carriage lurched, his long legs brushing against her knees in the close confines of the open barouche.

Victoria laughed and clutched Agatha's hand. "How fast are we going now, Aggie?"

Agatha glanced upwards. Henry's eyes were still on hers, a smile on his face. She found it hard to concentrate, to count even. "Um—" she guessed the distance between two trees and counted under her breath. "Five miles an hour."

"Isn't she brilliant, Henry?" Victoria turned a happy face to her brother.

Agatha froze, but still he smiled. His harsh words the night before had hurt. _It blights the name of that woman and those associated with her._

He nodded his head. "Yes."

She shivered as his knee brushed hers again. He also hadn't said anything about the soap he had used the night before. Agatha had smelt the aroma in the morning and felt tense all the way through breakfast until he has unexpectedly asked them both to go for a drive.

Henry smiled again. Agatha couldn't look at him. His blue eyes danced, and his hair ruffled in the breeze. "Are you ladies going to Lady Foxtone's ball this evening?"

Agatha nodded. Victoria laughed. "Of course! Everyone will be there. Especially after what Lady Foxtone did last week."

Henry looked blank. "What did she do last week?"

"Oh, Colthaven's ball was full of it. I found out from Miss Guthrie, you know, Henry, Lord Guthrie's young daughter. Lady Foxtone went to the opening of one of her husband's factories and declared the confections to be disgusting. Everyone's looking to see what she might do next."

Agatha blinked. She'd missed all of that with her demonstrations. She winced inwardly. In fact it seemed she'd missed a lot, she had seemed to do all of the talking. _They are just there to watch you perform._

She glanced up at Henry, expecting a frown, but still he smiled at her. "I gather that you weren't aware of this, Miss Beauregard. How refreshing that you weren't listening to the gossip."

Victoria laughed and answered for her. "Aggie says that gossip is like rain falling down a windowpane. You can't avoid it, but it makes the day very boring."

Henry laughed. Agatha watched as he did so, throwing his head back, his patrician features lighting up. "How very true. It seems we have more in common than I thought."

Agatha flinched as his knee brushed against the soft silk of her dress again. Her throat dried as he looked at her. She couldn't wait to get out of the carriage and prepare for Lady Foxtone's ball. Henry's jovial presence was disconcerting.

The Hanover Square Rooms were packed. Packed with people eager to see what Lady Foxtone would do next. Agatha pulled her wrap more closely around her and shivered. A cool breeze blew in from the open vestibule and straight through to her position in the hallway behind some artfully placed pot plants. She'd visited the packed ballroom and now waited in the equally crowded hall to make her way to the powder room. As far as she could gather from the raucous gossip around her, Lady Foxtone had done nothing that evening of any note.

In fact the whole evening was boring. Henry wasn't there—he'd been called away again. And Victoria was dancing with Lord Colchester, an old man that hung around rather too often. He reminded her of the vicar in Hope Sands.

The door next to her position in the hall opened suddenly, leaving her behind the door. It shut again with a soft click. Charles pushed his way out of the room confidently and into the crowded hallway. It was obvious he hadn't seen her, for he didn't turn back. He looked a little like Henry did when he had just awoken in the morning and come down for breakfast.

Despite standing behind the pot plant in the cold hall, a warm flush traveled up her neck and reached Agatha's ears. With a gasp, Agatha took off her wrap. As a gap in the crowd emerged, she visited the powder room and then trailed back into the ballroom, and stood in her customary place at its edge, watching out over the dancing throng. Victoria was now dancing with a titled man called Earl Harding. She wasn't smiling, but that wasn't unusual. What was unusual was the presence of Harding. He was a known recluse.

Agatha swept her eyes to the far end of the ballroom, unexpectedly meeting Charles' dark gaze. He stood with his finely dressed friends against the outer edge of the ballroom, drinking champagne and watching the whirling couples. He turned away from her gaze to speak to one of his friends who laughed and glanced at her. Charles broke away from his companions and walked through the crowds towards her.

He smiled as he approached, and took her hand.

"Dance with me, my dear," he said softly.

She looked up to meet his gaze. "I don't want to dance, thank you."

Charles' face darkened. He pulled on her hand, not letting her go, forcing her out onto the dance floor. She let him lead her, not wanting to cause a scene.

"You've been very quiet, Agatha," Charles murmured as they whirled. "I wondered if you would be going to Moreno's circus in Vauxhall Gardens in three nights' time. We can watch the Grand Albertino knife-thrower together."

Interrupted in the effort of counting dance steps, Agatha almost stumbled in surprise. Vauxhall Gardens—where the disreputable part of the ton caroused deep into the night? With Henry looking on, that wasn't just somewhat scandalous. That was _stupidly_ scandalous. As she frowned at him, he looked back down at her as they executed another quick step turn and laughed nervously.

"Just ribbing you, my dear. After your joke about approaching the Royal Academy of Science I thought you might laugh. Everyone knows the Royal Academy doesn't take women."

_They didn't?_ Agatha inhaled and went back to counting her steps. Henry had tried to warn her. _A novelty with scandalous ways._ _They'll want to have fun with you._ She looked up at Charles again. His sensuous lips now appeared menacing, the dark eyes threatening not promising.

She stumbled and resumed her counting. Six... seven... as she reached the count of eight she stepped out of his arms, a step to the left, back into his arms and _twirl_.

Charles caught her neatly in his arms again. "Which reminds me. You don't happen to own a small notebook do you? Full of diagrams decorated in tiny Greek letters. And a little bit of very interesting writing."

Agatha froze, her hands aching to pat down her skirts to the pocket beneath. But she knew the notebook wouldn't be there. She'd made a conscious decision after the egg and spoon debacle not to bring it with her. But then the last time she remembered seeing it, was on the floor next to her in the ballroom, next to the egg... and Charles.

She gasped. "You have it?"

Charles nodded. "I thought your observations were very interesting."

This time Agatha stopped dancing and stood back. _Her observations._ She wrote everything down in her book. Everything that interested her. _Henry._ Had she written about him? Oh gods.

"I'd like it back please."

Charles stared at her. "It's in my coat pocket."

"I want it now."

Charles sighed. "Of course. I'll leave it in the blue room down the hall. It will take me about fifteen minutes."

As Agatha whirled to a stop, Charles bent over her gloved hand and kissed it as usual before giving her a long look, and strode purposefully towards the ballroom door. Agatha continued to hold her hand out, not sure what to do with it. The back of the glove was _wet_. Glancing up at the roof, she wondered disbelievingly if there was a leak.

Grimacing, she rubbed her hand on her dress and looked back through the crush, picking out Victoria's long blond hair. She wasn't dancing any more, her maid by her side. She started towards Agatha with an uncustomary frown on her face. With a flick of her head, Agatha signaled to her to meet her by the curtained stage.

"Charles has something of mine that he's going to leave out for me. I will be just a moment," she whispered.

Victoria snapped open a fan and leaned forward, covering their faces. "Are you sure, Agatha?" Her frown deepened. "I saw you dancing together."

"No, don't worry at all," Agatha broke in as Victoria frowned. She tamped down her own unsettled feeling. "I must go. He told me to go to the blue salon." Pushing back Victoria's fan, Agatha edged towards the door. "I will see you later." She steeled her resolve and pushed away through the door from the ballroom, Victoria's last words lost. Once outside the ballroom, she stopped to look around. The hall was now deserted, the early crush finished.

One by one she tried the doors to several rooms down the corridor but they were all locked and no lights shone beneath the doors. The last door at the end of the hallway stood slightly ajar. The wallpaper within glinted through, a deep azure blue. She pushed open the door and stepped in with relief, teetering to a stop.

Charles stood by a deep window in the corner of the room, behind him, her small book lay open by the fire. With a gasp Agatha stepped backwards towards the hall, shivering in the cold air. What was he doing in there? He was meant to have left her book on the table.

_Alone_.

# CHAPTER 8

Henry walked through the dark streets to Granwich's residence. A strong wind ruffled at his coat and grabbed at his hat as he frustratedly held it firmly on his head. He should have been with Agatha and Victoria at Lady Foxtone's ball, but Granwich's summons had come as they ever did, fast and urgent.

In his hand he clutched the note that had arrived mud splattered from Devon.

Woman seen crossing with émigrés. Unusually seen coming back the same way. Any more thoughts on Stanton's son? Bill.

Henry sighed. It never rained but it poured. Ames had collared him as he had walked out of his house. Albert, the man that he'd put in with Moreno, had also been in contact. He was worried that Moreno was on to him. He'd heard very little about the housebreaking. Moreno's son, an acrobat, had caught him snooping around. He'd had to feign the symptoms of influenza to keep everyone away. Henry clenched his hands tight onto his hat. He'd taken a chance on the family butcher, certain that his knife skills would appeal to Moreno. Albert had been keen and discreet, and had become one of Moreno's star acts as the Grand Albertino knife-thrower. But it was obvious from Albert's note that he wasn't yet up to Ames' standards of espionage.

The wind buffeted Henry sideways as he walked into the streets leading to Covent Garden. He passed the revelers outside the Cheshire Cheese pub and wished he was going there instead of to meet Granwich. He negotiated his way around the inebriated drinkers and turned left into a narrow lane.

Granwich lived in the unfashionable old town houses that surrounded the market place, interspersed between warehouses and factories. Paint flaked on the small nondescript door that gave onto a narrow hall. Henry was greeted by a dour butler who led him into an austere side room with bare walls and a desk behind which stood a comfortable chair. In front of the desk stood a three-legged stool. Henry winced. He knew which seat he would be occupying.

"Sit down, Anglethorpe. Can I get you a drink?" Granwich moved to behind the desk and sank gracefully into the chair. His hand hovered over the decanter that sat beside him on the fireplace. The butler closed the door behind him with a discreet click. Despite the quietness of the house, the wind howled outside with deafening breath.

"No, thank you." Henry could feel his stomach rumbling. He had missed dinner. Cursing under his breath, he put a hand to his midriff. Usually he carried a bag of nuts or an apple in his coat pocket, but Ames had taken away his normal attire to clean, having told him in no uncertain terms that a peer of the realm did not go about his business with a bloodied jacket for months on end. No peer of the realm that had Ames as a valet anyway.

Henry looked at the stool's sharp edges. "Do you mind if I stand?" It would keep his mind off his empty stomach. Hopefully. He had a tendency to not think straight when he was hungry.

Granwich fluttered his hands. "Of course not." After pressing his hands together for a few moments he cleared his throat and shuffled some papers on the desk. "Three things, Anglethorpe. Firstly, how is your hunt for a bride coming along?"

Henry gazed levelly at Granwich as thoughts of hazel eyes and auburn tinted curls crossed his mind. The lady he had intended for his bride had no idea that he was interested. In fact she seemed rather taken with someone else. "It's coming along," he said smoothly.

"Fine," Granwich looked away to pour himself a glass from the decanter. "I am sure you have everything in hand. Secondly, have you found what your father was looking for?"

Henry drew in a quick breath. Why did Granwich continue to ask? He'd told him to give up. He'd tried, but he couldn't. Though after the episode in Wales he had continued to search London for more leads, day and night, and yet he still had had no luck. "No. What's the third thing?" he said curtly.

Granwich coughed and glanced back at Henry. "We've heard some more mutters about someone or something we've called _Monsieur Herr_." Granwich paused as the wind rattled the casement windows. "Charles has had his ear to the ground at the docks. The taverns are full of chatter of a new operative."

" _Monsieur Herr_?" Henry leaned against the bare wall and crossed his legs comfortably.

"Yes. We think that the _Monsieur Herr_ is the French spy that I mentioned to you a while ago. Some of the chatter seems to indicate that the man is German, but Charles says that the balance of chatter says he's probably French, hence the name." Granwich tapped a long finger on his desk. "Plus there's been a spate of important British information falling into French hands in the last two months, most unfortunately."

Henry straightened. He considered disclosing the new information from Bill's message, but decided against it. It needed investigating further before becoming evidence. "Has _Charles_ got any more information?"

Granwich sighed. "No, unfortunately not."

It seemed the meeting was going to last longer than Henry thought. "I think I'll take that drink, please."

Granwich nodded and poured a small glass of brandy. The glass scraped on the rough wood of the desk as he pushed it towards Henry. Picking up the glass in one hand, Henry pushed the stool against the wall with his foot and sat, resting his back against the wall casement, rumpling his coat tails.

He looked up at Granwich. "What information do you believe to have been passed already?"

"That's just it, it's random. Sometimes it's little secrets, like the type of overly cream bun they were serving in Hartley Place on Tuesdays."

Henry raised his glass and studied the light as it curved through the brandy, his mouth watering as his stomach gurgled even louder than before. "Overly cream bun?"

Granwich put out his hands and stretched. "Ahem. Yes. Belgian fancies, apparently. A light cream center with jam on the top surrounded by a slightly salty dough..." He scratched at his head. "At least that is what I'm told."

"And why is that dangerous?" Henry took a sip of the brandy. It did nothing to soothe his hunger.

"The bastard found the bakery that was supplying the War Office and put a bottleful of laudanum in every cream bun they could find."

"I didn't hear of anyone being affected."

"They weren't. Somebody had requested that they served Danish pastries with a gooey center and soft raisins on that day instead. Can't think who that person was." Granwich coughed with obvious embarrassment. "When we used to get the cakes from Lord Foxtone's outfit we never had the same problems. We stopped their deliveries two days ago after Lady Foxtone's outburst." He studied his blank desk and rolled his shoulders with a shrug. "The bakery had been paid for the Belgian buns anyway so the bakers gave the pastries to the paupers in gin alley. Poor souls were out of their heads for days."

"Good grief, if that had happened to the staff of the War Office—"

"—someone could have assassinated them, stolen secrets, done something despicable right under our noses and no one would have been able to do anything about it."

"What other information has gone missing?"

"Fashington found a list of all the people that worked in the War Office. Yours, his, Harding, the new boy Lassiter... Even my name was on it, as well as my colleague Lord Guthrie's. It was a bloody list of targets. If they know who we are, they can get at us."

Henry frowned. He'd prided himself on operating in the shadows. Outside of his colleagues at the War Office at Hartley Place no one apart from his sister knew that he worked for the Crown. Whichever way he looked at it, the list of names and the Belgian buns, neither of the pieces of information tied together, nor gave him any more of a clue about the French spy. And just where had Charles found this list of people?

The wind outside rattled the casement windows again. Henry drained the glass of brandy and, leaning forward, pushed it back onto Granwich's desk. "You called him _Monsieur Herr_. Mister in French, Mister in German. Why the double emphasis?"

"It was Harding that chose it. Apparently it amused him. It was connected to that list of names that Charles found. There was an extra word at the end of the list in blue ink that had run slightly. But Harding was able to read it. It very clearly said ' _ihn_ ' in German which means 'him' in English. We've no idea if it's connected. But we went ahead and called the spy Mister Mister in German and French anyway, just to cover all bases."

Henry grunted at the joke. Harding needed something better to occupy his time. "That word could be the spy's mark."

Granwich nodded. "Or it could be that it was the name of someone on the list that the spy was thinking about but he couldn't remember his name. You know when you say oh _him_." He drew in his chin. "I seem to be doing that a lot at the moment."

Henry ran his hands through his hair. "Where did Charles find the note?" he said delicately.

"Rather strangely, he said it was tucked into his clothes." Granwich sniffed. "Bit of an unusual set-up if you ask me, meticulously making a list of Crown people and then losing it in one of their pieces of clothing."

Henry frowned. The whole story made no sense. "And Charles—"

"—no reason to doubt his loyalty. Strange cove but fairly cunning. Has found us some interesting stuff about the French until now. No whiff of scandal."

Apart from encouraging Agatha in her more scientific pursuits. Henry stood. The word scandal reminded him of the chaperoned Victoria and, more importantly, Agatha with whom he was yet to find a moment.

"Be careful out there." Granwich tapped on his desk. "I hear we are in for a storm tonight, with extremely high winds."

Henry nodded. His stomach grumbled again. It was time to make sure that Victoria and Agatha were still in one piece, and more importantly, find some dinner.

# CHAPTER 9

Agatha froze as Charles turned to face her. She glanced behind her to the deserted corridor, and back into the blue room certain that she should leave. Gods—what if Henry was to find her—

"Agatha." Charles smiled.

"Charles," she whispered. "You—I need to leave."

Charles looked Agatha up and down. His lips pouted, turning down at the edges, his dark hair swept back as though he had just been grooming himself in the mirror. A strange hint of perfume clung on the air.

He took a step into the middle of the room. "I knew you were different, Agatha. I've just been waiting for you to acknowledge it."

Agatha took a deep breath. The back of her hand itched. It was strange, the idea of Charles was actually rather better than the physical specimen. She knew she should leave, but then the hallway was still deserted. _It would only take a few seconds._ With quick steps she walked towards the rug in front of the fire and picked up her book. Some of the pages were ripped. She turned slowly back towards the door to leave, checking to make sure the book was intact. Next to her, the fire blazed higher and higher, fueled by a packet of papers, their band of black ribbon falling out of the grate.

"I'm not so different." Agatha stepped carefully over the edge of the rug on the fire hearth. She gasped as unexpectedly a cold heavy hand closed tightly round her upper arm.

"I know that you don't want to leave," Charles whispered in her ear.

Agatha shivered, the pages of her book fluttering in her hand. "Wait—"

"I've seen the way you've looked at me, as if you want to devour me," Charles continued.

"What? No—" Agatha tried to pull away, but she was locked, immobile, her arm beginning to turn an alarming white.

Charles lowered his head and crushed his lips against Agatha's. In shock she struggled, her arms flailing madly, her book flying across the room. With no warning, his right hand urgently ripped at her bodice, and, pulling away the ruffles, he grabbed at her chest, bruising her.

She could not scream, or turn her head, her lips suffocating under his marauding mouth. Wildly she tried to overbalance him, arching backwards, but Charles' other hand gripped effortlessly at her back.

She didn't have time to throw him off. The door opened wide with a slam, the flames of the fire flaring higher as Henry strode into the room, pushing the low tables out of the way, his eyes only on her. Immediately Agatha fell limp in relief, shuddering with revulsion at Charles' hands. Henry, _her rescuer._ She'd never call him Horrible Henry again.

She waited limply but Henry did not try to pull her out of Charles' arms. He stopped, and folded his arms, a very strange twist to his lips. Agatha tried to pull herself back into an upright position but Charles held her in a vice-like grip.

She caught sight of herself in the oval mirror on the wall opposite and a cold shiver shot down her spine. Arched over backwards in a wanton position, her bodice was torn, and the curve of her breast welled up between the torn material. Her lips were puffy as if she had been thoroughly kissed, as if she had wanted to end up in this state. She shook her head rapidly from side to side.

"Lord Anglethorpe, I—" She stopped as Charles drew his hand in a diagonal pattern across her back. Though there was almost no pain, she whimpered.

Henry stared at her, a sadness in his eyes. "Stow it, Miss Beauregard. Everyone's seen where this has been going." He shook his head and, sighing, looked away into the fire. "Charles, I'll expect you tomorrow morning to discuss settlements."

"Settlements?" Charles' grip on her loosened slightly. She pulled away, trembling with the revulsion.

Charles' skin had blanched. "No, I only meant to..." He stopped. "You hussy," he hissed at Agatha, his hand still on her arm, his other hand mercifully off her back. "You've both played me for a fool, but I'll get you yet."

What the goodness was he talking about? Charles' hand unclenched. She dropped to the floor, unsupported. Winded of breath, she clutched at her dress and gazed unseeingly into the grate. The packet of letters continued to blaze in the flames, quickly turning into ash, the last scrap of writing caught in the iron tongue of the grate. Agatha stared at the writing, translating the words as they burnt. She winced at the incongruity of the burning phrase. _I ought to eat a pie_?

"I don't need jokes, I need _help_ ," she muttered.

A gasp broke through her distress. Lady Foxtone, the hostess of the ball, leaned against the door entrance, her hand flapping wildly in front of her face. "At my ball!" she screamed, her voice gaining in volume with every word.

Woken from her momentary stupor, Agatha clutched her bodice to her bare breast and tried to stand. Charles gave her a disgusted look and marched out of the salon.

Henry ran a hand through his hair. "Agatha, I..." He stopped and clenched his fists. "Enough," he said quietly and followed Charles to the door.

Lady Foxtone stopped fanning her face abruptly and stalked towards her, her sumptuous dress whispering against the furniture.

Agatha put out a hand for help. But Lady Foxtone ignored it.

The woman glared at her with disdain as she breathed heavily through her nose. "This is my ball, my event, and you have just ruined it with your activities, you little hussy." Her voice rose in a scream. "Get out, get out..."

Gathering her ripped dress to her body, Agatha stumbled to her feet, across the room and into the hallway. Lady Foxtone's screams had attracted the attention of some of the ballroom dancers, who stepped into the corridor in groups of two or three.

Charles waited in the corridor standing away from Henry who leant against the wall, his arms folded, a shuttered look to his blue eyes.

Charles ignored Agatha, putting out a hand to Lady Foxtone, who followed her out. "I'm terribly sorry, my lady." Lady Foxtone stared at him, her collarbone raised and stark against the whiteness of her chest. "I didn't mean to—"

"Enough, Fashington." Lady Foxtone breathed heavily and then relaxed, the cords of her neck disappearing. With a mercurial smile on her beautiful face, she lifted her skirts slightly and swept down the corridor. "Nothing to see here," she said evenly to the dancers. "I thought I saw a mouse." She laughed gaily and made a moue to the interested crowd, turning slowly to look at Agatha. "How silly of me to try and tell it to leave." With one last glance backwards over Agatha's shoulder and with a push of her hands, she urged the laughing ladies and gentlemen back into the ballroom.

Agatha shivered as an ice cold grip tightened its hold on her spine. The crowd had been waiting for Lady Foxtone to explode and they hadn't been disappointed. _Making a spectacle of yourself._ Again.

"I'll get your wrap." Henry disappeared back into the blue room.

Agatha pulled at the silken material of her material that had slipped to her waist. "But I..."

Henry reappeared within seconds. "I couldn't find it. But I did find this. Yours I believe." He handed her the small notebook. He pulled his hand out of his coat, drawing out a battered pocket watch, studied it briefly and then shook his head. With a furious shrug of his shoulders, he removed his jacket and pushed the watch into his waistcoat. "Take my coat." Henry pushed his crumpled coat tails around Agatha with rough fingers. He sighed, slowing his movements, drawing up the collar around her neck, his hands brushing the curls against her ears.

Agatha bowed her head as he turned from her and strode away. On shaking legs, she hurried down the corridor after him, tears clouding her eyes. Not even Henry's familiar smell of soap and spicy smoke that surrounded her from his coat comforted her.

If anything it made her feel even more alone.

Sitting silently in the rocking carriage that took her back to Mount Street, she clenched her hands in the cuffs of the coat. The wind buffeted the carriage, causing it to veer from side to side. It was too dark to see and count the velvet strands on the seat in front of her. Even if she could have seen them she knew that she would have been unable to concentrate, her desperation too far gone to have found the activity soothing. Henry had warned her that her behavior would land her in hot water. What had she called it? Stupidly scandalous. Goodness she was a fool. She should have just _left_.

Slumping, she shivered again in the cool air that whistled violently through the carriage. She had been too flattered by Charles' attention. She should have remembered her conclusions. The way in which he had taken advantage of her, the way in which he had forced her to kiss him, had shown him for the disgusting man he really was. It had dropped her estimation of him back neatly into the set of despicable male specimens she'd encountered over the years.

Shuddering with revulsion, Agatha shook her head. When it came to love and making love, she was still a novice. Any man who pushed her to the brink and took only what he wanted would not be the man for her.

Victoria chattered incessantly in the other corner of the carriage to cover up the silence, but Agatha didn't care, shivers racking her body more and more frequently. Henry should have protected her, as both her brother's friend, and as her friend's brother. In fact he had thrown her to the wolves. Hah! What else did she expect? _Heartless Henry_.

The house was ablaze with light as they drew up outside. Henry cursed audibly and stepped out of the carriage, and then stopped as his hat blew from his head. Bending sideways, he pointed upwards.

"It's gone!" he shouted.

Agatha shook her head and descended from the carriage, catching onto it as the vehicle veered sideways in the high winds. Small branches hurtled past her, leaves sticking in her hair. She gasped as she forced her head upwards. The huge hornbeam in the back garden had fallen in the wind, crashing down against the roof, crushing the timbers.

"My house!" Henry pressed a hand hard to his forehead and ran his other hand through his hair before noticing Agatha teetering at the edge of the carriage. With a curse, he caught at her waist and put a hand out for Victoria. "We are safer inside."

He didn't let go of her until they reached the hall. With evident reluctance he released her and stood back. The warmth leached away from Agatha's body quickly. With a gasp she realized that he had held her in the same position as Charles, and yet Henry's touch hadn't caused her to shudder in revulsion, instead she trembled to turn into him.

"We will speak in the morning," he said. The sadness still clouded his eyes. "I thought—never mind what I thought." And then he was gone.

The wind howled for many hours. After a sleepless night, Agatha watched from her window as Charles appeared the next morning at the house in Mount Street, his cravat askew, clearly wearing the clothes in which he had attended the ball. Even his walk was unsteady, his handsome face the color of paste. He looked like her grandfather Lantham Beauregard after one of his trips to Plymouth. Agatha swallowed. She covered her mouth and retched at the memory of Charles' hand tracing itself diagonally across her back. This was the man that had come to discuss settlements. To discuss his marriage to _her_.

She shrank back from the bedroom window as he wove his way up the smart steps to the stucco-fronted house. But she was still in time to see him stare upwards at the broken roof, grinning. As the door opened to let him inside, she turned and sat on her bed, her stomach churning, listening to the sounds of the men in the back garden sawing away at the trunk of the hornbeam.

The conversation between Charles and Henry seemed to last forever.

In fact she wasn't called to meet with Charles herself. Finally she left her room unsteadily as the bell rang through the house for luncheon. As she settled at the table both Henry and Victoria stared at her. But Henry didn't say a word about the meeting. He sat at the end of the table like a statue, only turning away as the footmen put food on their plates. As she played with the food set in front of her, she felt his gaze on her once or twice like lead.

Victoria prodded her with a spoon. "Charles does seem to be something high up in government, Aggie, and so I expect you'll attend all sorts of really exciting foreign meetings and diplomats' balls." She took a sip of her soup. "I hear all of the princes and princesses attend them, even if they don't come to the society ones."

Agatha sighed.

"And of course he is the direct heir to the Fashington estate. The current Lord Fashington is childless and very rich. And he likes discussing science with you."

Agatha shuddered.

"Enough, Victoria." Henry put down his own spoon with a clatter. Victoria turned to face him, her mouth open in an O.

"I was just trying to make Aggie feel better. She doesn't seem happy about what has happened."

Agatha could have squeezed her friend then.

Henry's forbidding countenance remained stony. "If you have finished, Victoria, please leave. I need to speak to Miss Beauregard alone."

Victoria glanced quickly at her half full bowl of soup and stood up with a swoosh of her skirts, squeezing Agatha's shoulder as she passed her chair. Agatha grasped her hand and wished that Victoria would take her with her.

Henry stood, putting his hands behind his back. He turned and studied a painting on the back wall of the dining room. The painting was of a man and a woman who held each other's hands and bore a remarkable resemblance to Henry and Victoria. But all Agatha could see of Henry now was two broad shoulders and the bright blond hair curling at the nape of his neck.

Henry sighed. "As your guardian in your brother's absence, I have accepted the offer from Charles Fashington on your behalf. You will be married next week in St. Martin's church in a small ceremony."

He stopped. Agatha flattened her hands against the table as she gasped for air.

"I have provided you with a dowry."

A dowry. Agatha bowed her head, a great weight pressing against her chest. He was _paying_ Fashington to take her off his hands.

"Why do I have to marry him?" Agatha put a hand to her heart, unable to contain herself any longer. "He forced me. Surely you saw that."

Henry turned slowly on the heel of his boot and gazed back at her, his eyes on her hands. "I'm sorry, Agatha, but I saw no such thing." He flicked his gaze up to her face. "What the ton has seen is a reckless individual who has been leading Fashington around by the nose for the last few balls, pandering to her curiosity and scientific interests."

Agatha gripped at her bodice, her heart hammering against her chest. She couldn't break his gaze. She hadn't been experimenting, she'd made every effort not to. In fact she hadn't breathed a word of physics, chemistry or biology all of that night.

He raised an eyebrow at her continued silence and put his hands on the back of one of the dining chairs. "Moreover, until the wedding, you are forbidden to leave the house, or go to any more balls."

Letting go of her bodice, Agatha put her hands to her face. Heat poured through her cheeks.

"Did you hear me, Agatha?"

"Yes, Lord Anglethorpe."

"God I need a drink." Lifting his white knuckles from the back of the dining chair, Henry strode from the dining room without a backward glance, banging the door as he left. The interview had taken less than ten minutes. To Agatha it seemed like a lifetime. Even the servants had sensed the atmosphere and had not come to clear away the lunch. She pressed her hands more fiercely against her cheeks and let out a sob. There had to be a way to escape this mess. She had endured much worse. Whatever it took, she would be free. She shivered again. Free to do what she wanted, but still, it seemed despite for a short time feeling otherwise, very much alone.

# CHAPTER 10

Henry's footsteps took him straight to the Cheshire Cheese that he had passed only the night before. Ames followed him furtively as he left the house, appearing only as he entered the inn. It contained just a handful of drinkers, hardened individuals that huddled with their individual pints in the dark corners. Soon the lunch rush would descend on the long thin public house on the Strand, as the workers up and down the road sought out relief from their dark offices.

Henry grasped the tankard that Ames offered him and took a slow sip. It was just as potent as he remembered and smelled of fermented cabbages. Thank goodness he didn't have to drink the disgusting brew—it was only there for show. Even though God knows he felt driven to gulp it down, Agatha's white face loomed large in his mind.

Ames took a large draught from his own drink and set it down on the table with a thump, wiping the foam from his mouth with the back of his stained sleeve. "Ah, 'tis a proper ale the Cheesy Blackfoot and no mistake."

"It's a foul drink, Ames. I don't know why you like it so much."

Ames frowned and fiddled with the handle of his tankard. "Did you have lunch, my lord?" he asked in a low voice. He looked round the pub as if afraid for its inhabitants.

Henry nodded.

Ames sighed in obvious relief. "It's just that over the last few days you've been missing your meals and, ahem, it has been rather noticeable."

"She was compromised, Ames. She wanted it. I saw her with my own eyes." How could he forget the prominent bruised rose bud of her lips, the glazed stare of her eyes as she hung wantonly in Charles' arms? That was how she could have looked in _his_ arms, not with that... individual. Despite his hatred of the Cheesy Blackfoot ale, he drew a long draught from his glass.

Ames watched him. "You could have done it differently. She doesn't want to be with Fashington."

Henry banged his pint down hard on the table. "Of course she does. I told Agatha in no uncertain terms not to bring my family into disrepute. She was running wild." He put a hand to his head. "Anyway, you can hardly call it a house at the moment. That bloody tree's taken out half the roof."

"Hmm. I'll be taking out the stump tomorrow."

"That should be explosive. Drawing on your previous experience?"

"Yes."

Henry stared into his tankard. The foam had died away on top of the ale, leaving a greasy soupy mixture behind. Covering his shudder with a straightening of his shoulders, he brought the tankard to his lips and, rasping his tongue against the top of his dry mouth, forced his Adam's apple to swallow without letting the liquid past his lips again.

Ames finished drinking. "Well if you hadn't found Miss Aggie with Charles, you wouldn't have found that packet of papers someone was trying to burn in the grate. Though had you got there sooner you would have been able to get more information than you did. I took that scrap of paper you rescued from the fire to a chap at the German embassy this morning."

"Yes?" Henry relaxed his hands. He didn't like it when Ames lectured.

"He agreed that it said ' _ihn_ ' in German."

"We already knew that. Same as the others that Granwich has."

"Yes, but he also pointed out that it was strange that whilst both the 'I' and the 'H' were capitalized, the 'n' was in lower case. Germans may have a rather strange sentence structure compared to English, but they are very precise as a nationality. They certainly do not mix up capital and lower case letters."

"Yes they do. They use capitals for all their nouns. Bloody strange."

"Well he was most vehement that they don't use two capitals in the middle of one word."

Henry sighed. As with the information that Granwich had given him and that he had already gathered, none of it made sense.

"I'd like it back please."

Ames reached into the pocket of his coat and slid his hand face down across the table. Curling his arm round his pint, Henry picked up the scrap of paper that Ames left behind his tankard. The edges of the paper had begun to flake where fire had charred at the edges, frustratingly small parts of words visible around the confusing signature.

I H Π

Carefully keeping it steady on the table, Henry flicked open his pocket watch and slid the paper in under the lid.

"I want you to keep an eye on her."

Ames stopped drinking and put down his tankard. "I thought _Monsieur Herr_ was a male spy, sir?"

Henry winced and tapped at his ear. "It's _Monsieur Herr_ , __ Ames, not _Monsewer Hair_."

"Monser Here," Ames obligingly repeated.

"As in, valet is not said valette, but rather _valet_."

"Oh, I know all about _valeying_ , __ my lord _._ "

Henry sighed. Thank goodness Ames had never needed to disguise himself as a French man, despite his previous moniker of Jaquard. He did rather well as a down at heel Londoner.

Ames gave him a grin and tipped his tankard back one last time. "So you want me to look after Miss Aggie."

"Not precisely look after Miss Beauregard, rather continue to watch her movements. She has a habit of doing somewhat unpredictable things."

"Like her little experiment she has running in the under-stairs cupboard, sir?"

"Good grief." Agatha thought that no one knew about the jar of jam that she had secreted underneath the brushes and mops the maids had been using to clean the hall and which was now growing an interesting head of mold. Unfortunately she'd chosen the jar of jam that Henry ate with toast on special occasions when he was really upset. He'd been upset quite often since Agatha had come into his house. "Yes that was a little unexpected."

"Not unlike you," Ames muttered. Henry pretended not to hear.

"She never does what she's told..."

"And in fact she's a bit of a baggage," Ames broke in. "Yes, I know the refrain."

"Ames, you are _my_ valet."

Ames tipped his head on one side. "Valets don't drag hungry men out of hovels in Wales and then clean up the mess after them."

"That man threatened to kill King George."

"Hawk," Ames sighed. "What you did to him was very different to the others. Normally we put them on the first boat for deportation."

"He said he had killed my father too."

"Oh."

"Yes, precisely."

Ames looked away at the bar whilst Henry stared down at his still full tankard of ale. "Did he tell you what your father was looking for?"

"No. He said he'd been told to do it. He came at me before I could get an answer from him. My finger twitched on the pistol." Henry could still smell the smoke, the flash in the pan as the small gun had fired. He scratched at his eyelid. "It was quite fitting, though. I got him in the head, just like my father."

"Don't I just know it. I spent ages cleaning up whilst you had yourself a three-bird roast. I would just like to point out that I never want to enter into an engagement like that 'Operation Maximus' ever again."

Despite Ames' protestations it had been one of the most satisfying lunches Henry had ever had. In complete contrast to the one where he had told Agatha he had accepted Charles' offer for her hand. He drew an arm tiredly across his face. He hadn't been sleeping properly. He'd hoped that Agatha would be grateful that he had provided her with a dowry, that he'd secured the offer for her, as much as it had hurt him to do it.

It seems she hadn't. He had been unable to bear the sobs that followed his exit from the room.

# CHAPTER 11

Agatha couldn't stay inside any longer. The rooms were stifling, like large prisons that confined her very movement, harbingers of her marriage to come. She fingered the letter in her hand. At last her brother had written to her. Though it was obvious that he hadn't yet received her own pleading letter. He spoke only of the pictures that he was painting, the light against the sea as it crashed against the coast where he lived, and his wife and child. He didn't even ask how she was enjoying London, merely ending the letter with _'Give my regards to Henry'._

Agatha stepped outside onto the terrace, walking uncaring across the wet grass to where a gardener worked on the tree stump. She watched dully as he packed some buckets with a dark greasy mixture and sealed them closed, before laying a long line of hemp from where the buckets stood next to the stump. It smelled heavily of horses. Despite herself, she felt a flicker of interest. It was fascinating to see Mrs. B's recipe for gunpowder in action.

The gardener looked behind him and then turned away rapidly as he caught Agatha's gaze. His face was covered with smears of mud.

"What's your name?" she asked curiously.

"Jaquard. Best get out of the way, miss," he growled, backing towards her with the hemp in his hand. "When this stump goes, it will bang like the blazes."

"Oh." Agatha skirted away, back onto the patio of the terrace.

"Further please."

Disappointed, Agatha went back inside. She sat down on the sofa by the window and watched as the gardener worked. Not once did he look back at her again.

It was indeed a large explosion. The terrace windows shook as the stump jumped and fell on its side.

Agatha sat back with a sigh. Fifteen minutes of diversion, that was all it had been. She patted her skirts and brought out her book, fingering the torn pages. Agatha's mind skittered back to her book. What if one used paper instead of metal buckets? Would that still create as much of a bang?

The new position of the chair threw more heat from the fire onto her body. As she warmed, her unsettled nights caught up with her. Agatha fell unwillingly asleep, waking with a start to a light tapping on the glass. Her notebook and pencil fell to the ground with a whisper.

If only she had not woken up. Charles pressed against the corner of the window, a daffodil in one hand, urgently waving at her, pointing at the window handle. Gasping, Agatha stood abruptly and took a step away from the window. Charles shook his head and tapped vigorously on the window.

She needed to leave. Henry would kill her. God knows what he would do if he discovered her with Charles again. By gods, even _she_ didn't want to meet with Charles again.

_But_ he was the only angle of escape that she hadn't considered in this terrible ordeal.

With shaking fingers she opened the terrace door and stepped out, shivering in the cooler air. A grey dampness hung heavy in the sky. Charles looked a little better than when she last saw him, but not much, given that she had only seen the crumpled stockings of his legs as he dived into the carriage in an effort to get away from Mount Street. He stared at her, eyes wide, flicking side to side, a pinched look to his cheeks.

"Now look here, Agatha," he started, clutching the daffodil from hand to hand. "I wanted to speak to you."

"I'm here."

"Yes, look. I can't marry you."

Agatha stepped back slightly, halfway into the protection of the house. She hadn't expected that. Perhaps she was saved.

"I love somebody else. But I can't be with her at the moment."

There was someone else? Agatha consciously pushed her hands back down to her sides as they rose involuntarily. She wanted to throttle him. There was someone else and he had _still_ got her into this mess?

The hunted look grew fiercer in Fashington's eyes. "I was just having a little fun with you. I didn't expect it to get so out of hand. So I thought, how about if you jilted me, and said it was because you found out something, for example, I had another woman, and then waited till next year to come back to society and..."

"I jilt you?" Agatha's mouth dropped open. Hastily she shut it again. "But you are the one who put me in this position! If I jilt you then no one will ever want to marry me." Actually, that sounded like a rather a nice idea given the circumstances. She opened her mouth and closed it again. What would Henry think?

"Please, Aggie? For me?" Charles raised his thin lips into a smile that a crocodile would have been proud of. "My honor is everything. If I break off the engagement I will no longer be accepted in polite circles. It is vital to my work for my err... you know. Secret work."

Why hadn't she noticed how yellow his teeth were until now? Swallowing, she wrapped her arms around her body, still trying to think of the consequences.

"Oh for God's sake. To think I went to all this trouble because Celine threw me over for Henry!" Charles reached out towards her, his left hand catching at her back. Instinctively Agatha stumbled back through the terrace door and shut it firmly. The white moon of his face turned menacingly towards her through an imperfection in the window glass. _Charles had paid attention to her because he had been annoyed with Henry._ He had trapped her knowingly in this situation just to cause problems. He obviously hadn't expected Henry to treat Agatha like a lady rather than the low down companion that she was.

Indistinctly Charles' lips moved, his face as dark as thunder. Agatha could not, did not want to hear what he was saying. She thrust her hand into her pocket below her day dress, grasping the potato knife. Immediately it gave her comfort.

Horrified, she saw the terrace door handle turn. The door hadn't locked behind her. Charles was entering the _house_. Fear shot through her. Hurrying her steps, Agatha darted into the hall, but she could still hear the terrace door opening. She looked for Henry's butler, or a footman, but they were nowhere to be seen.

"Hoi there! Miss Beauregard!" Charles appeared at the hall door, his clothing askew.

Agatha lurched towards the front door and ran, throwing it shut behind her. She scurried down the mansion steps. Without looking back, she lengthened her stride and ran down the pavement.

Great thundering steps behind her pushed her to increase her pace. Her hair whipped in her face as she stumbled forward, the pounding growing louder in her ears. With a sinking feeling she realized there was no way that she would be able to outrun the enraged man.

A cab pulled in front of her, and then another. Taking a deep breath she slipped between the two of them, skirting round the back of the last one as the first pulled away. She drew in a breath as Charles' stumbling form swept past her and after the first moving cab. Going back she banged on the door of the second cab, sighing with relief as the door opened instantly. Strong hands pulled her into the carriage and slammed the door shut.

"Miss Beauregard, I believe." The man in front of her settled back as she struggled in the arms of another, younger man. Both had cold expressions in their eyes. Both bore a resemblance to each other.

"Who are you?" she said breathlessly.

The older man cocked his head on one side, his large top hat firmly wedged down to his brows. "Pablo Moreno." He flicked a glance to the young man that held her. "This is my son, Pedro."

"Get your hands off me." Agatha fought to put her hands in her pocket but Moreno's son effortlessly overpowered her, his arms everywhere.

Moreno sniggered. "That's what comes of being an acrobat. Lightning reflexes and amazing strength."

Agatha scrabbled at Pedro's grip on her. "I don't understand. What do you want with me?"

Moreno laid his head back against the carriage seat as it moved off. "Nothing with you, my dear. More with your employer. I've been paid a small sum to put you through your paces, as it were." He sniggered again. "And it suits me. My main act 'The Grand Albertino' has unfortunately pulled out costing me a lot of money. And as to my other activities—" He flicked a glance up at Agatha. "Yes, having your employer off-kilter as it were would suit me."

"My employer? Lord Anglethorpe? Why? You won't put him off-kilter," Agatha whispered. "He doesn't care for me."

Moreno stared at her. And laughed again. "She doesn't _know_. How delicious."

# CHAPTER 12

"What is it, Ames?" Henry stretched as Ames thrust open the door. His study was darkening as dusk fell. It was making his eyes tired.

Ames was sweating and out of breath. "You must come quickly. It's the young lady, sir."

"Victoria?"

"No, no, no. Miss Aggie, sir."

Henry groaned. What had she done now? "Tell me."

Ames panted, holding his side. "I couldn't stop them. They got her."

"Who?"

"I think it is Moreno. It looked like him. Large man, top hat. He pulled her into his carriage."

Henry got to his feet. "What in the hell? What was she doing outside?"

"I think she was running away from Fashington. Smythe found the door open and saw him running down the road. The terrace door at the back of the house was open too. He left footprints all through the house."

Henry grabbed Ames' arm. "Are you sure she didn't go willingly?"

Ames looked at him as if he had sprouted horns. "She screamed as they lifted her into the cab. Besides, she's left her notebook behind."

Henry rummaged in his waistcoat and brought out his watch. Snapping it open, he studied the scrap of paper inside that looked as if it could have been torn from anything, a letter, a notebook... If only he had never brought her to London. If only Peter was answering his letters. Henry needed to find out more about Agatha. He was drawn to her like a moth to a naked flame. Once she was out of Moreno's hands and in Fashington's clutches he would not be able to ever get so close to her again.

"Get the coach ready for Vauxhall Gardens, Ames."

"Vauxhall Gardens? But what about Miss Aggie, sir?"

"I'm not going there for _that_ kind of thing, Ames. Vauxhall Gardens is where Pablo Moreno is having his grand show tonight."

"Oh."

"Yes. Apparently his main act, the Grand Albertino the knife-thrower, or Albert our local butcher, is sick and refusing to perform."

"You think Moreno has broken Albert? That he knows you are investigating him?"

Henry shook his head. "I haven't heard more from Albert. I don't know." He felt sick down to the pit of his stomach. He'd been charged with looking after his sister for most of his life, but now he was responsible for the welfare of another, though her problems could have been all of his making. "We'll take the coach, now. Most of the ton will be there soon anyway."

In the dark manicured hedges of Vauxhall Gardens, Henry paced among the shadows. He hadn't been able to get close enough to the circus performers to find Agatha. Ames had Albert on the coach. Thankfully he was all in one piece, but it had not been any consolation to Henry.

He glanced up to the colonnade above, and stilled, beneath the shadow of a tree. She was up _there_. Finally he could see her. Agatha's face was stark white against the gathering dusk. Her face had a pinched look to it, although now and then her brow smoothed as she obviously worked to control her nerves.

Henry leant heavily against the bough of a sturdy bush and folded his arms as his heart clenched. He straightened immediately as a couple passed him, putting out an arm to fade into the shape of the tree. The couple stopped not five feet from him, unaware of his presence, too engaged in arguing. He flicked his eyes up to the colonnade. Agatha's small form had disappeared.

"I saw it with my own eyes, _cheri_." The woman's voice was husky. "And just after we had been together too. How could you?"

"I was bored," the man replied curtly. "And I wanted to get my own back on the blasted man."

"Bored? What haven't I given you that you can get anywhere else?"

"She was easy pickings. I wanted revenge. Celine should have been mine, whether I wanted her or not."

"Easy pickings? Some slut of a girl that hung onto your every word? _Bonne dieu_ , she counted out loud—"

"—the pattern of dance steps? Enough with your petty jealousy. I've dealt with her. A contact of mine has promised to sort her out for me tonight."

Henry couldn't stop himself from moving. _Sort her out?_

"We are not safe here." The woman walked away from Henry with quick steps, whilst her companion hurried past the tree under which Henry sheltered, towards the colonnade below where Agatha stood.

Henry ducked out from under the full leaves of the bush. The woman had gone, the tall figure of the man rapidly disappearing too. Henry cursed. He hadn't been able to see the face of the woman. But the man's swept back long hair had been unmistakable. _Charles Fashington._

A cheer rang out. Glancing up, Henry searched the colonnade with his eyes, but Agatha's small figure did not reappear. Cursing, he lengthened his stride and ran towards where large torches had been lit.

# CHAPTER 13

The evening was mild, the March day had mellowed with some sunshine burning off the fog towards sunset. In the dark corner of Vauxhall Gardens, Agatha watched the acrobats finish their performance, her arms wrapped round her body against the sudden chill of dusk. Pedro Moreno held on to one of her arms with a strong grip.

Agatha shivered as a small breeze ruffled the gold suit that Pablo forced her into. She couldn't work out Pablo's plan. Was it to humiliate her?

A gentleman strode by on one of the lower walks. She leaned forward, trying to call out for help, but involuntarily Agatha turned back—she couldn't stop herself. Charles stared directly at her from below.

Pedro jerked her away and peered over the colonnade. He gave a low laugh. "We're saving all of that for later."

She trembled at the menace in his voice.

"Look, you aren't going to start shaking, are you?" he said sharply. "I'm the one going to be standing next to a board having someone that can't throw knives aiming at me. I've missed my performance because of you." He grinned. "If you were a bit younger I would have—" He broke off as gravel crunched heavily behind them. Pablo Moreno appeared at her elbow. Large torches flared in the darkness among the crowds, lighting Pablo's hard face.

Silently he handed her a golden mask. She took it with trembling fingers, her movements constricted by Pedro's heavy hand.

"Put it on," Pablo growled. "Take it off when we tell you."

Pedro snickered. "This will be one message to your admirer that he won't be able to miss."

He roughly pushed her out to the edge of the colonnade. A hushed silence fell as she walked across the dry ground towards the pathway where the brightly painted board had been affixed. Pedro smiled fixedly at the crowd, his hand tightly gripped on Agatha's elbow.

"Ladies and gentlemen," a voice boomed from the crowd. "I give you the Grand Albertino!"

The crowd turned to face Agatha. Pedro moved away from her and stood expectantly by the board. He gestured to the board, sneered and gestured again. Frowning at Agatha, he repeated his routine. It was Agatha's signal to take off her mask.

A small drop of salty water ran down the inside of Agatha's mask, heat rising from her neck. What was she to do? She couldn't, shouldn't speak, for she would be undone as the Grand Albertino. That was what Pablo wanted. Humiliation. But humiliation for who?

Shaking the droplet of water from her chin, she gazed at the gathering of well-dressed men who lounged against the hedges of Vauxhall Gardens. They were accompanied here and there by ladies dressed in gaudy clothes. Eyes glittered, riveted on the spectacle of the knife thrower.

She nodded at Pedro and then looked out once more at the crowd. Could she turn and run now?

One of the gaudily dressed ladies stepped back, revealing a familiar, tall, muscular figure. Agatha froze as Henry gazed back at her and frowned.

How did he know she was there? He couldn't possibly. Was he the admirer that Moreno had mentioned? Her breath hitched. Henry wasn't her admirer.

"He doesn't know who I am," Agatha said as if in a mantra under her breath. "They don't know about the knives. I am the Grand Albertino."

Still, his eyes bored into hers as if he knew who she was. Oh God. Henry. Help me, she wanted to shout. But she knew he couldn't.

She looked down at her feet. They had forgotten to take the knives away. They stood in a bucket, the handles pointing upwards. Could she pull it off?

Licking a trembling finger, Agatha held her hand in the air. The wind was traveling from the east, across her line of aim. The torches flamed and gusted sideways. She needed to throw fifteen yards, the knife she had been given was about an ounce heavier than her potato knife... oh God. Henry was watching.

If only she'd had a bit more time to perfect the mechanics.

She needed to let the knife go when it was perpendicular in her hand to the ground. Agatha shook her head and resumed calculating. It would require five revolutions before it reached the board a foot to the right of Pedro's head.

Pedro opened his mouth as Agatha reached into the bucket and pulled out a knife. He turned his head to the side obviously looking for Pablo.

She thrust her hand back. Narrowing her eyes, Agatha weighed the knife up and down in her hand.

Pedro screamed, "Lift your bloody mask! You can't be serious—"

Agatha drew back her arm and this time placed a little more pressure on her thumb.

"I'm telling you, A... a... a... Albertino," Pedro shouted.

With a flick of her arm, Agatha threw, the violent action causing her mask to slip before the knife had left her hand. Blindly she nodded, trying to dislodge the sticky mask, putting a hand to her face to push it back up. She froze as a large bang rang through her ears, and a blaze of pain ripped across her knuckles.

The crowd roared. As she pushed the mask back up onto her face with shaking fingers, she realized they were looking at Pedro who stared at the knife which had planted itself in the narrow space between his ankles.

_Gods._ That was not where she had aimed for. Shaking her head as the crowd muttered and roared, Agatha searched frantically in the crowds for Henry. He was nowhere to be seen, the clusters of people turned away from her as they talked excitedly among themselves. Without hesitating Agatha pivoted and ran towards the edge of the gardens, holding on to her slippery mask.

But footsteps pounded behind her.

A hansom cab waited at the west entrance, the horses stamping their feet in the cold air. Scrabbling at the footplate, she fell exhausted into the carriage, collapsing against the seats.

"Go," she shouted. "Go, go."

But the carriage waited. She screamed, cowering in the corner as a large shadow darkened the coach door. Opening her mouth, Agatha screamed again and clutched at the leather of her seat as a large, predatory form moved forward.

A long arm reached into the dark of the carriage and gently plucked her mask from her face. "Mr. Albertino, I presume?"

Agatha blinked as the mask lifted to reveal Henry's stark face in front of her.

He swallowed visibly and banged on the top of the coach. "Home, Ames."

For a while he stared at her as the coach bounced over Waterloo Bridge and through into Mayfair. "Miss Beauregard," he began and stopped. He stared at her again for a long moment and then opened one hand, in which a small bronze bullet nestled. "I presume this isn't another one of your experiments?"

# CHAPTER 14

Henry cursed as Agatha clutched her hands together and then opened them with an audible gasp. Sticky blood ran darkly through her hands from her knuckles.

He swung his body across the carriage and sat heavily into the seat next to her. Gathering her into his arms, he held her tightly as the tears began to roll down her face. Henry pressed his face into her hair—she smelt of soap and gunpowder. It was a strangely intoxicating mix. Drawing his body away, he leant back against the seat, releasing her.

"Bloody hell, Agatha."

"Charles chased me through your house." Agatha's breath hitched. "He asked me to jilt him. He said he'd only paid attention to me because of you. And Celine."

Henry breathed out slowly as she sobbed.

"And then when I escaped through the door a... man pulled me into his coach and told me that he was going to make me an example. An example of what he could do."

Henry swallowed as two tears rolled down Agatha's cheek. "I was wrong to tell you to marry Charles."

"Of course you were bloody wrong!" Agatha rubbed at her face, her skin raw where she had worn the mask tightly. "He forced me and you wouldn't listen."

Henry stared at her, the urge to reach out and pull her to him again an overwhelming need. "I... I don't want you to marry him."

"You—don't?"

Henry looked down at Agatha. "I'll persuade him to drop the proposal. I promise, Agatha." He took a deep breath and closed his eyes briefly. "I'll set everything _right_."

Right for him too.

Agatha gazed at Henry, her hazel eyes wide in the dark, the glint of tears shining on her cheek. With a muffled oath he pulled her towards him.

Dropping his head he brushed his lips along the tops of her cheeks where the tears gleamed.

"Agatha—"

She tipped her head towards him. With a groan he covered her mouth with his, caressing her tender lips. She gasped, the intake of air rushing against his tongue.

Henry pulled away reluctantly as the carriage stopped, the sweetness of her still lingering on his tongue. Agatha stared at him, the gold suit rumpled against her soft skin. He shrugged off his cloak and shook his head, pushing the warm cloth around her shoulders. As he smoothed the cloak over her frozen shoulders, she shivered visibly.

"The gold suit is quite noticeable." He pulled the cloak closed over her lap. "A large amount of the ton were in Vauxhall Gardens tonight. You will be instantly recognizable if you reveal the color underneath."

He gave in to his impulse and stroked the curling hair around her temples. Agatha trembled. She nodded once and turned her head away from him, tumbling from the carriage. He watched as her legs wobbled beneath her, hitting the hard slabs of the pavement. Stumbling, she clutched at the cloak and started up the steps to the house. At the top she paused and turned.

"Aren't you coming in?" Her voice tremored audibly on the last word.

"I have some matters I need to take care of," he said, desperate to comfort her, but knowing that he had to deal with the situation right away. "I'll be back to talk further. Don't let anyone in." He knocked his cane on the roof of the box and turned to face forward as the carriage rolled off into the gloom.

Henry hitched his soft, merino undercoat closer to him, pulling out the cuffs to protect himself against the springtime cold as they called first at the lodgings he knew to have been Fashington's for the past year. But no lights were on, and nobody answered the door.

He went then to where he knew Celine was staying. The tavern, the Hare and Hounds, was situated just off Great Russell Street in the rookery of St. Giles. As he walked through the door, a girl barely more than fifteen reached to take his coat, her hands tracing themselves over him.

"Can't you see I'm not wearing a coat?" Catching her hands, he pulled her from him and, with a gentle push, turned her away.

The girl gaped at him and slapped her thigh with a gin sodden cackle. "'Ere Celine, this one was so eager to see you he took his coat off before he even reached the door!"

The taproom erupted with a raucous cheer. Henry ran a hand slowly through his hair. Agatha had rattled his customary calm. He would have normally entered the tavern unnoticed, but she had scrambled his mind. Deliberately flattening his shoulders and breathing deeply, he stared into the distance for a few seconds, and then flipped the girl a coin. With a sly grin, he acknowledged the cheers and sauntered into the throng, becoming one of the crowd.

Celine was at the bar, talking to the innkeeper. Making a beeline for her, he encircled her waist with his arm and banged on the bar with the other. "Landlord, a drink for the lady!"

"You've come back for me?" Celine smiled slowly, her ample breasts spilling out above her red gown. Henry's hand tightened around Celine's waist, squeezing hard. He crowded her, turning her to face away from the other drinkers in the tavern. His other hand brought Celine's chin up to make her face look at him, seemingly charming, but in reality his fingers flexed into the flesh just below her jawline. As she winced in shocked pain, he lowered his voice.

"Where's Charles?"

Celine moaned. "I wondered why he'd come back here. What's he done?"

"He tried to compromise my sister's companion."

Celine's perfect face held no shock. "I thought he looked pleased with himself. I—I sent him upstairs with Millie. I didn't want to deal with him myself... he has certain tastes... I was going to tell you about them."

Henry loosened his fingers from under Celine's jaw. Celine stepped away. Ignoring her hurt expression, he took the stairs to the upper rooms two at a time. He cursed himself at the top of the steps. He hadn't asked which room Charles __ was in. Shaking his head, he grasped the handle of the door opposite him and pushed.

The first room was empty apart from a large canopied bed and a dressing table. Without bothering to close the door, Henry moved onto the next closed door. The second bedroom along the hall was occupied. The couple were too busy to notice the intrusion. The gentleman, though, was blond, not black-haired.

He found him in the third room. Charles lay on the bed in just his breeches. 'Millie', completely naked, stroked his body with a feather, and giggled, trying to grasp a crop that Charles wielded in his hand. They both turned to stare at Henry with a look of drugged pleasure on their faces. Millie was the first to realize that she did not recognize the man at the door. Shrieking, she dropped the feather and reached for a camisole on the floor.

Henry kicked at the feather. "Get out."

Millie whimpered and wrapped the camisole around herself.

"Now look here..." Charles sat up and frowned, leaving the crop on the bed behind him.

"Out." Henry moved from the doorway as Millie shot past him. He pushed the door shut behind her with his foot.

Charles' face cleared. He stood from the bed and leaned nonchalantly against the bedpost. "Anglethorpe. What do you want? You've won haven't you? You got Celine. Miss Beauregard isn't hurt."

Henry couldn't stop himself. Striding to the corner of the bed, he kicked Charles' feet away from under him and as he fell, drew back his hand and punched across the falling man's nose. His hand connected with a crunch across Charles' prominent cheekbones. With a cry, Charles crashed to the floor, blood spattering across the valance of the bed.

"Break off your engagement with Miss Beauregard." Henry looked at the ceiling and took a deep breath. "You should bear the brunt of the ton's displeasure."

"But you were the one who was forcing me to marry her!" Charles whined, getting to his knees, his bloody face in his hands.

"I was wrong."

As Charles shook his head, more drops of blood fell to the floor. "If I jilt the chit my honor is ruined. My position in the government will become untenable."

"Granwich will find out anyway, especially when I tell him you did it just to get back at me." Henry stopped. "You found out about Agatha's scientific interests from Granwich didn't you? You planned it all." As Charles' face twitched, Henry roared. With a single right hook, he smashed Charles' hand away from his face. Charles howled in pain as the drips of blood turned into a torrent. Curling in a ball on the floor, he moaned.

"Tomorrow you shall print an apology in the papers." Henry raised his booted foot.

"Alright," Fashington groaned, feeling at his face. "I'll do it, tomorrow... Just don't tell anyone I was here, my... government position y'know."

Henry gazed at the crop on the ground. He made no promises.

Loud shouts echoed in the hallway. Quickly, Henry loped to the window and flung the sash open. The window opened onto an alley that was dark and smelled faintly of rotting vegetables. The drop was only twelve feet, with guttering all the way down. He swung his leg over the sill, and then turned back to Fashington.

"Why did you shoot at her?" he asked quickly.

"Shoot?" stammered Fashington, pushing his kerchief to his nose. "Oot oo?" he continued bewildered.

"Shoot at Agatha?" Henry prompted him.

Charles gasped. "I didn't do anything. I only paid that cove Moreno to embarrass Aga... Miss Beauregard. To make the engagement untenable... I..."

Henry grunted. The brute hadn't done it. Whatever his plans had been, they hadn't included murder. As the door burst open, he swung his left leg over the windowsill and dropped cat-like into the night.

# CHAPTER 15

The next morning dawned bright, brighter than any of the other March mornings. As Agatha climbed out of bed, she felt lighter.

Heaviness dogged her steps as she descended the stairs, though. How was Henry going to get Charles to lift the engagement? And surely the shot hadn't been meant for her. It was probably someone who had discharged their pistol by accident in a demonstration. There was no reason why anyone would want her dead.

She gathered the post from the hall table, sorting out the messages. A letter holding her brother's distinct handwriting caused her to pause. She ripped it open, reading it immediately.

My dearest Agatha, I'm afraid it seems that your actions have given you consequences that you must endure. Besides, it would not be a good idea to come down to Devon. I have seen some things that I don't like. And I have the strangest feeling of being watched. If I could move, I would, but until I have sold my paintings, we have nowhere else to go—

Agatha thrust the letter in her pocket.

A footman was laying out the breakfast plates in the morning room as she entered. She settled at the breakfast table and waited as he lifted the lids from the grand silver tureens. A blue slip of paper fluttered from the sideboard to the floor. It fell at her feet. She looked down and frowned. Her name was on the front. "Where did this come from, Carruthers?" she asked as she bent to pick it up.

The footman turned. "I'm not sure, Miss Beauregard. The butler said it was slipped under the front door. It got a bit crumpled so it could have been there for days."

A chill of foreboding traveled up Agatha's spine. "Is Lord Anglethorpe back yet?" she asked, absently taking the slip of paper in her fingers.

"No, miss."

With hesitant hands, Agatha fumbled with the slip of paper.

'Leave London, or you will die. If you do not leave, your family will die too. Especially if you tell anyone of this note.'

Agatha dropped the paper, watching with wide eyes at it tumbled to the floor, each breath a labored task. _I have a feeling of being watched._ The bullet in Vauxhall Gardens.

Hesitantly she picked the paper up by the corner. She looked up to see if the footman had seen her actions, but he had been busy restocking the sideboard with food. Hearing a step outside the door, she took a deep breath and stuffed the paper into her bodice.

The sun streamed into the morning room as she ate slowly but solidly for ten minutes, forcing down the food. Pushing her plate to one side, she reached for the steaming coffee urn. Twisting the tap, she decanted a cupful.

As she warmed her hands on the cup, trying to gain comfort from the smell of the bitter brew, the door banged open against the mahogany sideboard and the usually calm butler entered with a furrowed brow.

"Pardon me, Miss Beauregard, but there is a magistrate here to see you."

"A magistrate?" Already on edge, Agatha almost dropped the cup to the table, coffee spilling some against the pristine white linen.

"Yes, miss. Shall I show him in here?" Usually the butler showed all guests into the dainty drawing room. Her apprehension rose higher.

Picking up the overflowing coffee cup, she took a trembling sip of the coffee from its sticky rim and straightened her back. "Yes, do."

The butler returned, holding the door open with barely concealed disgust. A middle-aged portly gentleman staggered through, covered in mud. With a huff, he collapsed in a chair as the strong smell of sweat filled the room.

She waited, but he said nothing, staring longingly at her coffee cup. She glanced at the butler who lingered at the door. "Smythe, a coffee for our visitor please and then—" she glanced at the visitor again who seemed too tired to pose any danger. "I think you can go."

The man started and looked at her hard. Then his face softened. He nodded his thanks to Smythe as he handed him the coffee and gratefully sipped at the steaming cup as the butler left the room.

After a few moments his lined face relaxed and he pushed aside the coffee cup turning to face her. "Miss Beauregard. I am sorry to come to you in this state. My name is Thomas Patrick. I've come up from Devon."

Her heart thudded to a halt. _Devon._

"I have ridden day and night to get here, changing horses wherever I could. I'm afraid you must come with me."

Agatha's spine ran cold. "What's happened?" she asked slowly.

"There's been a dreadful accident. Your brother and his wife have been killed. Their daughter lives still but is in shock. When I left she had said nothing for eight hours. You are her only relative I know of."

"Killed." Agatha fell back in her chair, her head ringing, her breath returning in short gasps. " _I_ am her only relative?" she parroted.

She could not quite take it in. Only two days ago she had been cursing her brother for leaving her in London. And now he was _dead_ and his wife too. She put her hands flat on the table. "How—" She stopped and drew her hands into a fist. "How did it happen?"

"The carriage that they were in overturned. I've never seen it happen before myself. If I didn't know any better I would have assumed foul play, but there wasn't anything to suggest that was the case. Your brother had only moved to Ottery St. Mary recently."

Foul play? Blinking, Agatha pressed at her chest. She couldn't breathe. Her brother was _dead_. _Gone._

As she flattened her hand harder against her body, the crumpled edges of the poisonous note in her bodice began to dig sharply into her cold skin.

What if they hadn't waited for her? What if they had gone ahead and harmed her family anyway because the note had been stuck under the door? Suddenly Agatha's heart beat faster and her chest felt tight. Her niece was by herself in the depths of Devon being looked after by somebody that she did not know. She was _alone_. Even more alone than Agatha had ever been.

Agatha took a deep breath and pushed back all thoughts of the fact that her brother was dead. That her sister-in-law was dead. That she no longer had any family apart from her niece—who, like her, had been left alone in the world.

"Where is she?" she asked in a dead voice.

"In the orphanage at Honiton." The magistrate picked up the coffee cup and gulped at it again like a drowning man. "There was no one else to take her in. I would have done, but to have a young girl in your household... no one else would take her in..." he repeated.

Agatha clasped a hand to her face as her rib cage tightened. For whatever reason, it was all her fault. Leaning over the table, she bit back a sob and rang for the butler.

"What time does the post coach go to Honiton?" Her voice emerged from her throat shrill and shaking. She could not take Henry's coach all that way. It would cost too much money to stay in the inns overnight and be too slow as she would need to change horses en route.

The butler shook his head. "I will have to check, miss..."

"Do it, Smythe." Her voice was even louder this time.

Agatha grabbed the magistrate by the arm. Her hand came away covered in filth. She had been going to tell the man to come with her, but judging by the state he was in, it wouldn't have been fair.

Smythe returned, gasping. "Post coach to Honiton leaves in fifty minutes, miss."

It was much less time than she had thought. It would take her twenty minutes to get to where the coach left from, and then she would still need to buy a ticket.

She stood and rubbed a hand across her face. "Smythe, get the coach ready to go to the Five Horse Inn for the post coach. I must leave for Devon immediately."

"What about your maid, miss?"

"I won't need her where I'm going."

"And... Lord Anglethorpe, Miss Aggie... What about him?" The fear in Smythe's voice was palpable.

A cold shiver worked its way down Agatha's spine. "I'm... not sure," she said, uncertainly.

As she turned, the magistrate moved from his frozen position. Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a scrap of brightly covered fabric.

"Here, you need this," he said softly.

Agatha gazed at it in incomprehension. What had that to do with Henry?

"If you are ever to reclaim a child from this orphanage, you need to have this scrap of cloth. It is a piece of her dress. The orphanage has kept the other part. I..." The man faltered. "I wasn't sure if I was going to find you."

# CHAPTER 16

Smythe opened the door to Henry with a look of fear on his face. It was almost lunchtime. Henry had spent the night at an inn on the Strand, trying to work out the best approach to ask Agatha to marry him. He pushed past his butler and strode straight into his study.

With ease, he swung the heavy picture that stood behind the desk to the floor and slid back the panel that lay behind. Pulling back his cuffs, he reached in and drew out a dainty black jewelry box in chinoiserie style decorated with birds and lilies. It seemed as if a gust of perfume had flown with it as he took a deep breath and opened the box. Inside lay an assortment of his mother's rings, family heirlooms and other fancies his father had bought her when they were both alive.

He paused before pulling out the delicate top layer of felt. At the bottom lay a heavy gold ring in which was set a large diamond, the Anglethorpe wedding ring. He considered it for a short while and then set it aside. Instead he selected the other ring that lay next to it, a rose gold delicate affair with diamond and sapphire stones inlaid on its rim. He could not remember when it had come into his mother's possession, but it was the only ring apart from the Anglethorpe wedding ring that the doctor had removed from his mother's hand after she had died.

Slowly withdrawing the intricate ring, he closed and returned the box to the hidden panel. Straining with his arms, he heaved the painting back into position. After a cursory examination, he pushed the ring into the breast pocket of his undercoat

"Sir." Smythe knocked on the door. "Sir, I really must speak to you."

Henry stepped out into the hall. "Yes?"

"Lord Anglethorpe, Sir. I... ahhh."

"Get on with it, Smythe."

"Ah...There's a magistrate in the morning room, your lordship!" the butler gabbled. "He asked for Miss Beauregard. I don't know what he said, but Miss Beauregard asked for the times of the next post coach to Honiton."

"What?" Henry swung round to face the butler.

The butler quivered. "Yes, your lordship. She left two hours ago!"

A bolt of fear shot through Henry's stomach. "Where is he? Is he still here?"

"In the morning room, sir."

Henry ran down the hall and straight into the morning room. "Where has Agatha gone?"

The man gaped like a stunned fish. "Devon. Sir. Not to put too fine a point on it... her brother and sister-in-law have been killed."

His friend, Peter, dead? Hand shaking, he felt in his pocket for his watch. Someone was lying. Things like that did not happen in Devon. He hadn't seen Peter for a while, and he hadn't been answering his letters about Agatha, but still... "How did it happen?"

"Carriage overturned, my lord. I suspect foul play but can't be sure."

Henry cleared his throat and stared at the empty top of the table. No wonder why Agatha had gone in a hurry, but why go at all? Why not wait so that they could all travel down in comfort, and she could have their support?

Patrick spoke again. "There's a daughter. She's still alive, in an orphanage."

"Orphanage?" Henry roared.

Patrick cowered in his chair. "I thought it best... there was no one else, I mean no one else came forward to claim her or take her in. Though technically she is old enough to go into service."

Henry stood and banged his desk. "Smythe! Smythe!" The butler stepped into the room immediately. "Take this man away and find out where Agatha's niece is. Ready my horse. I leave for Devon immediately."

"What about lunch, my lord?"

"Never mind lunch!" Taking the stairs two at a time he hit the upstairs hallway at a run. Without bothering to knock he entered Victoria's bedroom and stopped. The windows were open and Victoria was humming a waltz to herself as a maid brushed her hair.

"Agatha has left," he said with no preamble.

Victoria's face blanched. She put up an arm to stop the maid. "Left?"

"Her brother and his wife are dead—"

"—which leaves her niece all alone," Victoria finished with a gasp. "I'm not surprised she went."

"Why didn't she wait for me—us?" Henry touched a hand to his head, though the pain was really in his heart. "And where did she get the money to go?"

Victoria stood up and looked out of the window to the garden beyond. "Perhaps she thought she would come back? I do know she kept some money under her bed. She said it had been her mother's. That it was in case she needed to escape."

Henry bowed his head. All the troubles that Agatha had gone through. Not once had she tried to escape. And yet, as soon as Henry had finally sorted everything out, she had gone.

"She will come back, Henry." Victoria laid a hand on his arm. He hadn't even seen her move, too preoccupied with his inward thoughts. "But you should go to her. Help her. Take your horse. Every minute counts. I will only hinder you, as you would have to take the carriage. I will wait here and make up a room for her niece when you all return."

Henry nodded, leaving the room as Victoria smiled tremulously at him. He didn't want to voice his thoughts, his sinking feeling that Victoria was being too optimistic. He descended back into the downstairs hallway and pulled open the under-stairs cupboard. On his hands and knees, he pulled up the mops and buckets and pails. But he couldn't find it, no glass jar of moldy jam could be seen.

She really wasn't coming back.

As Smythe hauled the unfortunate magistrate past the under-stairs cupboard, Henry bowed his head and patted the breast pocket of his coat. Slowly, he traced his finger around the delicate gold band he'd left inside. Leaving it in his pocket, he grabbed his coat from a waiting footman. Thank God he was already wearing breeches. The journey to Honiton was a long one.

# CHAPTER 17

The post coach was full of passengers. Being last to buy a ticket, Agatha found herself wedged into the corner of the coach. She sat next to a large woman who began to chatter the moment the horses moved.

Agatha didn't feel like talking. She wanted to sob for her brother and his wife. Despite their differences, they had been _family_. She rebuffed the round lady's advances and hung grimly onto the window as the coach rattled at high speed along the west road out of London. The lady sat back with a huff and spoke to the other passengers, who were more receptive. She spitefully dug her elbow into Agatha's side, making the small space that she was wedged into even more crammed, but soon gave up in surprise as her elbow clashed against the jar of jam Agatha had pushed under her coat.

Against all odds, Agatha fell asleep, cradling her last memories of the house in Mount Street to her. She awoke as they passed through Newbury. Night had drawn in, and the coach was halting at an inn for dinner.

"Ten minutes stop," shouted the coach driver. "Anyone not back on the coach will be left behind."

As Agatha fell from the coach, she looked immediately for the privies. An outhouse at the back of the inn provided some room and overflowing chamber pots. She sighed, beggars couldn't be choosers.

As she returned to the coach, she became aware that she hadn't thought to pack anything to eat. Young boys hawked trays of pies in the courtyard of the inn where the carriage stood. As her stomach rumbled, Agatha realized that she did not have any money readily available to buy one of the delicious smelling pies, as it was all tied up against her bodice. She dithered for a minute, wondering whether to go back to the privy and take out a coin. Her grief made her actions fuddled and slow.

"One minute warning!"

She scrambled back on the coach. She had been hungry before, and she had eaten a large breakfast. She would hold out till the next stop. She would.

It took a day and a half to reach Honiton. The large lady left early the next day. No one took her place. With relief, Agatha was able to stretch out. She managed to extract some money at the next stop the coach made. The boy selling food at this inn looked at her suspiciously as she handed over the golden coin. He did not ask too many questions. However, Agatha noticed that she did not get as much back in change as she should have done. As she fumbled with the coins, she nearly cried. She had so little and now she and her niece, oh God, her niece had even less.

As the coach arrived in Honiton, Agatha looked out wearily at the picturesque little town. It was crowded with lace shops and overflowing with market day visitors from the surrounding villages. After leaving the coach and asking directions, she arrived stumbling at the orphanage on the edge of the town.

Apprehensively, Agatha looked for a bell to ring at the front door. Seeing none, she banged her fist against its peeling wooden panels. The door opened a crack. A large, broad figure stood immobile behind it. When the figure did not move, she pushed on the door herself, pressing it open with her bag.

Agatha fell into the dark hallway of the house. The large man who had opened the door continued to look at her silently.

"Where is the house owner?" Agatha asked.

The man shrugged, his gaze flicking up and down her stained dress. "In the back."

"William! William Standish! Where are you?" A rotund lady with a merry face bustled into the hallway, immediately filling it with warmth. "There you are!" she said as she caught hold of the broad man's arm.

Agatha coughed to gain the woman's attention. She stared at her with large eyes. Unsure what to say, Agatha withdrew the scrap of fabric the magistrate had given her and showed it to her.

"Thomas Patrick gave me this scrap of material," she said simply.

The woman's face creased in a smile. "Thank the Lord, one of our orphans has family! We thought that you wouldn't be found." She shook her head sadly. "Let me just fetch the record book to match the material."

Agatha shifted from foot to foot. "I was in London. Patrick found me only two days ago. I came at once..."

The woman nodded and pushed at the large man. "William, I will see you later."

He nodded and stepped out of the house, closing the door behind him.

The woman paused in the corridor. "Now then we had two girls in at the same time. Harriet and Mary." She cocked her head on one side. "Harriet hasn't any family left so no one's coming for her, so then you must be Mary's aunt. Patrick said he was going to look for you." Suddenly the woman paled. "Such a tragedy," she murmured.

Agatha gulped. Tears threatened in her eyes. Realizing what she had said, the woman looked at Agatha directly.

"I'm so sorry, where is my head? That must have been your brother and his wife." She paused and took a breath for a second. "I'm Mrs. Cooper. Come through for some tea. A maid will fetch Mary and I will get the record book."

Agatha opened her mouth. Mrs. Cooper repeatedly pronounced her niece's name wrongly. But the stout woman bustled down the corridor and opened a door on the left which led into a sunshine-filled room before she could say another word.

"Sit down," she called taking to the corridor again.

Whilst the room was lovely, it was noticeable that it needed attention. The furniture was threadbare. There was a large damp patch on the wall. Regret filled Agatha that her niece had been left here. She would have been there for longer if the magistrate hadn't found her.

Mrs. Cooper returned with a large portfolio under arm and a tray which held an enormous pot and two cups. Setting down the portfolio, she poured a generous portion of water into each cup, the hot water running almost clear. Mrs. Cooper looked rueful as she saw Agatha watching the pot.

"We haven't much money, least of all for tea. It's a luxury. I'm sure you've noticed."

Agatha nodded vigorously. She did not want to appear rude. As Mrs. Cooper set the cups down on a low table, the door to the room creaked open again and a small figure crept in. Agatha said nothing, taking in the curly red mop of hair and sad, hazel eyes. Mrs. Cooper placed her finger to her lips and turned to Agatha.

"I think she's shocked still," she whispered. "I'm not sure when you last saw her, better give her some space. She's very shy." She scratched her head. "She's only spoken in French to us a few times—never in English."

Agatha sat back and tried to concentrate on the cup of tea in her hand. All her senses cried out to enfold the girl in her arms. She was dressed in a pinafore dress, her hair scraped back, a bruise on her temple. She looked much younger than her fifteen years. As Mrs. Cooper started to talk loudly about the weather, her niece moved slowly closer, from chair to chair, all the time looking at the floor.

Then it seemed as though she had made a decision. She crossed to where Agatha sat and sat on the low sofa. She placed one hand lightly on Agatha's dress and with the other pleated her skirt through her fingers. She leaned in to Agatha and murmured softly, questioningly, " _Tante Agathe?_ "

Agatha's heart clenched. She nodded and gathered the girl to her and kissed her brow. She was only a few years younger than herself. Now she thought about it, Agatha couldn't ever remember being young. Whatever happened from now on, her niece would always have her. She would never be alone again.

There was only really one more important question to be asked. "Where are Peter and Claire now? Their bodies I mean?"

Mrs. Cooper pursed her lips. "Patrick told me they were buried in the Brambridge churchyard. The local people did as they saw fit." She sniffed. "They didn't think to inform us. Perhaps they didn't realize that there was a child involved as well. She was brought to us soon after the accident and just left."

Agatha stared into her tea. Perhaps that was for the best. She changed the subject now that the small girl sat quietly beside her. "Who was the large man at your door when I arrived?"

Mrs. Cooper dropped her cheerfulness. "William Standish? His mother was killed in a mill accident. Never knew who his father was. William was here for three years. Barely speaks. Probably because I do most of the talking for him. Somehow I seem to tell him everything. He's back for a visit—he was apprenticed out to the blacksmith in Brambridge. Now he's the master smith there." She looked at her hands for a while. "Although I run this place, I see what it does to the children. I can't give them love like a parent, and many come here with horrific stories, but I do what I can. Enough of that. Where are you going to go now?"

Agatha trusted Mrs. Cooper. She was kind, but if the people who had killed her brother and sister-in-law knew where she was, then life would become worse for Agatha and her niece.

"I'm not sure," she said guardedly. "We need to find somewhere to live."

"You had best pick up your brother's belongings first then. We have them all in the outhouse. Thomas Patrick told me that within two days of your brother's death, the landlord that held Mr. Beauregard's mortgage had packed up his belongings and set them on the roadside for people to take away. Thomas Patrick felt bad he hadn't taken in Mary, see, so brought everything here. We haven't touched anything."

Agatha hadn't thought of her brother's belongings. She had assumed that the house would be available for them both to go to whilst they looked to move elsewhere. The callousness of the owner was cruel but not unusual. After all, it had happened to her too.

"Thomas Patrick will sort you out. I'm sorry though, love, you can't stay here. We have no money to feed you."

"I don't want any food, but please could I stay in the outhouse overnight? I need time to sort out accommodation. I will pay you..." Agatha looked hopefully at Mrs. Cooper. Although she had slept on the first leg of the journey in the coach, her muscles ached from being cramped all the time.

Seeing Mrs. Cooper's doubtful face, she reached into her bodice and felt around. She extracted two gold coins and held them outstretched, nodding at her niece. "For _Mary's_ keep, and for a night in the outhouse." Agatha knew that she had paid more that this was worth, but the sad condition of the orphanage and the kindness of Mrs. Cooper to her niece were obvious.

Mrs. Cooper was stunned. She stared at the gold in Agatha's hand.

Agatha swallowed and extracted another gold coin. "Did Thomas Patrick mention that the overturned coach might not have been an accident?"

Mrs. Cooper nodded, speechless.

"Then would you," Agatha took a deep breath and held the coins out further, "could you write in your record book that Harriet was reunited with her family? What was her name?"

"Hope," Mrs. Cooper said faintly.

Agatha closed her eyes. The incongruity of the name was disturbing. "Could you write that a Miss Hope picked her up?"

"And what about Mary?"

"She never existed," Agatha said softly.

Mrs. Cooper paused and licked her lips, looking at the gold coin in Agatha's hand. Slowly and silently she picked up the sovereigns, closing her fist over the cool metal, her eyes flicking from the tea service to the damp patch on the wall. "She never existed," she repeated.

As Agatha lay down beneath the leaky thatch in the outhouse, she stared at the midnight blue sky. Even the stars had hidden themselves. For the first time the weight of responsibility clutched heavily at her chest. Responsibility for another person. Rolling over, she arranged the sacking she lay on more closely to her body. She'd only ever thought of herself, her freedom, her wishes. And yet the thought of another's needs crushed all of her paltry wants. Was this how Henry felt, day in day out, as he had yet again told her how to behave, of her influence on Victoria?

She would do her best by... _Harriet_. God willing **.**

There were no jobs in Honiton for a woman such as Agatha. Nor in Ottery St. Mary. They returned to Honiton, Agatha's small bag of sovereigns sorely depleted from staying several nights in run-down inns and guest houses as she searched for work.

" _Mes pieds me font mal,_ " __ Harriet said quietly as they passed the churchyard.

Agatha closed her eyes and stopped walking. "I know that you are hurting." She opened her eyes and looked around for somewhere to sit. There was a bench inside the churchyard. Taking her niece's hand she led her through the church gate and up a small bank. She waited for Harriet to settle herself before pressing forward. "I know that you are hurting from the accident, from losing your parents." Next to her, the girl stilled, her fingers cold in Agatha's palm. "Despite it all, you need to be strong," she continued. She searched in her pocket with her free hand, pulling out a small sewing pouch that had been tucked in with the paintings in the outhouse. She pressed it into Harriet's hand. "I believe this was your mother's. Your father wrote to me that she liked to sew." She watched as Harriet fingered the pouch, opening it to reveal a tag of embroidery, a knife and a needle. Suddenly she couldn't bear it, watching as the small fingers traced themselves familiarly over the small implements.

"We have little left, you and I. Whether or not your parents' death was an accident or foul play, we must face it head on. Hide if we must. Earn money for our keep."

Harriet's head nodded once.

"You heard me ask about a Harriet?" Agatha's voice caught. "That is your name now. Harriet Hope. And I—I can't have you speaking in French when I'm looking for a job."

Harriet stilled.

"Did you see them in the shops? How they looked at you with suspicion? If we are to hide, to earn money, nothing about us must be different. Nothing must make us stand out from the crowd." Agatha dropped Harriet's hand. "I just need a job—"

"Yes, Aunt Agatha," Harriet said clearly in precise idiomatic English.

Agatha was still gaping in shock when she became aware of the shade on her face. She turned, closing her mouth with a snap, meeting the interested gaze of a vicar.

"Did I hear you need to find a job?" The vicar strode forwards, an expression of relief on his face. He looked Agatha up and down. "Are you an honest woman?"

Agatha nodded in surprise. Where had he appeared from? As he moved, his cassock revealed the open side door to the church. Gods, how much had he heard?

"Can you housekeep and clean?"

It had only been two months since that had been many of her duties. She nodded.

"The vicar's wife in Brambridge is looking for a housekeeper. Twenty pounds a year and a small cottage for living accommodation." The vicar licked his lips. "The wife is a little difficult."

Agatha nodded. Difficult people? She'd had enough experience of them to last a lifetime.

"I'll take the position. Subject to an interview of course," she finished quickly.

"And your name is Agatha—?"

Damn and blast. Agatha looked at Harriet. The vicar had heard them speaking earlier. But a job was a job. "Agatha Hope," she said despondently.

Mrs. Madely, the vicar's wife, was every bit as demanding as described. She watched over Agatha as she peeled some vegetables, and then blacked the grate in the drafty vicarage by the church.

"When I first took your hands, I thought you were a lady of quality," she said with a laugh. "But seeing that you know what to do, adequately mind, I'll take you." She turned away as Agatha caught her eye. "And you'll be something to talk about with my friends."

Agatha leant her hands against the grate and gripped until her knuckles went blue. "Thank you, Mrs. Madely," she said politely.

"You can take the cottage. No one's lived in it for years, but I'm sure you will make it home. I understand a woman lived there before. Now it's you and Harriet was it?"

Agatha nodded tight lipped.

"You may go." Mrs. Madely turned away and disappeared into the rest of the house. She hadn't offered Agatha water to wash her hands, or pointed her in the direction of the door. Heavily, Agatha got to her feet and, careful not to get blacking on the furniture, let herself out onto the lane.

She paused briefly by the church, looking over the wall into the churchyard. Peter and Claire's gravestones were simple. Pristine stone. They were laid out next to another newly laid grave, that of John Smith. Agatha clapped her hand to her mouth and choked. _We've buried him in a small village called Brambridge under the name John Smith._ Oh gods. How fitting that they were buried together, Claire and her father. Peter and Claire. She glanced up the lane. The white cottage was a short way up the road. Harriet stood in front of it, watching a tall young man pulling their possessions off the cart. Agatha straightened and hurried up the hill as the man nearly dropped one of her brother's paintings and Harriet smiled. Smiled adoringly.

Agatha's heart sank further.

Harriet's voice was quiet but determined when Agatha reached the cottage. "He says his name is James. He lives in Brambridge Manor. He's offered to help us."

Agatha swallowed. The pony, a nag called Isabelle that she had bought in Honiton, tossed its head. The young man turned towards her with a devastating smile.

Oh no. She looked at Harriet's expression. The expression of a young girl that has lost everything and who had found her knight in shining armor.

"I'm Agatha Hope," she said tautly.

"James Stanton," the young man said. "I caught Miss Harriet here trying to unload everything by herself. Thought it was too much for a young girl to do."

Agatha looked sideways at Harriet. Her expression had drooped somewhat. Thank goodness.

She followed James as he entered the low cottage carrying the painting. The cottage was cold and dark. But no worse than Hope Sands.

"I will take it from here," she said, holding out her hand for the painting. "Thank you, James."

He nodded, his eyes sharp. "If you need any help, just call for me. Don't—" he sighed. "Just don't go near my father." He looked up at Agatha. "He's a drunk. And an awful man. I will join the army soon, and then I will be able to get away from him." He shrugged his shoulders. "But until then I stay here." He handed her the painting and left quickly.

Agatha put the wrapped painting on the floor, conscious of the blacking still on her hands. It wasn't worth washing them—the grate of the cottage needed doing too. Sighing she got to her hands and knees. "Harriet, please could you bring me the tub of blacking I dropped on the front step?"

Harriet nodded and walked outside.

Agatha pulled the grate forwards. It was stuck. Reaching out and round into the dark chimney, she tried to grasp the large iron bars that anchored the grate into the hearth. Instead her fingers encountered smooth, lumpy wood. She grasped it with her hand and drew it out to reveal a large hunting knife. The blade was dark, but the elephants that danced round the knife's handle were still vivid.

She shivered in the cold of the cottage, as if a ghost had walked across her grave. It was a lethal knife, built for maiming and defense. Something which a lone woman would need. She got to her feet and rubbed the bottom of her dress across the blade. It was still sharp. With a gasp she hung the knife behind the cottage front door within easy reach. She wasn't a woman alone. She had Harriet. But she still needed to protect her.

Agatha pushed at the grate with a shove and looked around the small dank room. How long would she be able to maintain this existence? Protecting her niece? Her eyes fell on the box which sat next to the grate, a round glass object lying carelessly on top.

She picked it up and looked into its murky depths. Fingers trembling, she pushed it onto the mantelpiece above the dirty grate. Fig jam and mold. An example to her that time passes and things change.

Sometimes.

# CHAPTER 18

Henry stared in through the window of the small white cottage in Brambridge and shivered. Despite finding Agatha quickly after he had arrived in Honiton, catching sight of her as she, and what must have been her niece, worked her way up and down high street, till now he hadn't found the impetus to approach her.

At first he had wondered what she was doing as she had gone in and out of the shops. And then he'd realized that she'd been asking about jobs.

He'd followed them to Ottery St. Mary. A better man than him might have stepped in and forced the issue as Agatha and Harriet stayed the night in seedier and seedier accommodation. But every time he had interfered so far had precipitated a situation far worse than he had expected, and had earned him more ill feeling from Agatha than before.

He shivered again and watched as Agatha moved a quill across paper, balled it up and started again. He'd lost them briefly in Honiton, and then by chance the vicar had recognized his description of a small woman towing a girl and sent him in the direction of Brambridge, a small village not ten miles away by the sea. Henry pushed down a cough. _Brambridge._ How in the hell had she ended up here of all places? And with a name like Agatha Hope?

He'd spent the day watching Agatha's movements as she cleaned the Brambridge vicarage and heard the barbed comments about Agatha's dresses and her niece dropped by Mrs. Madely, the vicar's wife. Holding his breath, he had waited as Agatha's skin turned pale but she turned not a hair from the odious woman.

When had her spirit been broken? His heart had ached as he followed Agatha and her niece from the vicarage to a small damp cottage. It was obvious that Agatha had tried to make the musty place a home, hanging paintings on the wall, dishes over the sink and an ornate knife behind the door for unwanted intruders.

Agatha's candle guttered as a particularly strong gust of wind banged the window casements and rustled the thatch. A large banging sound from the window above him erupted after the gust of wind. Cursing, as the wind lifted his coat, Henry slid along the side of the cottage and knocked lightly at the front door.

Agatha didn't answer. Moving back to the window, he looked in. She had disappeared. The hunting knife he had seen on the back of the door had also gone. Stifling a groan, he flattened himself against the wall and moved back to the front door. He knocked on it again, wondering if she would throw it out after him.

Still no answer. A window banged at the back of the cottage. The rustle of the bushes was audible even above the sound of the howling wind. Henry detached himself from the wall and sauntered back to his original hiding place.

"Bloody hell."

His smile widened. Agatha bent away from him, the large hunting knife clutched in her hands, sawing away at the bushes beneath the window. Her skirts were caught in the prickly thorns.

She was so intent on what she was doing that she did not notice him until he was upon her.

"First rule of espionage, Agatha," he growled in her ear, stealing his hands around her waist. "Don't wear light-colored clothing on a moonlit night when spying on someone. You are so very easy to see."

Agatha tensed. He could feel her heart beating through her chest, although her body seemed to sink into his strong hands.

"Henry... Lord Anglethorpe?" Her voice came out hoarse and breathy. She tried to turn. "I... I'm trapped."

Slowly Henry let go of her waist, the heat from her body leaching quickly away from his hands. He knelt and deftly freed the skirt from the plant, plucking the torn cotton away from the thorns. As he stood again, his great coat fluttered in the wind. She stared at him, wide-eyed.

He couldn't stop himself. Bending his head towards her, he raised his hand to the delicate curls on her head, and finally to the arch of her neck. Slowly he drew her towards him, tipping her head back into the moonlight. Her mouth, seemingly of its own volition, parted.

He stroked his fingers underneath her eyes, and then caressed her curls.

"You look tired, Agatha." He stepped away, feeling bereft. Control, he needed control. "Let's go inside. I want to know where you have been."

Agatha stared at him and narrowed her eyes. He dropped his gaze and followed her as she silently led him inside. A candle still guttered in a small pewter dish on the hearth, although the wick was getting low.

"Sit here," she said as she pointed to the only chair by the fire. "I'll get you some water."

"Thank you." Henry sighed as he slid into the old wing-backed chair next to the banked fire.

Agatha stepped into a small room beyond where he sat. Henry gazed upwards at the only ornament on the mantelpiece, Agatha's experimental jar of jam, _his_ jam. Standing, he put out a tentative hand and pulled the solid glass jar towards him. Weighing it in his hand, he resumed sitting, tapping at its lid as he waited.

Agatha reappeared and held out a glass of water. "I'm sorry." She cleared her throat and tried again. "I'm sorry that I left so quickly. I hope Patrick told you what had happened... when I heard my niece was in an orphanage, I..."

"I would have done the same." Henry turned his gaze to her. The glints of the flames lit her eyes. "Although I might have asked for some help before I left."

Agatha handed him the water and folded her arms across her chest.

"Do you know how worried Victoria is for you?" Henry took the glass and put it on the floor.

"I did not mean to cause any problems. I just had to get here as quickly as I could."

"Where is the child now?"

Agatha sighed. "Less of a child, more a young woman. She's upstairs in the bedroom. She's fine now. She was quiet when I first found her. But she has already made a friend, Lord Stanton's son." Agatha coughed. "He's a little older than her."

Henry raised his eyebrows. Stanton's son, his supposed new recruit. "Why didn't you come straight back to London?"

Agatha hung her head. "We have no money," she mumbled. "With Peter's death there is nothing left. I am as I was before, a penniless woman."

"But if you are as you were before, I repeat, why did not you come back?"

Agatha stared at the floor. "Because with Peter's death, my links to you and your sister fall only to my friendship with Victoria. I would be living in your house, and with the scandal that has befallen me with Fashington, no man will want to marry me, and no woman would want me as her companion. I would effectively be living on your coin."

"That would not matter to m... us."

"And if I came back to London with a child, albeit a young woman, what would the ton think? No matter how much I denied it, and despite the ludicrous age difference, they would believe that she was illegitimate. Peter never came to town. No one would support me."

"I would," Henry said quietly. "I would support you. Nobody would dare contradict me."

Agatha clenched her fists. "It's not the case that they wouldn't contradict you. But they would still discuss us. And we would still be penniless, living at your largesse."

"You could marry me."

Agatha stared at him. "Why?"

"What do you mean?"

She took a deep breath, her eyes a vivid green. "Why would you want to marry me, Henry? You've never cared for me. Don't do this, don't do that. You couldn't wait to marry me off to Fashington. _What do you really want_?"

The words stuck in his throat. He couldn't tell her about his need to marry to disguise his activities. His need to marry someone that would never love him.

His desperate realization that perhaps he cared for her more than he cared for himself.

"It seems like a good idea."

Taking the jar of jam gently from Henry's hand, Agatha placed it back on the mantelpiece. She stared at it intently. He watched as her eyes flickered over its form.

"No," she whispered. "Not anymore." 

# CHAPTER 19

18th March 1815

Dearest Agatha,

Our house is so quiet since you left us. Henry won't speak to me. It's only been two weeks but it feels like a lifetime. Please come back. There's always room for you with us. You know that don't you?

Yours, Victoria.

PS I feel strange addressing my letters to Agatha Hope. I don't understand your need to have a fresh start. It makes no sense.

23rd April 1815

Dearest Agatha,

Why don't you write? Surely you must have settled after six weeks? Henry told me you had found a job with the local vicar. That you didn't want to come back. That you had your niece to look after now. There's room for both of you with us. Please. Please come back. If I have to dance with Lord Colchester myself without laughing about it with someone I will die. In the cold hours of the morning after the boring balls I can see the blackness at the edge of my vision creeping in. Henry tries his best but... I'm rambling. Please write.

3rd November 1815

Agatha.

I did it. I married Lord Colchester.

Victoria.

Agatha slumped against the hearth chair and stared up at the low ceiling of her cottage. She curled her hand around the last letter, feeling the parchment crumple and fold in her fist. _Oh Victoria._ She could feel the pain in every word. Yet the last letter was so definite. A cutting off. An ending.

She glanced at the window as a pale light flooded the sky and the sun rose. Getting to her feet, she smoothed the letter out again and tucked it with the others behind the painting that hung opposite her chair. It bent slightly as it fitted in with the other letters, the paper rasping against her now coarse fingers as she pushed it under the hanging wire.

Tying a bonnet carefully over her hair, she closed the door to the cottage and walked out into the lane, stumbling with fatigue over the hinge stone by the garden gate. If only she had got more sleep. It wasn't just the early mornings at the vicarage. Harriet had returned late the previous night, distraught, refusing to talk, refusing to sleep, seemingly unaware of how long Agatha had sat, worried, wondering what she could do to find her. Wondering if Harriet wanted her to find her. Wondering if Henry had felt the same way when Agatha had disappeared.

Agatha sighed and turned into the lane. She could see the vicarage at the bottom. She should have known the problem was a man. It was always a man. _He's gone_ Harriet had said sobbing, saying it in both French and English. _Il est parti_. _He's left Brambridge_. Agatha didn't need to know who she was referring to. James Stanton had earned Harriet's undying devotion since he had unpacked their belongings, pulling out Harriet's family belongings with a care unusual for a young man.

She looked up sharply as a rumbling filled the air, flicking her eyes up and down the lane. Not even the grass moved in the still of the morning. And then it was upon her. A fast moving curricle, driven by an Amazon in red, black hair streaming in the wind, her head thrown back, laughing. Agatha dived to the side, rolling onto the verge, outrage filling her as she glared after the retreating vehicle. But then it vanished in an instant, replaced with a jolt of happiness. And then despair as the woman's companion stared back at her without a hint of recognition.

Six months. Six months it had been since she'd seen him. And Henry had just looked through her as if she didn't exist. Agatha picked herself up and trudged down to the vicarage, let herself in and roughly grabbed the hearth brush to start her first job of the day like an automaton. Six months. _It's always a man._ Of course it bloody was. _I've married Lord Colchester._ Agatha scrubbed with extra vigor pushing her irritation into the brush, uncaring that she was only moving soot from one side of the grate to another. _Why on earth was Henry in Brambridge?_

As a particularly black coal smudge coated Agatha's fingers, she wiped them across her apron, before cursing as she realized she'd forcefully wiped a line of black across her cotton dress too.

Not that it would matter. The bloody out of control curricle had wiped away all want for neatness.

Agatha paused and closed her eyes. _Out of control_. That's what the local blacksmith, Bill Standish, had said doubtfully when he'd looked down at the sparse remains of the broken Beauregard carriage that had killed her brother and his wife. There hadn't been much left to examine. In the time it had taken for Agatha to retrieve Harriet months before and settle in to Brambridge, enterprising locals had picked off the solid working remains of the vehicle, leaving only a broken axle, and the cracked remains of a high wheel. Agatha threw down the brush and wiped her hands more carefully on her apron. It could happen to anyone, he'd said slowly. Agatha knew it was true. But it still didn't change fate. She slowed her jagged movements as Mrs. Madely entered the kitchen.

"Agatha!" she squawked, looking from the hearth to Agatha's disheveled clothes. "What on earth have you been doing? I expect you to cook my breakfast shortly and you can't go near my food in such a state!"

Agatha's hand curled inwards and squeezed into fists. She stared defiantly at Mrs. Madely. _I didn't have to have this life_ , she thought. __ She stopped at once ashamed.

Mrs. Madely cast a sideways look at Agatha. "My friend Lady Stanton tells me that Lord Anglethorpe arrived yesterday and has opened up part of Berale House."

Agatha's thoughts stumbled to a halt. Berale House. Henry was the owner of Berale House, the large lonely mansion that sat on the cliff tops? _I'm off to Devon,_ he used to say. _The family estate needs looking after._ He'd never mentioned the word Brambridge—but why would he? It was a godforsaken lonely village by the sea, with the only way out a sharp lane up to the hills and over. It was either that or out by sea. She lifted her head. She could see the interest in Mrs. Madely's eyes. There was always interest. Mrs. Madely was always prying, trying to find out about Agatha's background, where she came from. Who she knew.

"Yes," Mrs. Madely said with satisfaction. "It's the Anglethorpe family seat. It's been closed for years." She glanced again at Agatha.

Agatha wouldn't give her the satisfaction. Not this time, not any time. She broke the woman's gaze and stared at the dirty hearth. "How interesting," she said dully.

"Indeed it is interesting, Agatha," Mrs. Madely said. "Not as interesting of course as the need for a new teacher for the school, but interesting none the less."

Agatha's hands curled into fists again. She hated Mrs. Madely using her name, being so familiar.

"It's interesting because Lady Stanton and I think it is because he's finally decided to marry."

"He has?" Damn. She couldn't stop herself.

Mrs. Madely nodded. "He's been seen with a woman. More than once," she whispered.

A woman. A woman perhaps with long black hair and a red dress that could command a speeding curricle with arrogance and panache. A woman that, given the description, Agatha had the suspicion was called Celine. A woman that Henry had apparently always had an interest in.

Agatha looked down again at her crumpled cotton beige dress. Panache. That was something she assuredly had never had.

It was dark as she trudged up the road back to the cottage. Her shoulders ached. Mrs. Madely had delighted in finding all the things she possibly could for her to polish, clean, cook, grind, hoe and sweep, as if frustrated that Agatha hadn't shown any interest in the gossip that she had brought.

The cottage was dark as she walked through the garden gate, though a low glow glimmered through a window from a candle. Agatha held her breath. _Had Henry come back? Come back for her?_ A fluttering rose in her belly. Slowing her footsteps, she composed herself and pushed through the door.

"Henry—"

But it wasn't him. It was just Harriet, curled in the hearth chair, her face white, staring at the glowing embers of the fire. A candle guttered on the mantelpiece. Agatha's heart sank. Of course he wouldn't come back for her. Mrs. Madely had already told her. He was preparing to marry. And the person he was going to marry was certainly not going to be her.

Harriet glanced at her. "Henry? Lord Anglethorpe you mean? I saw his coach leave two hours ago." She folded her arms around herself.

Agatha took in a deep breath. Gone. Gone without saying hello or goodbye. She gazed at her niece, younger, yet not so far in age, distraught at the absence of a man and with nowhere to turn except to her. What counsel could she give her? She who had failed in love too?

"You need to find something to take your mind off it, Harriet." Agatha tamped down all thoughts of Henry and briskly poked the fire to increase the flame. "Something that interests you and will subdue the worry."

Harriet gave her a bleary look. "Like what? Cleaning the hearth again for Mrs. Madely?"

Agatha paused, the words like a knife in her side. Harriet normally came with her to the vicarage, but today she had told her to stay at home. Perhaps that was why Mrs. Madely had been particularly harsh. Harriet had a tendency to protect Agatha.

"No. Not like that." She took off her cloak and hung it on the back of the door, next to the hunting knife. She noted her hands trembled slightly. She paused for a moment, waiting for the despair to subside. "I heard they were looking for a new teacher at the school. I thought it might make a change. You know your letters. Perhaps you could even recruit some pupils into a play."

Harriet closed her eyes and sighed. "I'm sorry, Aunt Agatha. I was rude. Yes. That would probably be good."

Agatha nodded and turned. It had been a long day and she was ready for bed.

"What about you, Agatha?" Harriet's words were quiet. "What about finding something that interests you?"

Agatha glanced at the guttering candle that cast a sharp light on the jar of fig jam, a thick mat of mold covering the sticky surface of the inside of the jar.

"I've made my mistakes," she said.

# CHAPTER 20

Henry pulled his horse to a halt and quietly left it to crop the grass. Berale House lay in darkness, except for a single candle that burned in the garden room.

He stood for a while in the damp velvet of the night, remembering. It reminded him all too clearly of the night, now a year ago when he'd walked up to a small cottage not too far away from where he stood now. Wanting to see Agatha. To apologize for knocking her down as Celine drove her curricle with abandon and little care. Wanting to explain what he was doing. Knowing that he couldn't.

He'd overheard the conversation between the two girls. The finality with which Agatha had said _I've made my mistakes_. He'd left as silently as he'd arrived. The time was still not right. Agatha hadn't been ready to hear what he had to say.

Henry looked up at the dark house in front of him and opened the door to the garden room and slipped in, skirting his father's desk that lay foursquare in the room, pulling off his fisherman's jersey and sodden trousers. The door opened softly. Henry froze as Ames slipped in. He carried a bottle.

"Any news?" Ames asked softly.

Henry shook his head. "It's the usual cargo in from Renard. Brandy, émigrés, some letters to loved ones." He turned and pulled on his usual breeches, slipping a linen shirt over the top. "And you?"

"Nothing from Monsieur Herr?"

"No."

"Another customs officer has died."

Henry shook his head. It was becoming an epidemic on the Brambridge to Seaton coastline. There had been a murder too, the year before when he'd come down briefly to open up Berale House. Bill Standish had sworn it was nothing to do with their smuggling operations. Two in two years though, whilst not unusual, it _was_ strange if the local people were adamant it wasn't them.

Ames continued with his report. "We've had word that James Stanton and Freddie Lassiter have become friends. I heard that Lassiter was thought to be going off the rails but Stanton's friendship seems to have stabilized him. They've been in the fight at Lyria. Wherever the fighting is thickest on the Peninsular they seem to be there."

"When they come back we'll put them to good use."

"Working for you, you mean?"

Henry nodded. "They've shown their mettle."

Ames chewed at the bottom of his lip. "They may not want to. I believe Freddie has become a lord in the time that he's been away. His father died recently. And surely the current Lord Stanton is going the same way. He's drunk as a skunk most of the time."

Henry heaved a tired sigh. "I know an old friend of Lassiter's, Anthony Lovall. I'll have a word with him to keep an eye on Freddie." He scratched his head wondering at how fast a headache could set in. "Thank you, Ames. Anything else?"

Ames grunted and gave him a sideways look. "Miss Aggie and Harriet are still in the white cottage. Harriet's become the teacher at the school."

"And Agatha?"

"She still works at the vicarage."

"How does she seem?"

"Quiet." Ames ran a hand through his grey hair. "Worn," he muttered. "You should go and see her yourself."

Henry rubbed at his face and smoothed down his chemise, the pocket against his heart rumpling around a letter and the shape of his pocket watch. He drew out both and laid them on the desk, fiddling with the small ring that hung from the pocket watch chain.

He didn't need to open the letter. He'd read it again and again.

Henry, Colchester is dead. And I rejoice. From now on, Henry, I do what I want to do. I will not be a mournful widow. But I will observe some propriety for your sake. This episode is closed. Whilst love may have passed me by, why are you still waiting, Henry? Victoria.

Why was he still waiting? He glanced at the pocket watch, its scratched closed casement ticking away, marking the time that passed without failing, yoked to a small band of gold, diamond and amethysts.

"Granwich asked me if you had had any more interest in taking a bride."

Henry glanced up. Ames faced carefully away from him, his face in a shadow.

"He's not been fooled by the succession of women that you keep parading around town. Though he said that at least now you were playing the part of the die-hard bachelor rather than the strange recluse, and that if you won't take a bride, then this is better than nothing."

"Did you tell him anything?"

"What about? There's nothing to tell. As far as I can see you are either never going to marry, or you are waiting for the right one to come to you. Not that that is going to happen. Henry—my lord, you should do something."

Henry glanced again as the candlelight reflected off the amethyst ring. He knew why he was still waiting. The pieces of the puzzle still needed to come together. Come together so that he could walk forward and take his bride.

# CHAPTER 21

Two years later, Brambridge

Where was she? Agatha raced up the stairs to the small bedroom that Harriet slept in. The bed covers lay cleanly pulled over Harriet's bed. They hadn't been slept in at all. _Oh dear God_. What had she done now? Cramming a hand in her mouth, Agatha bit back a silent scream.

Outside, Isabelle, their decrepit pony, let out a large neigh. Agatha had left her tied to the cart, in her desperation to find out where Harriet had gone. She had driven the pony hard down the dusty tracks from the nearest town, Ottery St. Mary, blearily swearing all the cant phrases she could remember. Harriet was meant to have been visiting a Mrs. Denys in Ottery.

Mrs. Denys hadn't seen her for several months.

Clattering back down the stairs, Agatha glanced from side to side in the room. Her brother's paintings hung around the walls, the hearth was dead. Her eyes came to rest on the jam jar on the mantelpiece, its insides now completely white.

"I promised myself," she whispered. Shouting, she swept the jar to the floor. "I've done everything _properly_." The jar bounced on the hearth rug but did not shatter. Not even a shard broke from it. She fell to her knees and gathered up the cold glass. "I've still ruined everything."

She knew where Harriet had gone. Most definitely haring after the newly minted Lord James Stanton, whose recent return to Brambridge after disappearing suddenly two years before had sent the dreaming Harriet into a flutter. _What was it about these lords?_

Scrabbling at a box on the hearthside, she unearthed a piece of paper. They needed to leave Brambridge. Nothing good would come of Harriet's experience. Nothing good had come of _her_ experience.

Dipping her quill in a small well of ink, Agatha paused. Henry or Victoria? She shuddered. The last time she had seen Henry had been unexpectedly the year before, standing outside the Prince of Wales Inn in Brambridge, arm in arm with a woman, an obvious courtesan in her revealing red dress and voluptuous curves. Celine. She remembered her name clearly. The woman that Charles had been jealous of. The woman she'd seen in the curricle with Henry so long ago now.

Thank the gods she hadn't seen Henry often. The only person she caught glimpses of was Jaquard, the man who'd blown up the tree stump in Mount Street, and whom Henry had seemingly installed as head gardener on the Berale estate.

But every time she _did_ bump into Henry, or even still, tried to avoid him, he would treat her to that particular blank expression, staring down his aristocratic pointed nose as if they had never met once at all. _Never once shared a searing kiss._

Agatha gritted her teeth. Her heart still said Henry. Damn her heart.

Laying her quill on the table, Agatha rested her cheeks briefly on her knuckles, the coarse and broken skin scratching against the side of her nose. Three years it had been since she'd seen Victoria. Since she'd run away from the threat in that awful note. She shivered as the small voice in her mind, dormant for so long, whispered to her. _Did you run away from Henry?_ _The security he offered? You thought it was too good to be true didn't you?_

She buried her head in her hands, waiting for her knuckles to burn, but they didn't. She'd done a penance of a different kind. Instead she had had three long years of looking after her niece, and working for the vicarage. Whilst the work had been hard, the worst had been the effort it had cost her not to try and clip Harriet's wings, wanting to keep her safe, unnoticed, away from harm.

She sat up straight and picked up her quill again, catching sight of the small bag her mother's sovereigns had been kept in. It was empty now, long empty. She stared down at the parchment. Each time that an object or thought reminded her of London she pushed it back. She had made the right decisions. There had been no more trouble. Even when William Standish, Bill, the local blacksmith whom she had met when she had first picked up Harriet from the orphanage, had approached her to hide some French barrels from the smuggling ring he ran, she had said no. Reluctantly said no, because the village only survived on the profits that his ship the _Rocket_  and his trade with the infamous French turncoat Renard brought.

Life was quiet, she hadn't put a foot wrong. But despite all of her actions, still scandal had caught up with her.

Agatha closed her eyes and grimaced. She'd started to really listen to herself as she spoke to Harriet, especially in the early days after James Stanton had dragged Harriet to the cottage and informed Agatha that Harriet had been climbing the apple trees again in an attempt to feel like a bird. Heart in her mouth with fear for the blossoming young woman, she hadn't been able to contain herself. _No more of this theater nonsense,_ she'd said, _confine it to our home._ And then she'd stopped, a feeling of déjà vu sweeping over her.

She was telling her niece to stop doing everything she liked most in the world, because she feared for her safety. She _cared_ for Harriet deeply.

Henry had said just the same thing. _No more of these experiments, confine it to my home._ She'd hated him for it. Made up names for him. Blamed him when her behavior had finally cost her her freedom, the very thing that she was trying to protect.

And now she knew that Harriet had run towards freedom, away from Agatha. Freedom on board the _Rocket_ , the very smuggling operation Agatha had tried to avoid. As she had clattered into Brambridge from seeing Mrs. Denys in Ottery St. Mary, one of the local villagers had caught her, Janie, a friend to Harriet. Her father was aboard the _Rocket_. Shyly she had said that Harriet was there too. And Lord James Stanton.

Agatha picked up her quill and grimaced. Look at her now, confined to a dark hovel, her niece all but lost, wanting to run back to the only people that had ever cared for her. Yes. Henry had cared for her, looked out for her. Even made the ultimate offer of marriage to help her. __ She hadn't been as alone as she had thought.

No. She couldn't go to him. The shame was still too great. She wouldn't be able to strip the emotion from her words, the desperate need to wind time back. There had been too many times she had picked up the quill to write to Henry, to accept his offer to ask him to look after her, to take her away. Until it was too late, the succession of his mistresses a continued talking point in the village. It was _just too late_.

Gazing at the walls, Agatha inventoried their worldly possessions. Books, sewing basket and paintings. She had boxes for them all. The ornate hunting knife would stay. It was not hers to take.

Shuffling her legs, her feet knocked against the jam jar which rolled away from her. Agatha stared at the floor where the cold glass rested on the stone flags. It had done its job admirably well, a stark symbol of everything she had lost through being headstrong. She had only needed to put her hand in her pocket for her small notebook each time a rainbow reflected through the glass, or steam condensed on a window, and in reflex her eyes would search out the jar on the mantelpiece. She would draw her hand out of her skirts again and turn to another mundane activity—washing the vicar's smock perhaps, or darning his wife's tablecloths.

And yet still they had come undone. _Where was Harriet?_ She should have come back by now.

Suddenly, the faint sounds of shouting rose up through the door she had left open in her haste. Dropping her quill, Agatha ran to the door. _Harriet?_

The shouting was loud, garbled. Roughly she picked out various words. ' _Look for survivors! Search the beach. The Rocket has foundered.'_  Agatha crammed a hand to her mouth. Oh gods. Agatha picked up her skirts and fled through the front door of the hateful cottage. Scrambling across the fields behind the garden she tumbled down the slope towards the sea, panting as she reached the stony shingle of the beach.

A group of men walked purposefully forward in the distance, spread out from the cliffs. Their shoulders were set wide, their walk stiff legged as if instead of looking for survivors, they were there to push people off the beach.

Agatha clung to the cliffs and followed, skirting the cave openings that led back into the rock. Nobody else appeared on the beach.

"She was around here somewhere I tell you," one of the men yelled. "She stood up behind a rock. Right wet she was."

Agatha gasped. Harriet. They could only be talking about Harriet.

"She might know where Lord Stanton is," a deep voice shouted. "I bet he's had a wet ride through the sea."

"Bring her to me when you find her," one of the men ordered.

Agatha shuddered. This wasn't a rescue mission. They wanted Harriet dead or alive. Was this about Agatha? Or about Harriet? Silently she ran back along the beach and up through the fields she had only fifteen minutes before scrambled through.

Sniffing and gulping deep breaths, Agatha fell through the door of the white cottage again. But Harriet still had not come home.

Blearily she stoked the fire, causing the flames to drive higher. She wrung her hands and stared at the paper and quill on the small table. The room darkened imperceptibly. Swinging to the door she gasped.

Harriet hung on to the door frame, her clothes torn and stiff.

"Harriet, are you all right?" As soon as Agatha said it she cursed. What a stupid thing to say. She ran to her niece and put a hand underneath her arm.

"James..." Harriet murmured. "He can't walk... on the beach. We were alone together—"

Agatha put her to bed. It was the only thing that she could do. Harriet had no energy. She stepped quietly back down the stairs from the bedroom and walked straight to her discarded quill and paper. She and Harriet needed to leave Brambridge. _'We were alone together'_ echoed through her head, nearly the last words that Harriet had said before hitting the pillow. It was like history repeating itself. _'They were looking for us.'_

She picked up the quill with short jerky movements. She had to do something. Would Victoria want to see her? Would she take them in? Her letters had always been so dark, the melancholy pouring through them in the firmly rounded handwriting. Agatha had tried so many times to write back, and yet every time she had failed there too. There was nothing that she could say that would make anything any better.

But it was not just one note she needed to write. She had to write to Henry too.

Agatha's thumb tensed and the nib of the quill snapped. With a gasp of frustration, she stood and retrieved another.

_Dear Victoria,_ she wrote. _I am writing to you as my friend, my only friend..._

# CHAPTER 22

The summer storm that had arisen suddenly calmed as quickly as it had arrived. Henry leaned against the veranda of Berale House and looked out towards the deceptively flat sea over the peaceful village cottages of Brambridge. If he looked back into the house he would lose all perspective, the ghosts of his mother and father would overwhelm him. Gods, why had Agatha had to choose Brambridge of all places to hide? The villagers still talked of the six months his mother had spent alone in the house with no one to visit her. Henry clenched at the balustrade with tight knuckles. His mother had refused to see anyone before her death.

Now it was merely business as usual.

"Report, Ames," he said dully.

"The last source I found said that Lord Foxtone might have known something about your father's death, but he's dead now."

"What a waste of time." Closing his eyes, he inhaled slowly. "Any news on _Monsieur Herr_?"

Ames was silent for a few seconds. "I know you are not going to want to hear this, and you ask every time, but all evidence of his activities died a few years ago."

Pushing his hand into his coat, Henry gripped his pocket watch. "You don't need to dance around the bush, Ames. It's been too long. At the time when Agatha left London, you mean."

"Yes."

"What else?"

"Renard says that Stanton still hasn't found out what is going on here."

Blinking, Henry switched gears as Ames continued with his report. "Bloody hell. Brambridge is becoming untenable. If the most formidable scout in the British army can't work out why the customs officers keep dying, then I'm going to need to move ports."

"You might need to do that more quickly, sir. The _Rocket_ nearly foundered last night with its... ahem... cargo. Stanton was knocked overboard."

"Bloody hell." Henry wiped a tired hand across his face.

"Er, on that subject, sir..."

"Yes?"

"Miss Aggie was seen sending off post this morning. She put in a letter to your sister."

"Good God. _Finally_."

Ames nodded. "There's more. She's packing, sir. All of those paintings you like are going into boxes."

"At last."

"Where do you think she's going to go?"

"There's only one place she can go, Ames, if she doesn't come to me. To Victoria. Only—where's Harriet?"

Ames kicked at a veranda post. "Missing."

Henry stared at his valet. "Missing? _Missing_?"

"Bill says she was on the _Rocket_ last night but she fell overboard—"

"Send Bill in. Now!"

Ames disappeared into the house. Henry stared down the pristine lawns to where the weathervane on his stables turned idly in the slight breeze.

"My lord?"

Henry turned. "William Standish," he said slowly. "Where in the hell is Harriet—Hope?"

Bill leaned his large form against the veranda post that Ames had kicked so violently only moments before. "We're searching the beach. Others are covering the cliffs. We've got to do it quiet like because James—"

"James? Don't tell me James was on the _Rocket_ and fell overboard too?"

Bill nodded, a red flush rising across his face. "As I was saying, we need to do it on the quiet because some people would like nothing more than to see James hang."

Henry sighed. Of course they would. Half the village thought he was a murderer. The other half thought he was a hero.

"First in line would be Miss Aggie." Bill smirked and then smoothed the smile off his face as Henry glared at him. "She's a very proper woman of course. Proper boring."

"She didn't used to be," Henry muttered. He folded his arms. "Did you know she can throw knives?"

"Agatha Hope?" Bill frowned. "And I thought Harriet was the dramatic one."

"You don't know the half of it."

"Sir!" Ames pushed his head through Henry's study doors onto the veranda. "Albert says that Harriet has appeared at Miss Aggie's. In his words, Albert said, 'Miss Aggie looks fit to boil.'"

"Good grief."

"What does that mean?" Bill stepped away from the veranda post.

"It means something extraordinary is about to happen."

Ames popped his head back through the study doors. "The baggage has sent a note, sir."

Bill frowned. "Baggage?"

Henry sighed. "Ames' code word for Miss Agatha. What does it say?"

"Er. Dear Lord Anglethorpe. You might wish to know that Lord Stanton is lying in a cave on the beach in a bad way. You may wish to tell your associates. Yours, Miss A. Hope."

"Good God," Bill breathed.

"It certainly is a relief he's alive. Your head would have been on the block if he had died." Henry jerked his head at Ames, who retired back inside.

"No, I didn't mean that. The letter. It's icy cold, emotionless. It's almost as if she hates you."

Leaning back over the railings, Henry sighed, wondering how she would react when he followed her back up to London. "Much more than that, Bill. She detests me."

# CHAPTER 23

Agatha glanced round at the sumptuous furnishings of Victoria's home in Upper Brook Street, Mayfair. Marrying the old Lord Colchester had given Victoria riches beyond Agatha's comprehension. Agatha shivered inwardly. She didn't understand why Victoria had married the man, and she was glad he was dead. He'd always made Agatha feel uncomfortable when he'd asked to dance with Victoria at the few balls they'd attended long ago.

"So it was, err, Harriet that made you come back?" Victoria patted her hair. She perched primly on the corner of Agatha's bed, gazing out of the window at the mansions that lined the opposite side of Upper Brook Street.

Agatha sat down at the small vanity table and pulled open one of the drawers. "I felt she could benefit from some ton company, and perhaps even a season." Ha. And how was she going to pay for that?

"I am glad she did, otherwise I would never have managed to persuade you to stay here at Colchester Mansions with me."

Agatha smiled.

"No. You know that you will always have a place to stay with me, Aggie, don't you?"

"Yes."

"You could have both come and stayed with me before, but unfortunately Lord Colchester was _difficult_."

"I know."

Victoria's hands stopped patting her hair. She turned to face Agatha. "Pardon?"

"I read every one of your letters. I kept them all." Agatha withdrew her hand from the desk drawer. The letters filled her palm, full of Victoria's distinctive flowing handwriting.

Victoria clapped a hand to her mouth. "Why didn't you write back?"

"I did, once. Just before we arrived in London here at Upper Brook Street. I was getting desperate. Harriet has grown up so fast... and then there was a man... I could see it all ending in disaster like it did for myself."

"Why didn't I receive the letter?"

Agatha hung her head. "Events overtook us. We left for London more quickly than I thought. The letter arrived splashed with mud on the third day after we arrived to stay with you. I saw your butler Carruthers with it in the hall and took it from him. I didn't want you to read the letter—it was so self-pitying."

Victoria stood and grasped Agatha's shoulder. She looked at the bundle of letters. "I wouldn't have minded. Some of my letters are also full of self-pity," she said quietly.

"Well, now you are a widow and you can do what you want."

"Hmm, a merry widow. At least you are back being invited to balls." She gave Agatha a sideways look. "And you are back to being Miss Beauregard." Victoria gasped. "We had better go, otherwise we will be late to Lady Guthrie's. It's her first ball and promises to be the ball of the season."

"Is _he_ coming with us?"

"Of course. Agatha, he's my _brother_. He's waiting in the carriage outside."

Agatha drew in a breath. It was too soon, she wasn't ready to see him. Pushing her chair back across the carpeted floor, she took a long last look in the small vanity mirror. Her hair curled around her head in the same fashion as it used to. A few small lines crinkled around her eyes when she gave a smile. She was nothing compared to Celine and her cascading hair. What exactly wasn't she ready for?

A light knock sounded on the door. The incomer didn't wait for a come-in, pushing open the door with a crash.

"Aggie, Aunt Aggie, the coach has been waiting for thirty minutes and Carruthers says that Lord Anglethorpe is going to blow his lid if we don't... oh. Hello, Lady Colchester." The petite figure shook her bright red ringlets. "Um."

Victoria laughed. "You know you should call me Victoria, Harriet." She swept towards the door and laid a hand on Harriet's arm. "Let's wait in the hall whilst Agatha collects herself. And you can tell me about your latest theater outing."

Harriet nodded. "I was rather taken by the lead actor, he wasn't Kean of course, although I haven't seen Kean perform yet, however..."

Their voices faded away as the door shut behind them.

Agatha rubbed at her face, smoothing at the lines at the corner of her eyes as a dull weight settled in her stomach. Sun lines, worry lines, she had them both. Lifting her chin she nodded at her reflection in the mirror and inclined her head. "Pleased to see you," she mouthed. Not good enough. Putting a hand against her bodice, she grimly pushed up the edges of her lips. "How delightful to renew our acquaintance." Her reflection stared back at her, lines deep in its forehead as it frowned. _Oh dear_. Sweeping her brushes off the vanity table, Agatha pushed herself to her feet and pulled her reticule from the back of the chair.

Victoria took her arm in the hall as Carruthers opened the front door. Agatha gasped as Henry stepped back from the other side of the door, his hand on the knocker.

"I... I was coming to get you... all." His hand fell back to his side.

Agatha straightened her mouth. "Pleased to delightful our acquaintance," she said. She froze as Henry frowned at her.

Victoria jerked at her arm as Harriet smothered a giggle behind them.

Agatha took a deep breath. "Lord Anglethorpe, how delightful to see you again." She tensed as Henry's face cleared. She stared over his shoulder. "What a lovely carriage. Is it not time that we should go?" She could still hear Harriet's skirts rustling behind her as she smothered silent laughter. "Harriet, shall we?"

"Err... yes." Harriet's curls bounced lightly on her shoulders as she hurried down the steps to the carriage, and waited for the footman to hand her in.

Agatha cocked her head on one side and pushed the smile she had practiced onto her face.

Henry bent forward. "Miss Beauregard. I must ask, are you quite all right?"

She dropped the smile. "Yes, perfectly, why?"

"You seem to be in some pain."

Agatha tensed, clutching at Victoria's arm. _She should have asked Harriet for some acting lessons._

Victoria gave her a sideways look and then glanced back at Henry. "I think you will find, dear brother, that you are standing in our way."

"Oh. Yes." Henry drew back as Victoria towed Agatha down the steps and into the carriage.

Victoria was right about the crowd. A long line of carriages waited outside the door of the Mayfair mansion in Dering Street. Lady Guthrie, the hostess, would be pleased with her success. It took half an hour for their carriage to reach the front door of the large house. Agatha arranged her skirts firmly across her knees and looked away from the tempting pavement upon which it would only have taken five minutes to walk to the house.

Victoria rustled gently next to her as she leaned slightly against the side of the carriage. Agatha had been lucky. Victoria had kept all of Agatha's dresses from the years before. The hard work in Brambridge had kept Agatha's figure the same, although she filled out the dresses more tightly in some places than others. She swallowed and flicked a quick glance at Henry, who sat motionless on the other side of the carriage. His blond hair was as bright as ever, but cut shorter, accenting his pointed patrician nose. He caught her gaze, his blue eyes deepened to a turquoise green. Agatha looked away as her stomach clenched. _He was still so handsome_. Unlike her, the passing of time seemed only to have enhanced him, deepened his sense of assurance, and command.

As they drew up to the steps to the house, Henry got out first, his boots clattering against the fine steps of Victoria's carriage. Silently he put out a hand. Agatha lifted her chin, déjà vu striking her. Grasping lightly at her skirts, she lifted them so that just the toes of her slippers were revealed, no more. Bending, she edged out of the carriage and, staring straight ahead, she grasped Henry's hand.

"Thank you, kind sir," she said in a medium pitched voice.

Henry whipped his head round and stared at her in obvious incredulity, his eyebrows fast disappearing into his hairline.

"What about me?" Victoria called as Henry let go of Agatha's hand.

"Oh. Err. I..."

"I need some bloody help, Henry."

Agatha blinked and, holding her breath, watched Henry out of the corner of her eye. Would he blame her for Victoria's language?

"Victoria!"

"Oh pshaw. I can do what I want. No point in being a widow if you can't."

"I don't care about that. I wanted to point out that not drawing attention to yourself normally allows you to do everything that you want and more."

Agatha glanced fully at Henry in surprise and whipped her head away again. He was staring at her intently, a serious line to his brow, as if his words had been for her and her alone. Her face burned as he continued to stare at her before turning away back to the carriage.

"Hmm." Victoria looked thoughtful as Henry handed her to the pavement and then Harriet.

"Ladies?" Henry held out his arms.

Victoria shook her head. "No, take Agatha. I think I'll go ahead with Harriet. I can see some friends of mine already in the receiving line."

Harriet looked back as Victoria drew her away and batted her eyelashes for an instant. Agatha glared at her and took Henry's arm.

"What, no protest?"

"Pro—" Henry's face tilted slightly away from her, a lock of blond hair falling over his eyes. She sighed. "There doesn't seem to be any point."

The candles set up the steps flared as a small breeze ruffled her flimsy wrap. A rainbow danced briefly across the steps as the light refracted through a window.

"I wonder how it does that." Henry gazed at the dancing light.

The changing speed of light through a lens split the light into different wavelengths. Agatha shuffled her feet slightly. "Goodness, isn't it beautiful. I'm sure a learned thinker could tell us." Had she overdone the insipidity in her voice? Three years of trying and she still hadn't mastered just the right tone.

Henry frowned. "Agatha."

"Shall we join the queue?" Agatha stepped forward in the direction of the line of guests that snaked up the steps. Hesitantly, Henry followed as she pulled him gently by the sleeve.

"Miss Beauregard," Henry tried again. "Do you not have anything to say?"

"On what, pray, Lord Anglethorpe?" Agatha took a few steps forward into the hall as the queue moved.

"The rainbow. I'm sure you know what causes it."

"Oh goodness, no."

Henry frowned. "I do want to know, Agatha."

Agatha choked and glared at him. "Rainbows be damned, I wasn't talking about that."

"At last," Henry muttered.

Agatha didn't care. She could see who was doing the receiving at the entrance to the ballroom, a beautiful woman in a midnight blue dress. It was Lady Foxtone. Why was she there? She twisted round and hunted for escape through the crowds, but Henry gripped her arm tightly. The way behind them became blocked by newer ball goers.

"Lord Anglethorpe, please."

He grinned at her. "Come on, Miss Beauregard, you won't gain anything by dallying."

"You don't understand. She hates me!"

Henry turned to look at her, but it was too late. They were already up to the receiving party.

"Miss Beauregard," Lady Foxtone murmured, straightening up. In a louder voice, she then said, "I thought I told you never to come to a gathering of mine ever again?"

The ballroom beyond fell silent, although a string quartet sawed valiantly on. Even the couples dancing faltered to a stop. Agatha took in a deep shuddering breath.

"Perhaps you thought that since Charles was back in town and he is now a lord you would try your luck again?"

The couples around them tittered.

"Your... your ball? But I received an invitation." Agatha put a hand to her chest where a pain pulled at her rib cage.

"Did you not know? Oh, of course you didn't, you were too busy in _Devon_." Lady Foxtone sneered. "Lord Foxtone most unfortunately died just a short time after you left town, and I have recently married my darling Guthrie."

Oh dear God. _Lady Foxtone had become Lady Guthrie_. Agatha shifted her eyes to the left, where an older, frailer gentleman stood silently by his wife. A young lady stood shyly behind him.

"Don't you think you are being too hard on the gel, 'Tisha? After all, she does have an invitation." Lord Guthrie's voice was hoarse and sounded like he was at death's door. Lady Guthrie's face hardened.

"I'll not have her ruining my ball again. Simms, Watkins, throw her out!"

Henry squared up to the advancing footmen. "Lay one hand on her and you will face the consequences," he said, his tone hard. He turned to Lady Guthrie. "That was very badly done, Lady Guthrie, very badly done."

He nodded to Lord Guthrie, who looked aghast. Turning on his heel, Henry put a hand around Agatha's waist and, pushing his way past interested partygoers, thrust his way downstairs towards the outside, pulling her with him. At the entrance, he let go of Agatha and muttered swiftly with a slight man who had just entered, leaning against a walking stick as he jerkily moved forward. The man nodded and made his way inside.

"Where's Victoria?" Agatha pulled at her wrap, gasping at the air.

"I've just sent an associate of mine, Freddie, Lord Lassiter, inside. He will get her out. I'm sure Victoria will be quite pleased to leave actually. She's never liked Lady Guthrie." Henry turned and put a hand on the small of Agatha's back, the heat of his hand burned through the silk of her dress. "I work with Lord Guthrie. I'll have a word with him. Let's get you home. I've yet to eat dinner."

Agatha closed her eyes as the heat from Henry's hand traveled through every part of her body. Was this what it felt like to be looked after, to knowingly be looked after? To not be alone? It was... _glorious_.

"What, no word of protest?"

She opened her eyes again slowly. Henry stared down at her and his eyes flicked to her mouth.

"I... I... no."

# CHAPTER 24

The dining table in front of Henry rocked as Ames slapped down a large dish of pork stew.

" _Porc et endives_ , my lord." Ames turned and stamped to the sideboard. "Followed by _riz a l'ancienne_."

Pork stew and old rice in other words. Goodness, Mrs. Noggin really was unhappy. Henry put out a hand to still the table as Ames let the bowl of rice fall hard against its wooden surface. Ames sniffed and wiped a towel across his hands.

"Will there be anything else, sir?"

Henry sighed. "Ames. What is wrong?"

Ames huffed.

"It's Agatha, isn't it?" Henry rubbed his face with his hand. Sitting in the carriage as they had left Lady Guthrie's ball had been torture. Twice he'd tried to speak, but each time he had not known what to say.

Ames drew out a chair and sat heavily on it. Henry watched, bemused, as Ames took his plate and fork and helped himself to the rice and stew.

"That's my dinner."

"I know. It's just that every time you are angry, eating helps you. I thought I would try it myself."

"I'm not normally angry, just mildly peeved."

"Well, my lord, I am mildly peeved at the moment."

Henry folded his arms. "What did you expect me to do?"

"You should have known that Lady Guthrie was Lady Foxtone! Good grief, Lady Guthrie is famous for her maliciousness. Don't you remember the story? Her previous husband Lord Foxtone owned a large chain of confectionary shops. I think you even said once they supplied the War Office with pastries."

Henry nodded. "Yes."

"Well, on the grand opening of the flagship shop in the Strand, Lord Foxtone trod on her toe. In front of all the newspaper men that had been invited, she picked up one of their famous blackberry tarts, ate it in one mouthful, and said it was the worst that she had ever eaten!"

"God, I remember! Victoria told me. It still sounds a little over the top."

"Hmm. Many thought that was out of character even for Lady Foxtone."

Henry winced. Lord Foxtone had been furious, but that hadn't managed to arrest the wave of order cancellations that followed the newspaper publicity, including that of the War Office. The Foxtone shops started to close within weeks. "I—"

"You move in those worlds, you know that once a hostess has barred a guest, they can't enter the same ball again." Ames speared a piece of pork with his fork.

"I didn't know Lady Foxtone had become Lady Guthrie."

Ames paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. "You didn't know? The Hawk knows everything."

"I haven't been going to balls. I haven't been interested." Hadn't been since Agatha had disappeared to Devon.

"Too busy chasing your mistresses, you mean."

Henry shook his head. "Even that's not what you think, Ames."

"Why couldn't you have just married her? It would have saved everything."

"I wanted to." Henry slapped a hand down on the table and stood, turning away to study the painting of his parents that he had rehung. It was at this table that he had done what he had thought was best for her, forcing her into the engagement with Charles. If he hadn't done that, then Agatha might not have run away.

Ames leaned back in his chair and pulled another fork and a bowl from the sideboard. He pushed it towards Henry. Pulling out his chair again, Henry sat and plunged the fork into the stew. He didn't allow himself to speak until he had eaten several mouthfuls.

Ames spoke through the stew in his mouth. "I saw you both last night. She was like putty in your hands. You could have kissed her and hauled her away in your carriage and—"

Ames had been reading too many penny dreadfuls again. Henry tapped at the table. "She refused me. Marriage, I mean."

Ames looked up in obvious astonishment. "You never said."

Henry shrugged. "I didn't want you to know. Gods, I didn't want anyone to know. It hurt. More than I thought it would."

"Berale House. That's why you reopened it again."

"Mmm. Yes. There didn't seem to be any better solution. I needed it for business with Renard too."

Ames pushed his bowl away. "What are you going to do now then? The last time she was in London, you said she was no end of trouble."

"She still is."

Ames took a mouthful of stew.

Henry tapped his fork against his lips. "We're going to do a Maximus."

Ames spluttered, his half chewed spoonful of stew splattering to the plate. "Not the Maximus again. Please, no. Remember what I said last time."

"Oh. I'm not going to do the Maximus. You are. Especially since you are so keen on Miss Aggie."

"It won't turn into another Wales, will it?"

"You keep bringing up Wales. There was only one failing with the Welsh operation and that was because I didn't quite fully master Welsh in time."

"Two failings. It was a bloody disaster."

"I defy anyone to ask where the privies are in Welsh whilst being extremely hungry and having to face up to the man that killed their father!"

"I don't want to do the Maximus."

"Oh, Ames."

The Maximus was what Ames had called it, a maneuver that a wily Roman had invented in the war with the Etruscans. In 300 bc Consul Quintus Fabius Maximus sent his own brother disguised as an Etruscan peasant into the Cimian Forest to win over the Umbrians to Rome. His brother was a master of disguises. Fluent in the Etruscan language, he was successful in bringing the Umbrians into the alliance with Rome. Unfortunately in the previous operation in Wales, Anglethorpe hadn't quite mastered the local language in time which had led to his undoing. "All you will need to do is insert yourself as a footman into my sister's household."

Ames shook his head. "No learning any other languages?"

"Not even that. The worst that could happen would be that one of those odious little dogs my sister parades around will bite you on the ankles."

"It doesn't sound too bad."

"I knew you would come round to my way of thinking."

"What am I meant to be doing when I'm there?"

"Same thing as you did when she was last in London. Keep an eye on her."

Ames nodded knowingly. "Miss Aggie you mean? Bring her into an alliance with the Anglethorpe clan, sir?"

"Enough of your cheek, Ames. Let me work on that." He'd wanted to kiss Agatha very much the night before. Too much. But he was conflicted. If she still detested him, she would never gladly receive his embraces. But the way she had looked at him... if she didn't hate him, worse he dared to think, even harbored the smallest amount of feeling for him, then he wouldn't—couldn't marry her. Not if someone were to kill him like his father, like they had tried to do three years ago perhaps, leaving his wife... leaving Agatha behind _. Alone again._

Ames sat back with a satisfied look on his face. "So what are you going to do about the rumors?"

Henry chewed at his bottom lip. That was one thing he couldn't control. After Agatha had left, the _on dits_ had raged about her disappearance and the break-up of the engagement between Charles and Agatha, yet little by little the worst had died down. With Agatha's return, new rumors swirled, of the parentage of Harriet, Agatha's ward, where she had been for the last few years. It was as Agatha had rightly predicted, many years before.

He sighed and pushed back from the table. "I will have to find Agatha and warn her. After last night she will be in no mood to talk. If I know anything about Victoria, they'll be sat in that back room at Colchester Mansions, drinking whiskey and smoking cigars."

Ames nodded. "It's a pity your sister's butler wasn't more forthcoming about what goes on over there."

Henry shook his head. "Carruthers seems to have got all sorts of amusing notions in his head since he left my service." He clenched a fist. "But he has Victoria's best interests at heart."

# CHAPTER 25

"You know," Victoria said, inhaling perfumed smoke with a dreamy smile on her face, "it's a good thing I own this house. I can do anything that I want and nobody cares. It was almost worth marrying that old stick Colchester."

Agatha lay back in the winged chair that completed the book-lined room in which they sat. They were alone for the first time in a while. Harriet was attending a musicale, well chaperoned by one of Victoria's acquaintances.

It had taken a while for Victoria to persuade Agatha into taking the cheroot. It lay still in her hand, unlit. She toyed with her trusty potato knife, unwilling to cut the end off. Once she did, it was a slippery slope to her mind. Searching the room with her eyes, she could not see her jam jar. Damn, that normally deterred her from her worst excesses. But it was upstairs, hidden away in the cupboard.

"I'm not sure I would agree with that," she murmured. "What about your brother?"

"Henry? Gracious, he's too busy worrying about you again," Victoria said. "Most deliciously, the things that you do far outweigh anything that I might have done. Years rusticating in Devon, allowing your niece to do all sorts of things..."

A door slammed at the front of the house.

"Quickly!" Victoria cried. With quick jabs, she motioned to Agatha to put the cigar into the cleverly concealed ashtray that stood behind the wingback chairs. "I'll distract him, you open the window and get out the incense. And do something with that knife!"

"Him?"

"It'll be Henry. The blasted man always seems to know what I'm up to."

"What were you saying about no one caring what you did?" Agatha shot back. She had to get rid of the cigar.

"It's not what we are doing, it's the fact that you are doing it with me. He will think you've gone back to your old ways."

_Oh dear_. Stumbling across the room, Agatha fumbled with the catch on the window and slowly hauled open the sash. A plume of cold air sucked the perfumed smoke from the room, ruffling her wrap as it went. With care, she slid the knife onto the windowsill behind the curtain.

Henry slipped quietly through the door and sniffed the air. Agatha studied him anew from her semi-hidden state in the shadow of the curtains. He was still the catch of the season even though years had rolled by and he still wasn't married despite all the mistresses. Silver threads glinted in his blond hair, but he was still as muscular and lean as she remembered.

"I know you are in here, Miss Beauregard, and I know what you have been doing."

Agatha sighed. Stepping out from the curtain, she dropped into a full curtsey and stayed in it, waiting.

"What the hell do you think you are doing, Agatha? Get up!"

She stared over his shoulder at the door. "I wasn't hiding, my lord, nor was I concealing what I was doing."

"I did not say you were concealing anything, I just said I knew what you had been doing." Henry sauntered across the study to the desk, opened the top right-hand drawer and pulled a lever. He calmly selected himself a cheroot from the secret drawer that popped out.

"Now how did you know where they were kept, brother?" Victoria stood in the doorway, hands on her hips and a dangerous glint in her eye. Henry sat back in the desk chair with his eyes closed.

Agatha watched as tension coiled in her stomach. She had seen Henry behave this way before. His face expressionless and he made no mention of the smoke that still hung lightly in the room.

Something was awfully wrong. Again.

Henry frowned at her. "Victoria, go away."

Victoria gaped and peered at her brother. Seeming to sense the same as Agatha, she turned on her heel and pulled the door to. The snick of the lock was the only sign of her anger.

Henry opened his eyes and selected another cheroot. Lighting it, he poured a glass of whiskey from a decanter in the tantalus on the sideboard and held it out to her.

"Sit down, Agatha. And leave the knife there too, please."

Frowning, Agatha left the compromised safety of the curtain and, crossing the carpet, sat back in her customary chair, ignoring the glass of whiskey.

"Take it."

Really, he was quite the conversationalist. Agatha picked at the braiding on the chair with her free hand. "No thank you."

"Take a sip, Agatha." Henry repeated. "You are going to need it."

Hands trembling, Agatha stared at him as she took the glass from his large warm hands. For an instant as her hands clenched around his, she gasped. Snatching at the glass, she lifted it to her lips and knocked the contents back in one long swallow.

He steepled his fingers and placed his elbows on the desk. The sunlight on his face threw a bird-like shadow on the wall.

"It is as you feared when you left London, Agatha. Someone has remembered the debacle with Charles. And I'm afraid the sentiment of feeling is much worse this time."

Agatha opened the door to Victoria's room, her hands feeling for the knob automatically. With heavy steps, she trod across the carpet and stood, shoulders slumped in the half light.

Victoria turned from her vanity desk where she had been twirling her hair, her small dogs prancing around her ankles. "It will all be different this evening, Aggie. You'll see," she said softly.

Agatha fell back on the bed in Victoria's room. "I can't believe he knew where your cigars were."

"He's too bloody observant, is what he is," Victoria muttered darkly. "He's like a scientist, scrutinizing the minutiae of everything that you do." She glanced up at Agatha. "I'm sorry, Aggie. I didn't mean to mention—"

"No. It's alright," Agatha said slowly. Henry, a scientist. A person that fiddled and meddled and hypothesized and concluded.

_I've been analyzing the rumors, but I cannot yet pinpoint the source_ he'd said, puffing at the cheroot, as Agatha had felt the fire of the whiskey burn in her stomach. _If I could just create a viable scenario into which this all fitted I could draw a suitable end to this saga._

Bloody hell. Surely they were nothing alike? Agatha had given up on science anyway. She groaned. The burn of the whiskey in her stomach had been almost overwhelming, the taste of alcohol and herbs on her tongue beckoning her to investigate them.

"Get up, Aggie. I haven't seen you with such little backbone for a while!" Victoria swung in her chair to watch her best friend. "You can't give up now and go back to Devon. Think of all that you've come through. A few rumors never hurt anyone."

"Try living in a small village."

Victoria stared at her. "The ton _is_ like a small village. But the people change and events move on. Up you get. I'll go and rouse Harriet otherwise we'll be late."

In the carriage, Victoria leaned over Harriet and pressed Agatha's hand. "He's not coming tonight, you know. He said he had to go off and deal with something."

Agatha just _knew_ Victoria was speaking of her brother.

Victoria winked. "Better for us without him looking over our shoulders. We can have some real fun."

Agatha nodded and took a deep breath as the carriage rocked to a halt in front of a large double fronted building. She sat straight as the footman stared in. He had a large bushy beard, with a luxuriant mustache, and a fringe that almost reached his eyes. His only distinguishing feature was a large wart on his nose. She gasped as he held out a hand for her to exit the carriage. The poor man even had a slightly hunched back. He was still holding her hand when Victoria stepped out. She stared at him in obvious incredulity and held out her hand.

Victoria narrowed her eyes. "Don't I know you?"

The footman dropped Agatha's hand and hastily reached up for Victoria's, and then Harriet's. "No, miss. Er, I'm new. John Smith at your service, miss."

Agatha frowned. The man wasn't going to last long if he didn't realize that the correct form of address for Victoria was 'my lady'. Quickly, she laid her hand on Victoria's arm, and beckoned for Harriet to follow. "Come, Victoria, let's go. I want to get this over with."

The ball was smaller than Lady Guthrie's despite the size of the mansion and was hosted by Lord Freddie Lassiter's mother, Dowager Lady Lassiter. They made it through the receiving line unscathed. At the top of the stairs, Agatha recognized the man with the limp that Henry had sent to fetch Victoria from Lady Guthrie's ball. He smiled and took Agatha's gloved hand warmly, murmuring words of welcome. Dowager Lady Lassiter was a different matter. Whilst they curtsied to each other, she looked down her nose at Agatha.

"Not sure what you've been doing, gel, but I don't want any trouble at my ball."

Freddie groaned. "Good grief, Mother, we've spoken of this. They are just rumors, there is no substance to them. Agatha is Harriet's aunt... you know."

Dowager Lady Lassiter's face softened slightly although she sniffed again and looked suspiciously at Agatha.

Victoria reached a hand round Agatha's elbow and gently tugged her towards the ballroom. "Let's get a drink. I'm parched."

At the champagne table Agatha picked a glass and cradled it in her hand. Gently she put it back on the table as the babble grew around her.

"There she is! They say that she threw over her fiancé because he wasn't rich enough!"

Agatha gasped. Leaning on the white linen of the champagne table, she pushed herself up on tiptoes. The gossips were easy to see, seated in a small enclave, two matrons wearing garish turbans waiting for their daughters to come back from dancing.

"Never! I heard she had moved to the country and brought up a child which she said was her brother's but who is well known to have been her own!" The matron's purple turban bobbed up and down as she waved her finger in the ear.

Puce turban grimaced slightly. "I heard that she took many lovers among the smugglers on the coast. Just look at her relationship with that jumped up blacksmith."

"Nooooo!" Purple turban seemed to groan in delight at the salacious details. "I must tell Mrs. Weatherby, she'd love to hear this. I see her now, Elissa! Oh Elissa!"

Agatha rocked back on her heels. It was as bad as Henry had said. But despite the rumors being insufferable, they did not break her bones, or bruise her body. Just her heart, and her reputation.

"Aunt! Aunt Agatha!"

Agatha shook her head, and smiled warmly. Harriet floated towards her, supported by Henry's friend Freddie, her small stature and head of bright red hair the perfect foil for Freddie's harsh features.

"If you will excuse me, Miss Beauregard, I promised this Miss Beauregard a dance." With a bow and a laughing goodbye, Freddie led Harriet off to the dance floor.

"I heard those awful women talking as I left." Victoria grasped her by the elbow and pulled her away from the champagne table. "Don't say another word. They are bird witted rattlepates. That Mrs. Weatherby is the worst."

Agatha pulled distractedly at the neckline of her dress. "I've never felt so on show." She sidled sideways towards the wall of the ballroom, dragging Victoria with her.

"Ah, Lady Colchester," purred a voice. "Would you be so kind as to introduce me?"

Victoria gripped Agatha's hand tightly. "Oh, err, why of course, ah, Mr. Daventry." Victoria turned to Agatha, raising her eyebrows and wiggling her nose as she did so. "Mr. Daventry, my friend, Miss Beauregard."

Mr. Daventry was of medium height, oiled back hair, a grease-stained coat and small potbelly. "Please grant me a dance, Miss Beauregard. I have so been looking forward to meeting you."

Wordlessly, Agatha held out her dance card. _Don't make a scene. Follow what the ton dictates._

"I see you still have the waltz unspoken for, allow me." Grabbing the dance card with his hand, Mr. Daventry scrawled his name next to the dance. "I so look forward to seeing you in a while, my dear."

Agatha shuddered as he strutted away. But she had no time to contemplate him, as a veritable rush of gentlemen followed, from young blades of the ton to the lofty Earl Harding.

Victoria gazed at his name on Agatha's dance card. She tapped at it and raised her chin, staring into the dancing crowd. "Be careful with him. Even though he is a friend of my brother's, he is rumored to be quite a fast one. Watch yourself."

Agatha stared at her dance card. Every single dance had been signed for. And none of the names meant anything to her. Who was she really looking for on there? Henry? Mechanically she folded the dance card and thrust it into her skirts. She'd never seen him dance. In fact she rarely saw him among the debutantes and ball-goers at all.

"I say, Miss Beauregard, I believe it is our dance." Agatha looked up. A young man in military uniform bowed to her. She couldn't remember his name.

"Is everything alright?" The man put out his hand.

Agatha took in a deep breath and shook her head. Taking his hand, she allowed herself to be led onto the dance floor.

Unfortunately the time soon came around for the first waltz. As the violins started, Agatha heaved a sigh of relief, and sank into a chair by several large potted ferns. It seemed that she might escape the odious Mr. Daventry.

"Dear Miss Beauregard, I believe this is our dance!" Mr. Daventry stepped out in front of her. Taking her proffered hand for a longer than usual kiss, he led her to the dance floor.

Clutching her into his embrace, Mr. Daventry began to waltz jerkily around the floor. As his arms drew her in tighter and tighter, Agatha gasped and turned her face away from his ever approaching chin.

"That's it, just like that."

Agatha nearly missed a step as Mr. Daventry's potbelly rubbed sinuously against her hip.

"You know, Miss Beauregard, we can get a whole lot closer _chez moi_." A waft of garlic curled under Agatha's top lip. "I've heard you are ever so experienced, and have no qualms in collecting a few more men for your _delectation_."

She stumbled round a turn, shocked into silence. She should have stayed in Devon. Perhaps they could return there, it was a mistake to have come back. What was she thinking that the rumors couldn't hurt her—?

"I can assure you," the waft of fetid garlic continued, "that I may not have a blacksmith's size, ahem, but that I can please you in many other ways."

"I beg your pardon?"

In the corner of her eye, Agatha saw the string quartet move into view through the spinning couples. Mr. Daventry's hand on her back inched lower towards her bottom. As they whirled past the ladies sitting at the edge of the hall, more than one matron followed their progress, mouths agape. A well of despair filled her. She hadn't even done anything wrong and still she was causing a scene.

Agatha tried squirming but she was held rigid in Mr. Daventry's odious embrace. The dance was nowhere near ending and they had only made one circle of the floor.

Agatha sighed. Thank God Henry wasn't there. "I have no choice."

"What's that, my lovely?" Mr. Daventry looked down at her, his face only inches from hers.

Rapidly calculating, Agatha jutted her hip out, stumbled slightly and swept her arms in a circle as if to continue the dance. Sometimes there were advantages to being a little clumsy.

Mr. Daventry flew into the musicians forming the string quartet, his potbelly pivoting on her hip as a fulcrum. His wandering hands hung outstretched in front of him as his bottom squeezed itself firmly into the space between the closely sat cellist and violinist.

"Ow! You bitch!" he cried as the angry cellist poked him with her bow. The violinist stood up in disgust, causing the hapless man to fall to the floor with his chin wedged behind the chair.

All dancing came to a stop.

"I'll get you for that!" Mr. Daventry pushed at the chair that had wedged him in place.

Agatha was not sure if he was talking to her, or to the cellist who had moved her cello so that the spike upon which it normally rested now pinned Mr. Daventry and some of his leg to the floor.

Agatha glanced worriedly to her left and right. Oh dear. Why did scandal follow her everywhere?

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Daventry." She wrung her hands, wishing to escape. "Can I help you get up?"

"Noo!" he howled as the cellist removed the spike. "Go back to Devon you, you, you..."

"My dear, would you care for a breath of cool air?" A tall gentleman strode towards her. "Earl Harding's the name. Freddie said he might introduce me this evening." He motioned towards where Freddie leant against his cane in the crowd.

"That would be very nice, but..." Agatha looked round blindly for Harriet and Victoria, but neither were in sight as more couples whirled in the dance around them.

The tall earl placed a firm hand on her back and propelled her away. "Shut up, Daventry, you are making a scene. Freddie, help the man up, would you."

Limping to the string quartet, Freddie lifted Daventry jerkily up by his collar and set him in the corner, still shouting.

Smoothly, Earl Harding swept her towards the terrace doors. "Now then, my dear, I think a walk in the cool air would do you good."

"No... I'm fine really—"

"Think nothing of it. I like rescuing damsels in distress, as well as such pretty ones as you."

"Oh." Agatha stared back at the terrace doors as they swung shut behind them.

"So tell me of yourself," he said, leading her with an iron grip towards the balustrade, his hands tugging at her as she dragged her feet.

"I'm staying with Lady Colchester. Don't you think we ought to—"

"I don't want to hear of her," Earl Harding said a little roughly, pulling her more sharply. "More on you," he continued smoothly as if the past comment hadn't happened.

"I used to live in Devon. Really, I do think that we should return to the..."

"Wonderful place, Devon. Have you ever lived in France?" The man's left hand had, unnoticed to Agatha, started to stroke the upper parts of her shoulders.

"My lord, it's not true."

"Mmm, what, my dear?" He stared down at her.

"I'm not what you think!"

"No one's what anyone else thinks, _Madame_. Least of all the naughtiest ones."

Earl Harding was so much bigger and heavier than Mr. Daventry—the seductively stroking fingers covered a vice-like grip.

"But I'm not..."

"Ah, Harding. There you are. I was looking for Miss Beauregard and was told that you'd both headed out to the terrace."

Agatha froze. Henry stood in the shadow of a large urn, his well-muscled shoulders nonchalantly leaning against the plinth. His dance trousers stretched across his lightly crossed legs. _Not again._

"Anglethorpe," Earl Harding said shortly. He shifted his feet on the stone terrace, straightening to square up to Henry.

"I would like to talk to Miss Beauregard if you don't mind, Harding."

"I do mind, Anglethorpe, so buzz off, old man. I was just finding out a little more about the _mademoiselle_."

"I don't think you quite understand, Harding." Henry stepped out of the shadow of the urn. " _She belongs to me._ "

Agatha's mouth dropped open. "Now look here..."

Neither of the men listened to her, both glaring at each other across the stone terrace.

"I'm terribly sorry, Miss Beauregard." Agatha shivered as Earl Harding stepped away from her. "A misunderstanding, please accept my apologies."

He nodded at Henry. "Hawk," he said abruptly. "I will see you later with Granwich." Turning on his heel he strode off down the terrace and into the garden, melting into the darkness.

Agatha wrapped her arms around herself. First the whiskey and now _this_.

"Why can't you go one evening without getting yourself into trouble?" Henry caught hold of her hand. "Damn it, you are shivering, what did he do to you?"

"N... n... n... nothing," Agatha stuttered. Unbuttoning his coat, Henry drew it round her exposed shoulders and pulled her into him. The familiar smell of spice and cigar smoke swirled around her.

"Devil take it, Agatha," he muttered into her hair. "You've made me do this."

"I..." Agatha dropped her head back to look at him. "What...?"

With a groan, Henry dropped his face to hers and took her mouth in a searing kiss. Agatha sighed gently as his hand dropped to the small of her back and drew her gently against his hard body. _Sweet heaven_.

She shuddered as his large hands caressed her spine, drawing her up to the very trembling heights of ecstasy. He pushed her lips apart with his tongue, and with every stroke of her back, melted her inhibitions to nothing.

Finally he drew away from her, releasing her tender lips, his hands still playing on her back. He looked down at her with a bemused expression, the first she had seen on him. "I have to attend the meeting that Harding mentioned," he said absently. She stifled a whimper as one of his warm hands left her back. He used it instead to brush a thumb across her tender lips. "Though I wish I didn't need to." He sighed and dropped his hands to his side, before putting out an arm. "May I escort you back to the ball, Miss Beauregard?"

Agatha swallowed, willing motion into her drugged limbs. How could he change so quickly from the warm lover, to the cold efficient spy in an instant? She watched his Adam's apple twitch as she took his arm in hers, stroking the inside of her arm against his hand.

Perhaps he wasn't as unaffected as she thought. 

# CHAPTER 26

Henry sprawled in his favorite chair in the drawing room, draping his frame over the chair arms in an effort to find space. A fire roared in the drawing room grate, yet he shivered. The rest of the house in Mount Street was empty. More empty than he'd ever known it since his sister had married Lord Colchester and moved to his house in Brook Street. He'd wanted to follow Agatha to Colchester Mansions and beg her to come back with him to Mount Street, to bestow on him her luminous smile, assessing glances and soft, peach mouth.

He still felt cold, yet his lips burned. He turned his face into the room and stared at the men that surrounded him. Could they see how he felt?

"Where's Stanton?" Granwich pushed at the papers in front of him on the table.

Henry sighed. "Not certain. Last I heard from Albert, he was recovering."

"I've been told reliably that _he's_ back." Harding sat down in the chair nearest the door, joining the four men that already sat around the large mahogany table. Henry sat where Agatha had sat when he had forced her into marrying Charles. _Oh Agatha._ After kissing her, he hadn't been able to think straight. She'd stared at him as if he had dropped from the moon. He'd dragged her protesting to the Colchester carriage and sent her home for her own good. To protect herself from him.

"Who's back?" Freddie yawned and tapped his cane against his chair. Henry stifled a curse. Granwich had been true to his word and recruited Lassiter as soon as he'd returned from the war. But the man was yet to prove himself to Henry's mind. Despite being feted in dispatches, Freddie seemed far from being the serious man he expected him to be. Anthony Lovall, an experienced recruit at the War Office, and one of Freddie's old friends had said that Freddie just needed time. Time he'd had. He was still reckless. He was foolhardy. He often achieved _results_.

" _Monsieur Herr_ —Mister Mister is back," Henry said quietly.

Freddie still looked nonplussed. "Didn't know you had a stutter. Who's he?"

Harding banged his hand on the desk "More like who's Him. He's a French spy. He caused untold damage a few years ago by passing British military secrets to the French." He sat back with a grimace. "We nearly lost thousands of men at Corunna because of him."

"And Talavera," Granwich interposed.

"And most importantly Burgos." Henry looked into the fire as he answered. "We have no idea who he is. Given what has happened, he must have access to military information, and the ability to easily pass them to the French."

"Damnit. I was at Burgos." Freddie picked at his trousers. "It was the first place my hair turned white."

"Why wasn't he caught before?" Bill Standish asked quietly. He was a quiet, but large presence in the corner. Despite his position as a blacksmith, he showed no discomfort in being in the presence of four lords.

"There has been no sign of him. I looked for him everywhere." Henry dropped his leg to the floor and sat up. "That's why I asked you all here today. You have all run missions for me. He must be stopped."

Granwich nodded and spoke quietly. "If the Hawk has not been able to find him, then the man must have been as wily as a ghost."

"Hmm, access to military information," Freddie said thoughtfully. "And contact with the French. It can't be any of us. Although it could be someone close to us, I suppose."

Henry swallowed. The other men in the chairs sat silently for a few moments, contemplating the idea that their nearest friends and family might be passing secrets to the French. They hadn't thought to look at themselves.

"Who's new since a few years ago?" Freddie sat forward and placed an elbow on the table.

"Lord Fashington's back," Henry murmured.

"Hmm. He used to have access to all the government secrets." Granwich cocked his head. "But after what Henry told me, I couldn't continue to have him in the War Office."

The other gentlemen nodded their heads in agreement.

"Doesn't he always have a problem with the ladies?" Freddie obviously did not realize he was sailing in dangerous waters. "In fact, wasn't there something between him and Miss Agatha Beauregard at... some... point?" His voice trailed off as Henry glared at him. But Freddie was tenacious and did not shut up that easily. "She was around at the same time, wasn't she? And then she dropped off the scene, only recently to come back at the same time as _Monsieur Herr_? Bit of a coincidence..."

If looks could have killed, Freddie would have been a pile of smoldering ash in his seat.

"He's right, you know. I've been thinking about it too." Harding stood slowly. "She's been in Devon for the last few years and that area is notorious for its dealing with the French. It _is_ strange that there are all those rumors floating around the ton of her activities down there. Plus the timing fits exactly." He turned to face Henry. "What do you think, Anglethorpe, after all she is _yours_."

"She is _not_ a spy." Henry sat rigidly in his chair, his relaxed muscles now tensely vibrating. "I know she's not a spy."

"With all respect, dear boy, what makes you think that she isn't?" Granwich bounced his cane idly on the floor between the fingers of his right hand.

No spy could kiss so innocently.

"She led you a merry dance when she first came to London." Harding said with a sideways glance. "Seemed quite happy to lead me on earlier, you know..."

Henry rose to his feet slowly and leaned across the table, his head pounding. "Because I have watched her all the time for the following years that she was in Devon." Knuckles taut, he grasped at the table before taking a deep breath. _Happy to lead him on... Agatha didn't do that kind of thing._ A red rage descended at the thought. Drawing back his arm, he thrust out his fist and connected roundly with Harding's cheekbone.

"That is for Agatha." As Harding's head swung back, Henry thrust out his fist solidly again. "And that... is for this evening."

"Steady on!" yelled Freddie, grappling with Henry's arm. "He was only saying..."

"He knows exactly what he was saying." Henry sat down as suddenly as he had stood.

Harding sat still in the chair at the head of the table, his lip bleeding from where the first punch had split his skin. He stared at Henry in surprise. Slowly he raised an eyebrow. "So the Hawk has emotions too," he said thickly.

Henry cradled his bruised hand and grimaced. Another man he had punched defending Agatha. "I have spent the years watching her and wondering." _It had nearly killed him._ "Ever since I saw those letters written in French burning in the grate of the room in which I caught her and Fashington." He paused. "Ever since she took up with Fashington. Ever since she came under my roof and refused to abide by the rules of the ton."

Henry bowed his head, pressing his hand against his waistcoat where his watch pushed against the small ring he carried with him everywhere. Agatha had all the qualities of a beautiful spy. She had heard him ascending the stairs in Hope Sands, she had nearly killed him with her potato bowl, and if Ames hadn't been keeping an eye on her, he would never have known that she had successfully masqueraded as the Grand Albertino.

Worst of all. She had made him fall in love with her. From the very beginning.

He straightened up and looked the other men in the face, aware of their silence.

Was she thinking about him as much as he was thinking about her?

# CHAPTER 27

He was so bloody _confusing_.

One moment he acted as if he wanted Agatha to sink through the floor. The next he made her feel as if she was flying higher than a kite in the sky. Agatha put a hand to her lips. Worst of all she had no idea why Henry had kissed her, _again_. And yet despite that, it had still sent warmth throughout her body, from her head to her toes, a tingling warmth that grew to an ache.

Beside her, Victoria fluttered from her desk to the small table in the morning room, her small dogs yapping at her heels as Agatha sat quietly drinking tea.

"I'm sorry about Mr. Daventry," Victoria said worriedly. "I couldn't have guessed he would be so," she made a moue with her mouth, "lecherous."

Agatha gave a wobbly smile, glad that the topic of her brother hadn't come up. "Don't worry. We both know I couldn't have avoided dancing with him." She sighed. "I do wish trouble didn't seem to follow me around so much."

"At least it gave you the opportunity to throw someone into the string quartet!" Victoria collapsed into the day couch under the window. "You don't know how often I have longed to do that at a ball. Either the quartet is _awful_ , or the person you are dancing with has clumped on your toes so many times that you just want to get rid of him."

"Hmm, yes." Agatha took another sip of her rapidly cooling tea. "The look on his face as Freddie hauled him away was priceless."

Victoria smiled suddenly. "I preferred the bit where he was skewered by the cellist. And you were rescued by Earl Harding. That must have been a relief."

Agatha looked hard at Victoria's face. Whilst she continued to smile, the warmth that had blazed there before had muted somewhat. "He was very kind." Agatha bent to pet one of Victoria's small spaniels that nosed at her feet.

"Yes, a bit like a knight in shining armor. Rather unusual for him." Victoria continued, "So why were you on the terrace for so long? I was a little surprised when you let Earl Harding take you out there alone."

Agatha gulped.

"Ahem, Lady Colchester." Carruthers, Victoria's butler, stood ramrod straight in the doorway, a footman peering over his shoulder. "We have received a few..." The footman tapped the butler on the shoulder. "That is to say, a large number of bouquets for Miss Beauregard. We were wondering what we should do with them?"

Victoria leapt to her feet. "Agatha, you have indeed been a success."

"Ahem." The butler coughed into his sleeve again.

"Oh do stop saying 'ahem', Carruthers," Victoria said exasperatedly. "Whatever can be the matter?"

Carruthers, who had been Henry's footman at the time when Agatha had run away, had obviously grown into his discreet role as Lady Colchester's butler.

Agatha had a _very_ good idea what the matter was.

"Mesdames may wish to examine the notes that came with the flowers before receiving them." The butler looked rather worried.

The drawing room was filled with vases of flowers of every hue and texture. Light pink roses and spearmint, and of more concern, spider flowers and dill, among others, sparkled in the morning light.

Agatha knew only a little of what the meaning of the individual flowers was, but it was very well known that dill had all the connotations of 'no strings attached fun.' Grimacing, she plucked at random one of the cards that had accompanied a bouquet.

'To an experienced lady, can you teach an old dog some new tricks? Meet me tonight in Vauxhall Gardens, Lord Hennisome.'

Agatha swallowed and dropped the card back on the table. In mute horror she took another card from the pile.

'You make me hot under the collar. I'm looking for a new mistress. Be mine. Mr. Cryne.'

"I'm ever so sorry, Agatha."

Agatha looked up to see Victoria had several notes in her hand.

"It is just more of the same. I was so silly to think that it would all blow over if we ignored it. Carruthers, would you leave us for a moment please?" Victoria pushed the notes into a nearby vase.

Agatha waited as the butler and his footman exited through the door. The footman paused briefly, his humped shoulder lowered as he stared at the flowers perplexedly. He turned as if he had something he wanted to say, but Carruthers tapped him on his misshapen shoulder and led him away.

Through the open doorway, the front door knocker resounded through the house. When no visitor was forthcoming, Agatha stepped into the hall.

Henry stood at the open front door, speaking in urgent low tones to the footman, who gestured to the inside of the house with uncharacteristic animation, all sign of a hump in his shoulder gone. As Henry's eyes met hers, Henry stopped speaking.

Agatha blinked as the footman put a hand in the small of Henry's back and shoved him further into the house with more strength than she would have thought from a man with deformed shoulders.

With a curse, Henry strode away from the footman's hands and came to a stop in front of her. He stood up straight and stared down his nose at Agatha. "I've... come to tell you what I want from you."

Agatha took a step back down the hall, her mouth falling open. _What he wanted from her?_ But the last time she had asked him that had been years ago—

"And take you for a... drive. Especially since the Eversleigh musicale has been cancelled."

Snapping her mouth shut, she felt behind her for the stair bannister. She had been thinking frantically of ways to say that she was busy. But damn the man, he evidently knew her entire social schedule as well.

"Well?"

"Go away, big brother." Victoria looked over Agatha's shoulder, obviously drawn by the sound of voices. "You can't come to my house and harass my guests. Get back in your coach. She will let you know in five minutes whether she is coming or not."

Firmly, Victoria shut the door behind Henry as Agatha sat down on one of the shallow wooden steps of the staircase. She had never seen Henry appear so hesitant.

Victoria grinned and looked up at a large portrait that hung above the rococo hall. It was the only picture in the house of Lord Colchester and herself.

"By God, I'm going to make you dance, Henry," she muttered, staring at the portrait.

"Henry doesn't dance." Agatha traced the knots in the wood of the stairs. _What I want._ Goodness. What did she want? _To be held forever, to be looked after, to be freed._

Victoria laughed. "Of course not. He's too afraid that a young debutante will come along and ensnare him into marriage. I'm sure he's too worried that they'll interfere with his activities for the War Office."

_He asked me to marry him long ago_. Did that mean that he had thought that she was just another girl he could sweep into the corner so that he could continue with his secrets? Agatha dropped her head in her hands. Then why did he kiss her? To persuade her that she needed him more than he needed her?

"I'm not sure I want to go on a drive with your brother at the moment."

"Why ever not?" Victoria pulled Agatha up by her elbow and marched her up the stairs. "The five minutes is so that you can change your dress, do your hair and make him wait."

Agatha dragged her feet across the stair rods. "Have you seen the way he looks at me? It's like he wants to dig a hole in the ground and tip me in."

"Nonsense." Victoria pushed her into her room. "My pale blue dress I think, with the lovely neckline."

Agatha sputtered. "Lovely neckline? There is no neckline. There is practically nothing there on that dress."

"There is a neckline. It is just enhanced for _your_ shape." Victoria pushed Agatha up the stairs and through the bedroom door as Chantelle, her lady's maid, bustled in.

"Oooh yes zees iz ze one," Chantelle exclaimed. Deftly unpicking the buttons on the back of the dress, she picked it up and pulled it over Agatha's head.

"Now the hair." Victoria nodded at Chantelle.

Fingers weaving nimbly, Chantelle drew Agatha's hair into a crown and folded it on top of her head, leaving a few ringlets curling down by the side of her face.

"Bah, _alors_ , miss, you do look younger."

Agatha winced. She turned to look at herself in the mirror. The maid was right. The hairstyle pulling the hair back off the head smoothed out her skin, and faded the sun wrinkles from her time in Brambridge. The pale blue of the dress also showed against her pale skin like silk. But the neckline _was_ too low.

"Stop looking at it!" Victoria stamped her foot on the ground. "It's the fashion. No one is going to pay any attention to it. Everyone else goes around in the same sort of dresses. Get used to it."

"But I still haven't said if I want to go with your brother."

"Of course you do. Don't you want to find out what he has to say?"

"I... err..." Yes she did. Very much so.

"There you go then."

In the hall Victoria handed Agatha a pair of gloves. She smiled, a little sadly it seemed, and pushed Agatha out of the front door.

Henry lounged in the driving seat of a tall curricle, the reins held firmly in one hand, his top hat tipped rakishly on his head. He turned to Agatha and grinned as he handed her into the carriage. As his gaze moved downwards, his smile slipped.

But then it turned a little more wolfish. Giving a loud crack to his whip, Henry pulled on the reins and started to whistle.

# CHAPTER 28

By Lucifer, she was still gorgeous. Henry straightened on the well-sprung carriage seat and hoped that Agatha couldn't see how her décolletage had affected him. Desperate want and rage fought within him at the same time, blinding him to the roadside obstacles.

"Watch out, Henry!" Agatha shouted as a small boy darted in front of the precarious carriage. She grabbed him by the arm and shook it. "What's the matter with you? Have you been drinking?"

Henry thought of the two whiskey tumblers he had drained before he could get up the courage to ask her out on a drive. That and to stop himself turning round and going back to bed. The short answer to her question was yes. But in his defense, it had been accompanied by a rather large and satisfying sandwich.

Devil be damned, he wished that she had a large coat to wear or something that would hide her away. He had seen what the men were like in the park on a previous occasion. Whilst a lot of that was tied up with these terrible rumors, much of it was to do with the fact that Agatha had matured into a beautiful woman.

He twitched the reins a little, causing the horses to shake their heads in disagreement. He felt a sudden urge to break into song.

"You have been drinking," she said suddenly. "I can smell it." Agatha sat back on the seat and folded her arms, pushing her breasts up even further. Henry gulped.

"I merely had a sip of brandy," he said, marveling at how cool and aloof his voice sounded whilst his body burned. "I was trying the new intake that the Berale House estate manager ordered. He asked me to give my approval to buy before the next shipment came in. Given the wars with France, it is difficult to get new brandy these days and there is a lot of competition for barrels..." His voice faded as he became aware that Agatha was gazing at him with an eyebrow raised.

She put a hand into her skirts.

Henry groaned. "Please don't get out your notebook."

If he had just stuck with telling her he was trying the new intake, as false as it was, it might have flown.

However, clever Agatha looked at him for a few seconds longer with her eyebrow raised and then turned to face the front again. "What's wrong with my notebook?"

Henry hunched his shoulders. "When you get out your notebook it means you are really analyzing everything being said in a very _scientific_ manner."

"Aren't we meant to turn left here to go into the park?" Agatha withdrew her hand from her skirts, and folded it with the other in her lap.

Clenching his fists, Henry pulled hard on the reins. The horses jerked their heads but followed the curve through the railings into the park.

They had barely entered fifty paces when another carriage hailed theirs. Agatha groaned audibly beside him. Henry stilled the carriage horses reluctantly, wondering if he could hide behind the thin whip he held in his hand.

"Henry, old fellow, well met!" the gentleman said in a jolly manner.

Henry nodded back. Edward Fiske was a businessman, an accountant. He had little to say on anything unless it involved several figures and a total box at the bottom. It baffled Henry as to why Edward's latest paramour stayed with him.

"Haven't seen you out much since... since, well." Edward glanced at his companion.

"Yes, quite." Henry tightened his grasp on the reins. Edward had gained himself the attentions of Celine since Henry had finally discharged her for the last time.

"Since me," Celine said with a pout, laying a gloved hand on the man's arm. "Silly Edward. Everyone knows. And anyway, I'm with you now, tidbit."

Henry heard Agatha wince. He wanted to do the same.

"Look, old chap, hope you took no offense..." Edward continued. Henry smirked but he let Edward squirm a little longer. "It's just that Celine is such a beautiful woman."

The lady in question visibly preened and plucked at her bright red dress. Then she looked Agatha straight in the face. "And your name is?"

Henry opened his mouth to interject, but Agatha was faster.

"Agatha Beauregard," she said shortly.

"Oh yes. I've seen you before. With Henry in Brambridge, wasn't it?" Celine said softly.

Henry glanced sideways at Agatha. Her face was white, and her fingers trembled on her reticule. Oh good grief. He hadn't thought. How on earth was he going to win Agatha over if she'd already seen all of his supposed ex-mistresses? The many numerous ex-mistresses...

"Pleased to meet you," Edward said politely.

"I'm not," Celine cocked her head on one side, her eyes flicking between Henry and Agatha. "Have you heard what they are saying? Illegitimate child, peasants in Devon, men all over the place and do you know what she did to Charles Fashington?"

Henry frowned, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He squared his shoulders as Agatha's slumped next to him. He ached to hold her in his arms.

"What did she do to Charles Fashington?" Henry leaned forward, his body angled away from Agatha, trying to block her from Celine's sight.

Celine leaned forward as if to import great meaning to what she was going to say. "Did you know that she put it around that Charles jilted her, and then when nobody believed it, she spread a rumor that he frequented brothels which had very particular reputations _if you know what I mean_."

Henry sat back in his seat. He could not look at Agatha, he felt helpless, so helpless that if he looked at her, she would see it in his eyes.

"Hmm," he said and then fell silent.

"Now look here!" Agatha exploded next to him. "I'm sat right in front of you..."

Henry sighed and took Agatha's hand in his. "I'm sorry but every word Celine said is true."

Celine nodded and smiled happily.

"Every word of Charles Fashington frequenting a brothel of a particular reputation is true," he continued.

Celine continued to smile. A look of horror crossed Edward's face and he dived for the reins of the carriage as if to see if he could take Celine away as soon as possible.

"In fact, when I hunted Charles Fashington down on the night that Charles and Agatha broke off their engagement, he was engaged in just such an activity. As Celine well knows."

Celine's smile straightened. "He was? Yes. He was."

"Oh yes. And anyway, Celine, we must all start somewhere, mustn't we?"

Celine blinked and straightened, the smile gone from her face.

"Celine, I think it is time we said our farewells." Edward shook the reins that he now held in his hand, his fingers visibly trembling. "Do you think I might see you at White's soon, Henry?" he enquired tentatively.

Henry frowned. "Yes," he said slowly. "Perhaps."

As the carriage wheeled away, Agatha drew a gloved hand across her brow and dabbed at the perspiration. "Please could we just drive for a bit, Henry?"

Henry looked up sharply as Agatha used his first name for the first time in years, but Agatha faced away from him.

He nodded. "I think there is a rhododendron drive somewhere in here."

Agatha tilted her head towards him, the movement only serving to emphasize the gentle crevice between her breasts. He licked his lips.

"Henry," she said sharply. With a jerk on the reins, he set the horses off again at a smart pace into the park.

"I'm sorry that we met them," he said softly. "Celine was never good at keeping secrets." He stopped for a moment. "She used to know all the rumors and everything about anyone. It made her essential in some of the things that I did."

"Where did you meet her?" Agatha asked. Henry frowned.

"She was the madam of a high class brothel," he said shortly. He frowned as Agatha gave a small smile.

"Not unexpected," she said softly. "You never wished to marry her."

Henry brushed at a lock of hair that had fallen into his eyes. _How did she know?_ She couldn't have been watching his every move, could she? Was she really _Monsieur Herr?_

"But you still haven't told me what you want from me."

Henry gazed at her for a long second. "I want... no, I need. Oh devil take it, Agatha."

Letting go of the reins, he pulled her roughly towards him, his large hands gathering her up at the small of her back. Her head tipped back and she stared at him with questions in her eyes. He drew in a breath as her rosy lips parted. Drawing a slow hand up the silk covering of her spine, he cupped her neck. Her mouth opened in protest. Tilting his head on one side, he looked at her, wonderingly, every muscle straining in his body. Not _again_. He couldn't do it. He didn't want to know how she felt about him. It was better this way, just being near her. It would have to do.

As he drew back, she closed her mouth with a snap. Turning to grab the reins once more, he shook his head, but stopped as Agatha laid a hand on his. The horses stamped their feet impatiently.

Agatha leaned into him. "I'll show you scientific..." she murmured. Placing a small kiss on his cheek, she trailed a hand over his shoulder, and caressed under his jaw.

In shock, he turned his face so that it rested against hers, unable to stop himself. For an instant she let it rest, and then, tilting her head to the side slightly, she took his lips in hers and licked. Henry shivered to his boots as her catlike tongue ran smoothly across the tender inside of his mouth. Clenching at the reins, he closed his eyes. It was wonderful, no, _terrible_. She didn't detest him in the least. But... _oh gods_. He couldn't marry her now.

# CHAPTER 29

The crunching of a horse's hooves resounded loudly in the still park.

"The slut and her paramour I see."

"Good God." Blinking, Agatha drew away from Henry, his frozen chin looming squarely above her. Why had she given in to the devilish voice that had pushed her into reaching up to him?

"Not God. That's Lord Fashington now, thank you, Miss Beauregard."

Agatha stared blearily at the figure on his horse. No longer a charming dilettante, Charles Fashington was still a good-looking man, but now his mouth seemed to pout in vanity rather than strength. His once full head of black hair was now slicked back revealing a strong widow's peak.

He smiled, his lips stretched across his yellow teeth. "You wouldn't have called off our engagement at the time had you known that I would be coming into my inheritance, would you?"

Agatha jolted as Henry lifted his large hand as if it burnt from where it fit snugly at her waist. "Go to blazes, Charles. You wanted out just as much as she did. You just weren't man enough at first to break it off yourself."

Charles jerked at his reins, causing his horse to sidle. "Shut up, Anglethorpe. I have as much influence as you have now. This is between her and me. I'll talk to her as I wish."

"So it _is_ you who is putting round all the rumors." Agatha couldn't stop herself. It must have been Charles. No one else held so much hatred for her. She drew a breath in and then stopped. Could he really have been the one who had tried to murder her?

Charles laughed, opening his mouth so wide that Agatha could see his teeth. "Rumors? You mean they aren't true? I was told them by a close, yes very close friend." Laying his whip across his lap, he caressed the rigid leather and shot Agatha a black look through his eyelashes. "No, you silly fool. I didn't start the rumors. They were already here. But don't blame me if I don't get any satisfaction from passing them on. After all, for three years nobody in government would talk to me unless they really had to."

"I didn't reveal any details of our encounter to anyone, Fashington." Henry slapped his hand against the side of the curricle. "Just like I promised. But did you seriously expect me not to drop some other things I had found out about you into key ears that would listen?" He looked pointedly at the whip in Charles' hand.

"Goddamn you, Anglethorpe. That damaged my reputation and set my career back at least a decade. Of course now that I am a lord, all of that is forgotten. Everyone wants to know the latest Lord Fashington. Funny thing, wealth—and power." Charles turned back to Agatha. "Hah! I'm even engaged to Lord Guthrie's daughter now."

Lord Guthrie's daughter? Agatha could only briefly remember a shy woman standing behind Lord Guthrie before Lady Guthrie had thrown her out of the ball. The daughter would be a great heiress. Even though it was known that Lord Guthrie also worked for the government, he was a very rich man in his own right.

"Mmm. Miss Guthrie is so deliciously malleable. She will do anything I ask. You see, she thinks that I'm _lovely_ and _charming_." Charles sneered again, his mouth twisting. "I ask you, what man is charming?"

Agatha swallowed as for the first time in years, her body twitched.

Henry put his arm around her, resting his hand on the soft swell of her upper back as the trembling ebbed away.

"Shut up, Fashington," Henry said quietly. "Lord or not, there are still some things I can influence through what I know."

Charles growled, yanking at the bit on his horse's mouth. "Pardon me if I don't invite you to the wedding," he threw over his shoulder as the horse wheeled away. "It might give you more time to find _Monsieur Herr_. That is if you haven't already found him."

Henry didn't wait for Charles to disappear. Flicking the reins, he maneuvered the curricle in a wide circle and set off back the way they had come.

Agatha clutched at the side of the curricle as it bounced across the cobbles. "Who is _Monsieur Herr_?"

"No one that you know." Henry stared straight ahead. He would not meet her gaze.

"Oh. Something to do with your work?" The work that he wanted to keep from his bride, no doubt.

"Yes."

"You still haven't told me what you want."

"Just drop it, Agatha. Enough. Now is not the time." Henry yanked on the reins as they arrived back at Colchester Mansions and refused to look at her.

She didn't wait for him to hand her down. Flinging open the curricle door, she put her hand on the wooden floor and swung herself to the pavement. Without looking back, she fled up the steps to Colchester Mansions and all the way up to her room.

She watched him leave covertly from the upstairs bedroom window. His back, so straight when they had been driving, slumped across the two seats. Agatha bit down on the back of her knuckle as he lay motionless, as if he were never moving again. And then with a thrust of his powerful forearm, he righted himself and set the horses off down the street.

"Have a nice time?"

Backing away from the window, Agatha drew her breath sharply. Victoria stood just inside the doorway, her face an unnatural shade of white.

"I, I'm not sure." Agatha frowned. "Where's Arturo?" Usually two dogs followed Victoria around the house, but now only one lay at her feet.

Victoria's face flamed, chasing away the unnatural pallor. "Earl Harding has him."

"Earl Harding has Arturo? But you love Arturo! Wait—did Earl Harding come here? Where was Harriet?"

"Harriet was taking a rest. I believe she is still abed."

"Why didn't you call her down?"

"I had no need to. Earl Harding and I understand one another."

"But... he took your dog!"

Victoria sighed. "I believe Arturo went willingly. In fact I quite believe that Earl Harding is in need of some company. He was quite animated."

Agatha laid her bonnet on the bed, dread rising through her. "What did he want?"

Victoria took a deep breath and closed her eyes. "What I am going to tell you should not be told to anyone else, or my brother." Agatha nodded shortly in agreement. Victoria stepped into the bedroom and sank onto the bed beside Agatha's bonnet. "He came to tell me that there is a French spy operating now in London called _Monsieur Herr_."

"But—" Victoria held her small hand up to silence Agatha.

"The spy was operating years ago around the time when your affair with Fashington became known."

"I would hardly call it an affair."

Victoria took a deep breath. "The spy stopped operating when you left London. And has started again now that you are back."

"The earl doesn't think that I—"

"Yes he does. And what is more, he thinks that you are dragging my brother into it on purpose."

"Your brother?" Agatha could feel her cheeks reddening.

"Oh come on, Aggie. You know that he's a spymaster for the British, don't you? Nobody that works for the War Office is anyone but a spy!"

Agatha shivered, toying with the ties on her bonnet. _How did you know I was there,_ he'd asked her, silently invading the house in Hope Sands with a catlike grace. She gasped. He hadn't told her what he wanted from her. It was all so blindingly obvious. "You don't think that your brother thinks I'm the spy, do you?"

Victoria licked her lips and rubbed at her cheeks with both of her hands. "I'm not sure. He has never said anything to me."

Agatha had been with Henry only an hour earlier. He'd made Celine, a courtesan, his mistress to further his 'work' at the War Office. He had calmly told her so himself. Good grief, he always knew where she was. _She's mine,_ he'd roared at Earl Harding.

"When did he reopen the Berale estate, Victoria?" she said coldly, fear creeping into her heart. "The one near Brambridge?"

"Hmm, nigh on a month after you left. Around the same time he had a meeting with Earl Harding and what sounded to me like a Frenchman who said he had come up from Devon." Victoria began to look troubled. "The next day he told me he thought it was time to air the old place out. It was quite strange and coincidental. After Mama died there he said he would never set foot in the house again."

Agatha felt an anguish grip her. "We saw Fashington in the park," she said.

"Odious man. Did you know that he tried to get me to persuade you to break off the engagement yourself?"

"No. He told us in fact that he wasn't the one passing the rumors around. I don't know what he would gain by lying."

Victoria stood slowly. "He wouldn't gain anything by lying, Aggie."

Agatha sniffed. With shaking fingers, she pushed her hand into her skirts and pulled out her notebook. "It's not me, Victoria." Opening a yellowed page, she gazed at the old notebook. Withdrawing the stub of her pencil slowly from the same pocket, she made a heading. 'Monsieur Herr.'

"Of course." Victoria stared at the notebook. "Someone is trying to frame you and distract my brother's attention. Number one," Victoria began. "You are not the spy." She held up her hand as if to acknowledge what she said was obvious. "Number two, the activity of the spy coincides with your time in London, both times."

"I'm sorry, but why would that mean someone was trying to frame me?" Agatha scribbled faster and faster in the notebook.

"Number three, someone is setting up all kinds of false rumors to discredit you, as if they want you to go away again."

"I still don't understand how this helps them by framing me."

"Number four, you are linked romantically." Victoria rubbed at her eyes. "Or otherwise with my brother Henry who, to another spy would be known as a British War Office expert."

"No. It still doesn't add together." Agatha stopped writing. "We're missing a piece." She gazed down at the pages. The points Victoria had made connected together, but none of them pointed back to a focal point. The pages blurred in front of her face.

He only wanted her because he thought she was a spy. No wonder he couldn't tell her. No wonder he couldn't bring himself to kiss her back. He must have had to talk himself into kissing her each time. _You've made me do this._ Oh hell. Agatha bit back a sob.

"Alright. We need to add in some conjecture."

Agatha swallowed and coughed. "I prefer evidence." _She'd seen the evidence herself._

Victoria twitched an eyebrow and gazed at Agatha intently for a few seconds. "From what you told me a few years ago, all scientists create hypotheses before they undergo investigations. Surely they are nothing but conjecture too?"

Agatha froze. Why did Victoria and Henry continue to _needle_ her? Anyone would have thought that they were positively willing her to engage with the side of her nature she had buried so deep that often it reared its head before she had the ability to kick it back down again. Silently she nodded. She didn't trust herself to speak, her hands trembling on her pencil as she held down the pages of the little book. That was how it started, with little things, like writing in the book again. If she wasn't careful, the dam would burst.

Victoria scratched her head. "How about, my brother is a British spy... he comes too close to discovering who _Monsieur Herr_ is. He needs to be taken off the trail, so they target you. They make him think that you are the spy to lead him off their scent. And once they have him off the scent they'll try and get rid of you so that he also goes away and they can continue their activities."

Agatha stopped writing, frozen into place. "So you do think that he believes I am a spy."

"Yes, no, ah." Victoria stood and paced to the wardrobe.

"And until we find out who is framing me, the rumors are going to continue, your brother is going to still remain _romantically interested_ in me because he thinks I'm a spy, and I'm going to get thrown out of most of the balls in London."

"Err, correct. You mean I was right about the romantic interest?"

"If he thinks I'm a spy and he's doing this just to get to me, then that's not romantic, is it?"

Victoria rubbed her hand across her face. "Aggie... I've seen the way he is with you."

Standing, Agatha picked up her bonnet. "We met Celine in the park."

Victoria's intake of breath was audible. She paused before taking a deep breath. "We need to plan a way out of this. For both of you."

Agatha looked back down at her book and wiped at a small tear that had inexplicably formed in her right eye. "I suppose the first question to ask would be who could the spy be?"

Victoria shook her head. "I've no idea. But I think we might have a way of shaking them out of the trees." She closed her eyes for a few seconds and bunched her hands visibly in her skirts. "I haven't been to Berale House for years, but it is the ideal place for a house party to stir the waters, so to speak." She opened her eyes and stared at Agatha. "And to chase away some old ghosts."

# CHAPTER 30

It was strange to be back in Berale House with more than just his coterie of spies within it. Henry tracked Agatha's progress through the morning room with hawk-like intensity. He hated house parties, particularly ones in houses where past memories were so palpable that one could all but reach out and touch them. But he would have traded anything just to be in the same room as Agatha.

He licked his lips as Agatha sat down and started to sip a tumbler of lemonade, her plump red lips tickling the edges of the glass, her large eyes gazing out over its rim. She did not look his way, not once. There was no doubt, she _had_ been avoiding him for the past few days.

Was she really innocent? Did he care anymore—after all, however he felt, he couldn't marry her.

Or was it because he was still smarting over having guests in his parents' house? Victoria had told him he'd turned the place into a mausoleum. That it was time to let the house earn its keep.

He closed his eyes as Agatha took another sip of lemonade, her curls bobbing as she inclined her head. It was torture. Since that fateful kiss on the terrace at Dowager Lady Lassiter's ball, it was as if all of his senses had been tuned in to her every move. He could almost feel the sweet velvet cordial running over his tongue, especially since he had experienced at first-hand how soft her tongue could be. _Oh Aggie. Why did you do it?_

"Are you alright, Anglethorpe?" Freddie sat back languidly. "See anything that you like?"

Henry took a deep breath and swallowed as Smythe waved a tray of miniature hors d'oeuvres shaped like exquisite patisseries under his nose with a terrified look on his face. He shot Smythe a disgusted look and met the amused gazes of both Freddie and Harding. It was obvious that his ardor was evident to all those who knew him well. He couldn't understand why they were so amused, however, as they were the ones that had presented Agatha as the best candidate for being _Monsieur Herr._

Freddie reached out and took one of the amusing hors d'oeuvres from Smythe's shaking tray. He examined its shape before winking at Henry. "Yes, haven't seen you making such a cake of yourself over such a choice of crumpet in a long time." He smirked and popped the food into his mouth as the normally serious Harding bent over in silent laughter.

Henry shook his head at Smythe and waved him off with a shake of his hand. Smythe blinked and stood still for a second before walking slowly away.

"Will you two stop it?" Henry folded his arms. "I was just thinking about whether she is _Monsieur Herr_ or not, and making sure I don't take my eyes off her. I would present to you, gentlemen, that your love lives are no better than mine either."

Harding's smirk dropped abruptly from his face. He took a long sip of his tea and elbowed Freddie in the stomach.

Henry looked over at Agatha again. She was discussing something heatedly with her niece Harriet and his sister, who held one of her dogs tightly to her on her lap.

In frustration he gritted his teeth and searched the room for his butler. Why had he agreed to this awful gathering? Catching the eye of Smythe, who had been watching him from a corner by the door, Henry nodded.

The butler stepped staunchly further into the room. "Ladies and gentlemen, if you would please follow me, luncheon is served."

Smythe led them outside to the terrace where a large table had been set out in the sunshine. Pride of place had been given to his sister Victoria as the de facto host of the event. He'd left her to the seating plan. Then came Agatha and, he groaned, himself. It was as if the gods had conspired against him.

Her silk dress rustled as she sat down next to him, accepting his hand to steady herself. She did not look him in the face. He bent his back to lower her in the chair and felt faintly bereft when she let go to fold her hands meekly in her lap. He laughed to himself. She was the least meek female that he knew, barring his sister.

"Look, I—"

"I heard what you said," she interjected shortly but quietly.

"But—"

"I am not _Monsieur Herr_ ," Agatha continued quietly. "And neither am I a Celine." Agatha refolded her hands in her lap, yet her back remained straight and her eyes were fixed on the salt cellars.

Henry hunched his shoulders inside his coat and sat quietly watching the guests eat, committing every ounce of his being to resisting the urge to grab Agatha's delicate hands in his and pull her onto his lap. It was surprising what one noticed when one really looked, the flickering glances of guests across the tables. The way Celine refused to look at Edward, though they professed to be together. The way that Stanton, seemingly recovered from falling into the sea spent the majority of his time staring at Harriet and not eating. Even the manner in which his sister spoke to Harding, easily, assured, as an equal. And the way Harding responded with warmth. But no fire. Rescue came at last from his musings halfway through the serving of soup. A footman tapped him on the shoulder. "Message for you, my lord."

The message had Renard's unmistakable seal on it. He thrust it into his pocket. It was the worst time to receive a message, but looking up and down the table, it was noticeable that most guests were more interested in their soup than in his activities. At the end of the meal he stood quickly, bowed and left the table.

The study was as he had left it the last time he had visited Brambridge. Books lined the walls, and his father's desk sat foursquare in the middle of the room. It was the only room he had changed in the house, it had once been a garden room, but as many of the other rooms also had lovely views of the estate, it had been little used.

Laying the note on the desk, Henry searched the bookshelves, hesitating as he passed over the yellowing copy of _Conversations in Science_ that he had brought to Brambridge. With a grunt he moved three books further on and pulled out a thin pamphlet of Greek verse that had been translated into English. At the desk he unfolded the note, and, opening the pamphlet a third of the way through, began to decipher the encoded message with the cipher in the Greek poem on the page.

The message was clear. Henry needed to meet a boat that night in Longman's Cove. Uncharacteristically Renard was sailing his boat right up to the English coast, bringing someone in who might have information on the identity of _Monsieur Herr_. Renard thought it was the woman that was seen unusually traveling in both directions a few years before. The person would be escorted from the ship at high speed, as he, Renard, couldn't make land.

It wasn't surprising. The number of customs men in Brambridge had been increased since a spate of riding officers' deaths in recent years. Whilst they nominally all worked for the Crown, they took a dim view of smugglers and Renard was a prize of the first order, despite his allegiance as a spy. What would indeed be more surprising would be to catch a member of the ton wandering across the beach in the dead of night.

A cricket match after lunch wore many of the guests out, with all retiring early after dinner before the fires of the drawing room had gone out. Henry left all his finery behind him. Dressed in black and navy from head to toe with mud smeared across his face, he left Berale House by the door from his study to the garden, and hurried down the long lane that led to the Brambridge shore. Several black openings in the hedge marked the drives up to small farms that owned the fields that dotted the cliffs, in between the 'plats' that were small vegetable gardens for the villagers.

Moonlight shone brightly on the muddy tracks of the lane. At the bottom, by the sea, the road met the shingle and stopped abruptly, a dangerous place to linger. In the pale light, a dark shape moving across would be extremely visible to the customs lookouts that were dotted around the cliffs. Henry crept off the road into one of the dark farm openings and followed the other side of the hedge towards the beach.

A small inlet let the brook that ran off the hillside meet with the sea. Cautiously he left the safety of the dark hedge and, scrambling down, followed the steep banks towards the beach.

As he crunched onto the sand he followed the water's edge, the outline of his dark form merging with the water. A flash came from out at sea, a signal from Renard's boat. Henry continued to walk cautiously along the beach, glancing to the left and right. The beach was entirely deserted, and even the seagulls had left it to the quiet crash of the surf.

Drawing a tinderbox out of his pocket, he dropped to the floor. Briefly he fumbled with the fire-steel and flint from the tinderbox, but with a few short strikes of the flint, he managed to light the dry char material in the tinderbox. Holding the lit char-cloth up briefly, he covered it with his hand three times. Another single flash lit up the beach, briefly illuminating the boat.

It could take a strong man half an hour to row through the swells that covered the bay around Brambridge. He would then need to navigate the rolling breakers that crashed onto the sandy shore dotted with pebbles. Henry bent his back to present a lower profile, his hands in front of him ready for attack, glancing continuously up and down the beach for the customs men.

On his second patrol of the beach, his gaze caught and held where long grass moved at the edge of the inlet, and yet there was _no_ breeze. Where the beach grew narrower, he crossed to the safety of the cliffs below what the locals called Longman's Barrow. Moving silently to the back of the beach, he took his black cloak off, and swung it in front of him. Creeping around the field, he reached the point where the grass was now still. Standing slowly from his bent position, he watched as a sensibly booted foot withdrew further into the grass. Without stopping to think, he threw the cloak onto the rough area where the foot had disappeared and jumped on top of it.

"Ow!"

Henry drew back slightly, hands holding down the cloak.

"Get off me, you oaf!"

The voice was higher pitched than he would have imagined for a man, and strangely familiar. Slender hands beat at the edges of the material as he lay across it astraddle.

"Be quiet!" he muttered. This was no customs man.

"If I'm any quieter I'll disappear!" the voice retorted.

"Who are you? Are you following me?"

"Of course not. I don't even know who you are! I was just lying here contemplating the stars and you turned up with your bloody great cloak which I am still under by the way, and _now I have a knife to your leg_."

_Not that knife again_. Gingerly Henry rose to his feet and backed off to circle the figure which had started thrashing in the wet grass in an attempt to get loose from the fabric. With a lunge, he wrapped the loose folds of the cloak around the hand that he judged was holding the small knife. As he wound the cloak around the hand, an expanse of creamy white skin gleamed in the moonlight, and then the folds of a light pink dress. He groaned.

An outraged scream tore through the air. Quickly he flung the now bandaged arm back into the grass and pressed his hand to the small mouth that had been revealed.

"Quiet, Aggie!"

"Mmmff fffmmmeee."

"Look, I'll get off you in a minute, but you have to stay quiet. I'm here for a reason and not for pleasure. And you can put away your bloody little knife too."

"Fnnnaa fnaa."

"Agatha! You're a lady, what have I told you about using language like that! Ow!"

Shaking his bruised hand and smirking to himself, Henry backed away from the now still and disheveled woman. The moonlight shone on her mud stained pale pink dress. A hank of hair had escaped from what had been an immaculate chignon. The look was completed by a large pair of familiar sturdy lace-up boots which had been the first items he had tripped over in the grass.

She looked adorable. And furious.

"You deserved it!" she spat. "I did nothing to you!"

"You put a knife to my leg," Henry said dryly.

"You threw a cloak over me and then sat on me!" she retorted. "I hadn't even said a word."

"Where is the knife?" Henry looked around curiously at the ground and in the cloak.

"I'm not telling. It's one of my secrets." Agatha pouted.

A smile twisted at the edges of Henry's mouth.

"First rule of espionage, Henry, if you are wanting not to be seen, you should have brought a hat!" Agatha said sharply.

Henry frowned. _Bloody hell, she remembered that night too_. Quickly he dropped to the ground level with Agatha and began to reach into the grass. "I had a hat."

The hat wasn't in the grass. Perhaps it was tangled up in his cloak? Single-mindedly, he began to pluck at Agatha's skirts. He turned on one side, his hand encountering a warm, stocking-clad leg. Unable to stop himself, he stroked the shapely calf down to the tightly laced boot. Agatha shivered.

"Nothing there," he muttered hoarsely. As if of their own accord, his fingers moved to the other leg, stroking upwards to the top of the stockings. Henry drew closer, blond hair falling over his eyes. His fingers trembled as they encountered soft, warm skin. Slowly he pulled away, tracing his hands over the sides of her muddy dress, following the folds and creases across her belly.

With a sigh, Agatha rolled towards him. Abruptly he curved his hands under her and pulled her hips towards him. Her head turned to face nose to nose with him, as his hand caressed the soft silk covering her bottom. She licked her lips. But yet still he did not kiss her. Slowly he stroked his hand across the neckline of the low cut dress and gazed down at her.

She twitched her hips, straining towards him, but still he held her away from him. With a moan, Agatha brought her hands to his, as if willing him to caress her further.

"Agatha, you have to go." Henry pushed her away from him gently. "Stay down in the grass as you leave." Grabbing at his hat, he pulled it down viciously over his hair. It wasn't fair. He couldn't continue to lead her on, no matter what his body told him he needed. "And when you get back to Berale House, make sure my gardener Jaquard doesn't catch you wrecking his hydrangeas." Henry paused. Was Ames in Brambridge as John Smith or Jaquard? He couldn't remember. Whichever his identity, Ames would give him what for if he found out that Henry had let Agatha go back by herself.

Agatha hurriedly pulled her dress upwards.

"Henry..."

He shook his head and continued walking. After a few steps he risked a look back. Agatha had fallen to her hands and knees, scrambling through the long grass to the safety of the dark hedge. She cursed as she bruised her hands and knees on the flints. Hesitating, he took a step towards her, but already he could hear the scrape of the small boat from Renard's schooner on the shingle. Turning on a heel, he crested the brow of the beach and ran down towards the water.

The clinker-built boat came to a gradual halt as the gently rolling surf pushed it further up the beach. A medium sized man in a heavy coat rolled over the side and dropped quietly into the water, holding the boat steady as Henry sloshed through the surf and clutched at its gently rocking sides.

The passenger sitting forward of the oars pushed back her hood and glanced over her shoulder at Henry, giving a saucy grin. Henry remained impassive although inwardly he was surprised. Releasing the prow of the boat, he trod softly to the other side and held out his hand. He was left dangling it in the air as the lady placed one hand on the side of the boat and jumped out in one bound to avoid the surf. As she hit the sand, she stumbled and came to rest with one hand on Henry's chest. Her eyes flickered up towards his, widening slightly as she saw his gaze.

"Excuse me, _monsieur,_ the sea ride must have taken away my balance."

"Not at all, Madame...?" Henry did not believe for one second that this lady had lost her balance. Her eyes, whilst large and lustrous, held calculating depths and a curious watchfulness pervaded her being.

"Just Monique, if you please." Henry looked down at Monique's hand that still rested on his chest. With a laugh she withdrew it slowly. "I did not expect to be met by such a handsome man."

Henry let the silence following this remark stretch. Behind him, the sailor coughed. "Begging your pardon, sir, I better be off. Renard don't like it when I'm late. You know how much he hates coming right into the cove."

"Thank you. I'll help you off. Please stand further up the beach, Monique, otherwise you will get hit by the boat as it swings."

Monique huffed and pulled her cloak around her against the sea air. She stood apparently undecided for a second and then stalked twenty paces up the sand. Swiftly moving around the other side of the boat, Henry put his shoulders into moving the heavy boat off the beach and back into the water. As the boat headed into the surf, the sailor jumped in and, with a strong pull of the oars, quickly cleared the white water and was back into the calmer blue depths.

Wading out of the water, Henry took off his shirt and wrung it dry. Pulling his shirt back, on he sighed. He had been doing this for years and the routine never changed, yet this was the first time since he had been doing it that a woman had been brought in. A woman who sat in the sand, calmly trailing her fingers through the tide-dampened beach.

"Get up," he said brusquely. "We must get moving. We only have three days and then you are going back on the boat. I need you to tell me everything you know about _Monsieur Herr_."

"I'm cold."

Henry emptied the water from his boots. "My dog whines better."

_"Salaud!"_

Henry laughed. Not quite as calm as she looked then. He put out a hand to pull her up.

_"Espèce de scheize!"_

This time his outstretched hand was taken firmly as he hauled Monique into an upright position. Yet again she held it for an overlong length of time. She batted her lashes at him. He grimaced. She was good, very good. But she still left him cold. _Not like the woman he had left in the grass._

He freed his hand and turned away. "Follow me and stay quiet. We are going to my estate."

"Ooooh," she said appreciatively, the whites of her eyes bright.

"Nothing so exciting." He turned back and took a deep breath. "I merely work there." Monique made a moue with her mouth. _It's the truth,_ he wanted to say.

"I will follow you," she said decisively.

Henry set a steady pace up the beach towards the patch of grass where he had come upon Agatha. He prayed that she had done as he said and gone back to Berale House.

"You will stay in the stables," he said softly as they moved across the shingle. "Tomorrow morning you will be questioned."

"What if you don't like what I say?" Monique stopped to hitch her cloak off the sand.

"You will continue to stay in the stables for the next night whilst we check your information. If it is the truth then we will return you to the boat with a bag of gold. If it isn't we will hold you for longer."

"Hmm, sounds good."

Henry turned. As Monique had followed him fast across the beach, her cloak neck had slipped, revealing a creamy expanse of chest. He could see the deep V where her breasts were tied tightly into her bodice.

"You need to lace your cloak up. You might get cold."

Pulling his hat down, he resumed the path and, leaving the beach, followed the hedge up the hill to where it joined the road, not bothering to look back to see if she was following him. She appeared at his side on the road just one pace behind him, barely out of breath, her cloak covering her again as if it had never come loose.

They completed the rest of the walk up the hill in silence. Once they reached the edge of his estate, he led her around the surrounding farmland until he reached the back of the stables that were set by the boundary hedge of the property. It was a fairly large complex of low-lying brick-built barns, set round a courtyard covered in cobbles. A small clock tower adorned the center building. By the light of the moon he could see the hands pointed to two o'clock.

Henry entered the first door of the building that was ajar. An empty stable with clean straw, a pail of water and a tray of food lay ready and waiting. A blanket hung from the manger. The stable hands were familiar with people coming and going from the first stable and he paid them handsomely for their discretion. He didn't know what his servants thought, but the first person that had said anything outside about Henry had been immediately turned off the estate.

"What does the _monsieur_ think?" Henry gave a start and looked at Monique in misunderstanding.

"Your master? Does he know?"

"No," he said in relief. "He is very lax, he never checks the stables. As long as his horse is ready for a ride once a week, he never comes here."

Monique took off her cloak slowly, her eyes glinting in the darkness. She picked the blanket up off the manger and sank into the soft straw, her bodice gaping as she did so. "That being so, I am very tired. Are you sure you wouldn't like to join me?" Monique wiggled her hips slightly and put an arm above her head, pushing her breasts out.

Henry ignored her provocation. "Get your sleep. Tomorrow at dawn some men will come and question you. You'll need to be ready."

Monique grimaced as if in frustration but then smiled again. "Until then, _cheri_ ," she said softly, closing her eyes as she did so.

Henry shut the stable door firmly behind him. He hoped that Agatha had reached the house safely and wasn't still outside in the damp. _What the blazes had she been doing on the beach?_

# CHAPTER 31

Agatha shivered. She hadn't managed to move far from the wet hedge she had dragged herself to. Although the grass had been dry where she had been lying earlier, it seemed that some of the sheaves hadn't dried in the previous day's sun. Her low-profile scramble through the field had left her wet through. She shivered as another droplet of water dripped down her spine.

Despite ignoring Henry at lunch, she had watched his every powerful move in the reflection of the large soup tureen in front of her, unable to shake the thumping of her heart at his dangerous proximity. She had jumped as his elbow had nudged her slightly as he had turned to take something from the footman. Watching his shiny form, she hadn't failed to notice how his hands tensed as he had pushed a note into his pocket, and his formidable brow had furrowed deeply.

Reaching behind her head, Agatha scraped at the drop of water on her neck with a finger and gasped, dropping to her knees. She'd watched as Henry had met a boat on the beach, helping the passenger get out into the surf. Agatha swore as her hair dropped across her face, pushing it off with a swipe of her hand. When Henry and the passenger had walked up the hill, the moonlight had caught Henry's companion full in the face. A beautiful woman. Agatha's stomach clenched.

Was this the real reason why Henry hadn't wanted her on the beach—because he was bringing in his French mistress? Agatha pressed a flat hand at her thighs where Henry's touch had seared an imprint on her body. _Yet another mistress._

Before she had ventured to the beach, she'd had to endure yet another drawn out evening meal, just like lunch. She had stayed quietly on in the drawing room with her thoughts long after Henry had disappeared into his study after supper and the other guests had gone to bed. But her thoughts had not calmed her. Drawn by an invisible chain, she had knocked on the study door, wanting to confront him, but there was no answer. Without thinking, she had entered. The immediate smell of books, and Henry, comforting smoke and spice had washed over her, surrounding her, and yet he hadn't been there. The door from the study to the garden stood slightly ajar, a small breeze ruffling the pages of the books on the desk.

She'd only been in Henry's study for a short time, but it had been enough to see the two books on the desk. A book of Greek verse and the scuffed and scarred remains of _Conversations on Science_ that Agatha had last seen in Henry's study in London. Heart singing, Agatha had made her way down to the beach to find him. More fool her.

Another droplet of water fell down her neck. Agatha wrapped her arms around her body. She'd taken a long hard look at the woman as they had passed her position in the hedge. Her profile had cast a shadow in the moonlight and there was definitely something familiar about the nose. Agatha frowned. Henry had ignored the woman as she had followed him up the hill.

Taking a deep breath, Agatha reached out and, grasping some loose roots with her hands, pulled herself onto the road and staggered as far as she could before forcing her tired limbs into a fast walk through the darkness, and up towards Berale House.

It was only when she was halfway across the parkland that her feet failed her. She rocked as her boot connected with a large root. Tiredly she pulled herself from its tangled grasp. It was unusual to find anything disordered on the Anglethorpe estate. Jaquard would have had it out in an instant if he'd known about it. Agatha stopped, her hands outstretched for balance, soil cascading down the root onto her boots as if released from a dam. Breathing heavily, she clutched at the upended root, as if it could tether her to the ground, to the carefully constructed shell she had veneered for herself. _Henry had brought his mistress to Brambridge._ And yet he couldn't tell her what he wanted with her. Couldn't tell her because he didn't want her, perhaps? Agatha shook her head. But still he'd caressed her in the field as if she were a part of him, causing her senses to burst as explosively as gunpowder. She gasped as the memories from the turbulent past rolled over her. _Five parts nitre and one part sulphur_. Jaquard and his tree trunk in Mount Street. _Someone wants to kill you._ Jaquard and his hydrangeas at Berale House. _Despite giving up science, scandal still follows me._

She rubbed her hands together. She'd thought that by suppressing the very essence of herself that her path in life would be smoother. And yet, still, without it, without a core of herself, the very pace of life had never changed.

Why had she ever bothered? Agatha looked tentatively across the grassland. She could see the gardeners' hut in the distance, not far from the large shadow of Berale House. Slowly her feet put themselves in front of each other, drawn on a magnetic path by her curiosity.

She wasn't long in the gardeners' hut. Jaquard wasn't there. In fact she hadn't seen him for a while. And what she had gone there for wasn't hard to find. The entirety of the hut was lined with small packages. She picked one up and weighed it in her hands, before pushing it into the snug pocket below her skirts. Shutting the hut door softly, she made her way straight to the kitchen door of Berale House. As lightly as was possible in her boots, Agatha mounted the steps and pushed at the door. She sighed with relief as it swung inwards silently. Stepping over the threshold, she turned to push the door closed behind her.

She froze immediately as Freddie's clear tones filtered down into the kitchen from the hallway.

"I can't believe you went to her best friend, Harding. Have you lost your senses?"

Earl Harding's voice rumbled to where Agatha crouched, his voice was indistinct as though he was facing away. Agatha stayed low, and moved forward, past the hearth which was still alight and stilled again as the earl's voice cleared.

"Victoria had to know. Her brother Anglethorpe is making a cake of himself over Agatha and everyone can see it. If she turns out to be _Monsieur Herr,_ then the best spymaster that Britain has ever known will find himself in Newgate before long."

Agatha couldn't hear Freddie's reply, though she leaned forward. And then she caught his voice again.

" _Monsieur Herr_ is a real menace and must be eliminated as soon as possible." A hot flush coursed through Agatha's body at the word _eliminated_. Freddie Lassiter had always seemed so jovial, but his voice was cold, dead almost. So why did she feel so hot? She looked down in front of her and yelped. The flames from the hearth had caught on a coal while she had been concentrating. Clapping a hand over her mouth she stumbled back to the far edge of the kitchen. Slumping against the wall, she pulled out the damp packet from the gardeners' hut out of her skirts. Thank God it was still a little wet. Standing so close to the fire had been dangerous. Jaquard was obviously a fan of homemade gunpowder. Especially as it smelt very strongly of horse manure.

At least she _hoped_ it was _only_ horse manure.

# CHAPTER 32

Berale House loomed dark as Henry let himself back into his study. The fire in the grate had died to a smoldering mound of white ash. Shivering, he prodded the meagre coal lumps with a poker, persuading them into a limp flame.

Putting a weary hand to his head, he pulled off his dark hat and knelt by the fire. His sodden breeches clung to his legs as he pushed them down from his waist.

"I see that you've had an interesting evening."

Henry cursed as he fell on his bare legs in shock. He didn't know whether or not to continue taking off his trousers or pull them back up.

"I would take them off. After all, I am your sister and I've seen it all before." Victoria sat forward from her seat in Henry's desk chair. He'd been so intent on getting warm, he'd missed her still form. That and his head was muddled by Agatha.

"Victoria? Bloody hell, what are you doing in my study?"

"I may still be your little sister, Henry dear, but I am no longer a young girl. What are your intentions towards Agatha?"

He couldn't have this conversation with no breeches on. A small cupboard stood next to the fire. Out of it he pulled a pair of loose fishermen trousers and a thick jersey. "If you don't mind?"

Victoria turned her head discreetly away. Cursing as he fumbled with the ties at his waist, he adjusted the trousers and pulled the jersey over his head. The soft dry material gave instant warmth.

The smell of smoke filled the air. An orange dot of light glowed by his desk. "Cigar, Henry?"

Unbelievable. She'd found _his_ secret box of cheroots.

Victoria laughed softly. "I am your sister, dear. The apple doesn't always fall far from the tree, despite our different lives."

Henry gripped at the soft material of the jersey, the knife thrust of her words palpable. All of the worrying he'd done over Victoria after his parents had died, all of the need to avoid rumor and scandal had collapsed when Agatha had left him, them. Drawing the jersey to his waist, he smoothed it down over his trousers. He'd taken no notice when Victoria had spent days in her room. She had ever been thus. Instead he'd sent for the best doctors that money could buy. That normally drew her out. Thoughts of Agatha had filled his head like a tidal wave. There wasn't room for other worries.

But then Victoria had emerged after the tenth quack had been sent packing and announced that she'd accepted Lord Colchester's offer of marriage. Old Lord Colchester who Agatha and Victoria had laughed about. Nothing he could do could persuade her otherwise.

In the time that he'd wanted to be married she had been married and widowed, and left a wealth ten times his own.

"I know that Papa was a spy too, Henry. Do you think that I didn't inherit some of his characteristics as well?"

"I didn't think."

"No. Most men don't. I never asked. Did you deal with him?"

"Who?"

"Whoever killed Papa?"

"Yes, I got him."

He could hear Victoria as she inhaled a deep breath. "Good."

The clock above the fireplace chimed twice.

"And do you have a plan to find _Monsieur Herr_?"

Good grief. He watched as the whites of Victoria's teeth shone in the firelight. "I have something in hand."

"It had better be good, Henry dear." Victoria stood, holding the cheroot in her hand. She took a last puff and then ground the cigar against the polished wood of his desk.

"That's my desk!"

"It was also Papa's desk. That's a reminder, Henry. Agatha is my friend. It has not been easy for her. And most of the problems have been caused by you and your pig-headedness. If you don't come up with a plan to sort out this mess, I will. Whatever your intentions."

Dropping the stub of the cigar to the desk, Victoria swept unerringly to the door.

"That's blackmail." Henry knocked the cigar off the desk to the ground and rubbed at the damaged wood.

Victoria stopped at the door. "No, Henry dear, that's common sense." With a small wave, she left.

"Women!" Henry banged a hand on his desk and pulled it back into his stomach as the underneath of his desk began to move.

"Quite right, sir. She's a sharp biscuit is your sister and no mistake." The voice of Henry's indomitable valet filtered out from the desk's footwell in an unusually forced manner.

"Ames? What the hell are you doing?"

"Currently, sir, I am trying to ease my cramp after hiding under your desk for the last hour. I fear I have assumed an unusual knotted position that will be hard to break out of."

"Victoria was sat in the desk chair waiting for me and didn't notice you?"

"No, sir. She was too intent on drinking the Armagnac from your bottom drawer."

"Not my Armagnac!" First the cheroots and now his drink.

"Hmm. And that lovely cake stuff you keep down there. Turron I think it was."

"Was?"

"Er. Well yes, I got hungry whilst I was waiting too, and she did drop it on the floor when you walked in."

"My _turron_." It was his equivalent of an opium hit, a dose of laudanum. Better than the twist of nuts he kept stashed in his coat. "I feel a headache coming on."

Ames' voice came again a little quieter than before. "There is some of that oatmeal stuff still in there. Ship's biscuit I think you called it."

"That is only for looking at in order to quell hunger, Ames, only for emergencies."

"I rather think this might be an emergency, my lord."

Henry sighed heavily, and twisted a finger at the neckline of his jersey. "Oh, do get out of the desk, Ames. I feel silly talking to a piece of wood."

"Only if you promise not to shout at me."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because I ate your turron, and err, I was meaning to tell you that your sister knows a lot more about what is going on than you think. But. Ahem. She got there first."

Henry laughed ruefully. "Hmm. You have been a lot less use than I thought you would be. Less Maximus and more Minimus." He held out a hand as Ames emerged groaning from the underside of the desk.

Ames grabbed Henry's hand and stood up with a wince. "Pardon, sir?"

Henry sighed. "Oh forget it, Ames. Just one thing, how does my sister know what's going on?

Ames was silent for a few seconds. "Earl Harding told her, sir. Stole one of her dogs too when she set it on his ankles."

"Good grief." Henry rubbed at the burnt mark on his desk. "Go back to your post. Victoria and Agatha are likely to have a heart to heart tomorrow morning where Victoria will no doubt make a plan. We need to be ready for it."

"How do you know?" Ames backed towards the door.

Henry stared at the book of Greek verse on the desk. Where the hell had _Conversations on Science_ gone? "Because, Ames, it is what _I_ would do."

# CHAPTER 33

"As a matter of fact, I do have a plan." Lady Victoria Colchester put down her delicate teacup and observed Agatha with glassy eyes. Bright May sunshine shone through the tall, glass windows that surrounded the morning room on two sides.

Agatha blinked, trying to work her brain to wake up.

Victoria made a moue with her mouth. "These silly men have been running around putting two and two together and getting five. _And someone obviously wants them to do that._ "

"How can you be sure?"

"Firstly, you have to believe in your absolute innocence." That seemed easy enough to Agatha. They had been through this before.

"And then in light of that you come across several questions." Victoria stopped to take another sip of tea and bite of her toast. Nimbly she broke a piece off and threw it to her dog. Agatha waited as she cooed over the small animal and lifted it into her lap.

"What questions?" she asked impatiently.

"Firstly, why does everyone believe you are _Monsieur Herr_?"

"Hmm, I'd like to know that too." Stretching her arms, Harriet stumbled into the morning room and peered blearily at the laden sideboard.

Agatha wrinkled her nose and raised her eyebrows.

"Too much stargazing, Aunt?" Harriet yawned and covered her mouth. "Sorry."

Agatha glared at her niece, a small flush rising slowly up her nape. She turned back to the table. "I believe I was just asking why everyone wants to believe that I'm a French spy..."

Victoria looked from Agatha to her niece. "Well, as we discussed before, it is not why everyone wants to believe you are a spy, it is why the spy wants everyone to believe you are the spy."

Agatha closed her mouth with a snap.

Victoria looked at her small audience and smiled widely.

Agatha scratched her head. "I still can't believe it. I don't have anyone that wishes me ill." She flapped her hands as Harriet's mouth formed a round O. "None of those silly rumormongers would think of such an elaborate ruse. I mean, doing this would taint everyone I know..."

"Goodness." Victoria appeared thoughtful. "That is another interesting point. Especially since you are involved with my brother, the British spymaster..."

"I am not involved with your brother!"

"Hmm... stargazing?" Harriet said innocently.

"Nothing happened." Agatha sat down with a plump. "At least nothing to discuss with you," she amended quietly.

Victoria put her dog on the floor. "Someone must have a reason for choosing you for their ruse. We must go back to the beginning. What happened—years ago when it all began?"

Agatha pushed her thumb back with a finger. "I was engaged, jilted, shot at, Peter died, moved to Devon..." She ticked the points off on her hand.

Victoria wrapped her arms around her body. "Why did you leave without telling me? I could have helped."

"I received a note threatening Peter's life, the next I knew he was dead. I thought whoever had shot at me had killed them. The note said not to tell anyone. That's why I came to live in Devon. I couldn't see anyone from London. I was too afraid of who might be coming to get me."

"But you haven't heard of anything since..." Harriet flushed.

Agatha shook her head. "There have been no notes. No one has approached me, or even shot at me."

Thoughtfully, Victoria stirred her tea. Taking a sip, she made a face and rang the servants' bell. "More tea please," she said to the footman who entered quickly. As he closed the door, she turned to Agatha.

"Setting the death of your brother aside, that's when it started. But they didn't want to frame you then. They wanted to kill you. Their motives must have changed since then."

"I still ask myself why anyone would have wanted to kill me." Stumped, Agatha played with her fork.

"I don't know either," Victoria said perplexedly. "I don't know why anyone would want to kill anyone else at all."

The footman entered with the hot pot of boiling water. It was a footman from Colchester Mansions who Victoria had drafted in to help with Henry's staff. Idly Agatha noticed that his hunched shoulder had returned. John Smith. That was his name.

After he had replenished the teapot, he hesitated at the door.

"Yes, what is it, John?" Victoria motioned at him to speak.

His overlong fringe swayed as he spoke, his beard moving up and down with his words. "Excusing me, my lady, but in the penny dreadfuls, murder is normally committed by a jealous lover."

Agatha laughed as Victoria poured herself more tea. "Thank you, John, you have lightened the mood somewhat."

The footman grimaced and closed the door softly behind him.

"Jealous lover!" Agatha snorted in a most unladylike fashion. "I've never had a lover." Henry categorically did _not_ count. "And whilst Charles wasn't keen on jilting me, I don't think he would have resorted to killing me just for the sake of the engagement!"

"I hate to say this, but you are right, Aggie. You really did not have enough time with Charles in order for that to happen." Victoria shifted on her seat. "But what of all the other motives?"

"Hmm, jealousy, intrigue, intimacy, war, interrupted theft, knowledge, power..." Victoria and Agatha looked at Harriet in amazement. "I read the penny dreadfuls too!" Harriet shrugged sheepishly.

"Alright. What about _intimacy_?"

"What about it? I've already said I didn't have any lovers!"

"Good point. Interrupted theft?"

"What?"

"Quite often when a burglar is searching a house, and they are discovered, they kill the owner of the house in order that they don't get caught."

"Harriet, I have never caught a thief in the act in my life."

"Next one then. Power."

"I don't really have the opportunity to give anyone power." Agatha mused. "Killing me wouldn't have given anyone power over me, or really power over anyone else."

"This is futile." Victoria stood. "Nothing seems to fit properly."

"Sit down, Victoria. I think we are on the right track." Agatha tapped her finger on the back of the tablecloth, tracing the lace patterns. "Harriet mentioned intrigue and war in some of her motivations. It seems an elaborate plan to pass me off as a French spy. What if I'm not really the target? I only assumed that I was being shot at, when in fact it was Henry that picked up the bullet. Even though making me _Monsieur Herr_ could hang me, it seems that Henry has a huge amount to lose as well if he loses the support of his War Office colleagues by becoming involved with me."

"It sounds plausible..." Victoria scratched her head delicately in doubt.

Harriet put her elbows on the table and rested her head in her hands. "So who is going after Lord Anglethorpe then?"

"Why _Monsieur Herr_ of course!" Agatha said. Harriet and Victoria's mouths both dropped open.

"Of course," Victoria said slowly. "Why not give your name to someone else whilst carrying on your activities?"

"There's just one thing." Agatha shook her head. "When I was on the beach last night, I saw Henry walking up the beach with a woman from one of Renard's boats."

Victoria frowned. "Renard?"

"He's a smuggler," Harriet said distinctly. "Everything he has is for sale. He's well known in Brambridge."

"Oh." Victoria took a sip of her tea. "Did you see him there?"

Agatha shook her head. "No. I was under a hedge shivering at that point. Anyway, the point is, this woman looked awfully familiar, but I didn't recognize her. And she also tried to seduce Henry in the fifteen minutes they were on the beach."

Victoria choked, spraying tea everywhere. "We must ah... tell him he's in danger from _Monsieur Herr_."

Agatha stared out of the window. "Unfortunately he went off for a morning ride at around five o'clock." She hadn't been able to sleep.

"You know, that is the same time as Freddie left too." Harriet spoke pensively. "He thought he was being quiet, but the horse's hooves clattered on the cobbles at the gate."

Victoria dabbed at her skirts with a napkin. "This woman must know something. Why else are they all following her?"

"The stable was empty of all but a few horses when I took my horse out to ride." Agatha closed her eyes slowly and opened them again. "But the first stable was locked closed."

"They must have taken her to the stables." Dropping the sodden napkin on a side table, Victoria rose gracefully to her feet and held out a hand to Agatha. "Quickly, we must find out what this woman knows!"

Jolting to her feet, Agatha let go of Victoria's hand and stumbled into the hall. Pushing past a surprised Smythe, she unbolted the front door and ran down the drive, followed closely by Victoria and Harriet.

# CHAPTER 34

Henry stood in the deserted taproom of the Fountain Inn and put his head in his hands. His friends and colleagues were meant to be the finest spies and operatives that England had to offer. As he listened to the conversation in the private room, however, his belief was sorely tested.

"Come on, old chap, we must get going!" Bill's frustrated tones echoed loudly out into the taproom.

"But I've barely had any sleep!" Freddie yawned audibly. "And I've just arrived."

"Your beauty can wait, Freddie, this woman apparently can't. She's going back on the next boat in."

"But why do we have to do this so early? Even old Lovall doesn't get up at this time and he's a stickler for using every moment of the day. Most especially when he's staying at my house."

Bill's unmistakable laugh shook the window casements. "I can't believe that you have the ability to complain so much about this."

"I didn't sleep well."

Henry stiffened. He coughed loudly and rapped on the private room door. Without waiting for an answer, he pushed his head in and glared. "When you are finished, I'll be waiting outside for you." He withdrew without catching anyone in the eye. After a short silence, the scraping of chairs against stone filled the air. Bill was the first to leave the inn. But the bickering still hadn't stopped.

Despite his lack of sleep Freddie was still managing to talk nineteen to the dozen. "Hold on, old chap, I'll give you a leg up. Amazed you could find a horse big enough to hold you." He laced his fingers together and held them at knee height, standing next to an enormous shire horse that nipped him on the shoulders.

"It's all muscle," Bill huffed.

"I didn't say it wasn't."

"Look, you two. Shut up. Can we please go?"

Bill and Freddie looked at each other and stopped bickering instantly.

Henry watched as Freddie wheeled his horse in a tight circle in the road. "You're lucky I left Earl Harding out of this. With his notoriously bad temper he would have tied both of you in knots."

"I think old Hawk Anglethorpe has caught a bit of that temper," Freddie muttered.

"I am here you know," Henry said quietly.

"We had better not be late then," Bill said. "We only met at the Fountain to discuss strategy."

Freddie kicked his horse into a trot. "And for the breakfast of course."

Henry groaned as Bill grinned.

The three men guided their horses out of the inn's stable yard and straight over the grassy verge into a fallow field that had not yet been readied for planting. The horses' hooves made little sound on the soft ground.

They followed the field until they reached a small lane which led in one direction back down into Brambridge village, and in the other towards Ottery St. Mary. They turned towards Ottery St. Mary first, before cutting across on a green track.

"I am a little lost," Freddie said doubtfully as Henry led them from the front.

"I've lived here all my life," Bill said as he urged his horse into a trot up the hill behind Henry. "This area is full of tracks. They are well used. This will take us back to Hawk's house the back way."

Freddie laughed and withdrew a hip flask from his pocket. After tipping some of it down his throat, he cheerfully offered it to the other men.

"I think it is a bit early for me." Bill raised his eyebrows and darted a quick look at Henry. "I'll have a cup of tea later."

Henry kicked his horse and took the lead again.

As they crested the top of the hill, Berale House stood in the distance. It glowed squarely golden in the early morning sunlight, taking on a pinkish hue. Large windows reflected the sky. The grounds were immaculately kept with symmetrical plant borders and a small fountain to the front of the house. Henry frowned. There was something different about the house. It felt more _welcoming_ somehow than when he had first reopened it.

"He really does have a nice house, doesn't he?" Henry heard Freddie say. "I wonder why he doesn't have any peacocks or guinea fowl?"

"Probably because he is coming and going at all times of the day and night and peacocks are bloody noisy if you disturb them." Bill pulled sharply at his great horse's reins as it sidestepped. "Met a lady over Seaton way. She had a couple."

Henry shook his head. "Ye gods."

In an uncomfortable silence, the men reached the edge of the estate where the hedges thinned slightly as if disturbed by constant use. Henry left the men behind and dismounted from his horse.

"Where's Anglethorpe gone?" Freddie swung his leg over and hopped off his horse.

"Typical. He was with us a moment ago." Bill hung onto the back of the horse as he dropped heavily to the ground.

"If you were a bit quieter, you would have seen me." Henry stepped out from a kink in the hedge. His steps were silent as he walked towards them through the long grass.

"So that is how he does it. Like a tiger stalking its prey," Freddie muttered audibly. Bill watched silently as Henry approached.

"We have a problem. I cannot go in with you." Henry clenched his fingers in a fist. "The woman says she has information with reference to _Monsieur Herr_. I think she is telling the truth, but I also don't trust her. I had to tell her I worked in the stables."

"How will you hear what is going on?" Freddie waved his hip flask in Henry's direction and took another swig.

"The stables have vents that carry sound from one to the other. I'll stand in the next door stable and listen in to the conversation."

The men nodded and, tying their horses loosely to the hedge, stalked round the path to the stables, Henry half a yard behind.

The woman was still asleep in the stable stall when the men entered, crashing the stable door against the wall. She must have awoken with a start because she let out a quick huff of air that even Henry could hear in the next door stall. It was clear that she was instantly focused, however, and not at all intimidated.

"Gentlemen, you seem to have me at a disadvantage."

Quietly, Henry pulled a bucket towards the vent and stood on it, attempting to peer through the slats. It wasn't enough just to hear what she was saying, he needed to see too. Sometimes the body language said everything that was being left out. By tilting his head slightly, he gained a good view of Monique. She pulled her cloak closer around her as the men took in her undressed sleeping state. The curls in her long hair cascaded over her shoulders in disarray, and here and there a small piece of straw had lodged itself in her tresses.

"Tell us what you know of _Monsieur Herr_." Bill squared his shoulders.

The woman tsked. "Not even a cup of tea or hot chocolate?"

"You are being paid for your information. There is no need for formalities." Freddie leaned elegantly against the damp stable wall. "Answer the question."

The woman removed a piece of straw from her hair, letting her cloak slide down her body and revealing an expanse of tightly-laced chest. "I know that she is a woman."

Freddie looked at Bill, who nodded. "She seems to be telling the truth."

"Of course I am." She looked downwards and closed her cloak around her. "She also knows Lord Anglethorpe very well." She gazed at the three men and winked. "In fact, their relationship started years ago. Why do you think Anglethorpe reopened his family home in this godforsaken cove despite his mother dying here? He's been sending messages up and down the coast on her behalf for years."

Freddie stiffened. "What's her name?"

"Agatha Beauregard, of course." Monique stretched languidly, the tops of her breasts threatening to pop out of her corset. "Ask anybody around here and they will tell you that when she and her so-called niece first came to live here, the girl would only speak in French. Agatha couldn't get her to shut up."

Henry wobbled slightly on his bucket. This woman was clever, so convincing, twisting the truth and adding in half lies to add credence to her tale. He wanted to stop her there and then but held back. Monique still hadn't revealed anything that he didn't know.

"How do you know it is her? Agatha, I mean," Bill demanded, his eyes flicking from Freddie to Monique.

"Bah. I will not reveal my sources. And that is all I am going to tell you. I have nothing more."

"I'll guard her," Freddie said roughly. "Bill, you go and fetch the stable boy. He will take her down to the boat again when we are ready."

"But..."

"Just do it, Bill."

Bill cautiously left the stable block walking backwards, his eyes on Monique.

Stepping down from the bucket, Henry quickly left the adjacent stable and, rounding the building, turned left and loped around to the back of the block where he found Bill. He beckoned quietly to him. Bill nodded and followed Henry into the wooded boundary behind the stables.

Henry stopped in a small clearing. "We couldn't talk by the stable block. The sound goes both ways through the vents to the outside and to the adjacent stable. I heard everything. Believe me, Bill, I haven't been sending messages up and down for _Monsieur Herr_." Henry sat suddenly on a tree stump and put his head in his hands. "God, what a mess."

"Absolutely." Bill turned around and found himself a dry branch to perch against. "She wasn't lying, however. Apart from the part about you sending messages. It was only at that point that she put her hand to her chin and wouldn't meet our eyes." He shook his head. "I just don't understand how she could have said the other statements as the truth."

Henry licked his lips. For so long he had defended Agatha in his mind against all the evidence and yet this woman's words were so persuasive. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped roughly at his mouth. "Perhaps each statement individually is the truth," he said slowly, "but put together forms a lie."

Bill shifted in his seat. "I'm not sure I understand."

"Take that comment about Harriet, Agatha's niece. I believe she spoke French because of her mother, not her aunt."

"What about you opening up the estate?"

Henry shifted uncomfortably. "It's true. I opened it because of Agatha. I... every year I came to make sure she was alright." He stared at the path back to the stables. "We weren't precise enough in our questioning. If you take out the blatant lie, the conversation went as follows, 'Why do you think Anglethorpe reopened his family home in this godforsaken cove?' Freddie asked 'What is her name?' and she answered 'Agatha Beauregard, of course'."

"So..." Bill paused, "err... the only other things we can draw as true in the conversation are that _Monsieur Herr_ is a woman, and that you met her a few years ago."

"Yes, I agree. Relationship could mean anything from acquaintance to friend to lover..."

"I'm going to need a list of all the women that you've met, sir. And the status of your relationship with them. And we still can't rule out Agatha at this time."

Henry rubbed his shoulders tiredly. "I agree," he said resignedly. "Go and get Freddie and I'll take over the woman from here."

Bill stood from his precarious perch on the branch and nodded at Henry, before pausing. "I just don't understand, sir."

"What is it, Bill?"

" _Monsieur Herr_ 's signature. If it is a woman, then why does she always sign herself 'him'?"

Henry shook his head. "We'll find out more. Go and get Freddie."

Nodding, Bill left. Henry waited. Minute after minute ticked by but Bill did not reappear.

Henry pushed his way back through the trees and towards the corner of the building. As he turned, a swirl of grey moved quickly round the next corner in front of him. He strode faster, trying not to make a sound, but there was no one in the entrance to the stables. The only noise was of the few remaining horses gently thumping their stable doors and clopping their hooves on the cobbled floors.

The stable where Monique was being held was suspiciously quiet too. The stable door was still firmly closed. Carefully, Henry unbolted the door. Freddie lay sprawled on the floor, blood pooling in the straw next to him as Bill kneeled next to him.

"Freddie!" Henry leant over his body, jerking as the sounds of screaming horses filled the air. "Good God, where's Monique?"

Bill shook his head. "She was already gone when I arrived."

"Didn't you hear her lock you in?"

"Freddie was moaning too loudly."

Outside, a horse screamed, and then another, stricken cries renting the air. Springing to his feet, Henry strode into the yard. The previously stabled horses milled in the interior courtyard, nipping at each other, cantering and rearing.

Henry caught sight of the central horse. Blood dripped from slashes scored along its coat. It was Freddie's horse that had been tied to the hedge outside the estate. In horror he circled the screaming horses. Each one had been maimed in the same way, all were unrideable, but one was missing. With a curse, he stumbled out of the stable courtyard, swinging his head from right to left.

But Monique was nowhere to be seen and she'd taken Henry's own horse with her.

# CHAPTER 35

Agatha watched open mouthed as the small form of a woman cantered straight out of the stables on Henry's horse not three feet in front of her. It was the woman Henry had met from the previous night.

As she rounded the corner, Henry stumbled out of the stable yard and fell into a corner as the hooves of several flying horses narrowly missed him.

"Where did she go?" he gasped.

Wordlessly Agatha pointed down the drive.

Henry stared at her before disappearing behind the stables. He emerged through the hedges riding an enormous horse. He wheeled it in a tight circle.

"Look after Freddie and Bill, first stable on the right." He glared at Agatha. "And when I come back I want to know how you knew just the right time to turn up." Curtly he whipped the massive horse, which responded by jumping forward into a canter out of the stable gates.

Quickly, Agatha motioned behind her. Harriet and Victoria stepped out from the shadowy alcove to the left of the stable entrance.

"Good thing we arrived when we did," Harriet cried as they ran towards the first stable.

"I wish we had heard more." Agatha muttered further curses under her breath.

She took a sharp intake of air as she saw Freddie. He lay on his back, his eyes rolled upwards in his head.

Bill glanced at them quickly. "I need bandages. Quickly, and clean water. We must stop the blood loss."

"I'll get the water." Victoria rushed to the outside tap that supplied clean water from a nearby spring for the stables.

Harriet set about tearing the bottom of their petticoats off. At raised eyebrows from Bill, she glared at him. "Where do you think we are going to get bandages?" Harriet demanded.

Bill grunted and turned back to loosening Freddie's clothing. Agatha wrinkled her nose.

"Has he been drinking?"

"Perhaps."

"He seemed fine to me at the ball his mother hosted." Agatha looked down at the bandages Harriet handed to her.

"Just don't tell Anglethorpe." Bill resumed pulling at Freddie's jacket. "Freddie won't tell me what is wrong. Henry and Harding can't find out otherwise they'll think he's cracked."

"How on earth did Freddie manage to get bested by that woman?" Victoria huffed as she lugged a clean pail of water in from the yard.

"Manure, smells of manure," Freddie moaned.

Agatha froze—oh gods, she'd shoved the packet of gunpowder into her cupboard with all of her petticoats, of which part of one was now wrapped around Freddie's head. There hadn't been time to do anything more than look at the gunpowder since taking it from the gardeners' hut.

Victoria set her pail down with a clang. "That answers my own question." She wiped her fingers on her riding habit and flushed. "What else can we do, Mr. Standish?"

"Nothing, my lady." Bill looked down at Freddie, who fidgeted at the bandages that covered his head, slowly returning to consciousness. "If you could send some men from the house with a stretcher we should take him back there. Your guests should start arriving soon."

Victoria clapped a small hand to her mouth. "My guests!" Picking up her skirts, she hurried back out of the yard and up the path to the house.

Bill let out a small huff. "Typical."

Agatha took off her riding cloak and pushed it under Freddie's head. "I couldn't help think that I recognized that woman."

"You only saw her for a few seconds." Bill folded up the unused bandages and handed them back to Agatha.

"I saw her last night. When Henry met her at the beach."

Freddie's hand shot out from his side and pulled at Bill's massive elbow. "Don't tell her anything!" he mumbled, dropping his arm, eyes staring from his head. "But dammit, if the gel ain't right. I was thinking I'd seen her before recently but I kept getting distracted by her... charms."

Bill rolled his eyes. Agatha leaned closer to Freddie. "I am not _Monsieur Herr_!" she said plaintively.

"Don't matter. You're a woman. Shouldn't have to deal with these things. God, my head hurts." With that, Freddie lapsed back into unconsciousness.

Agatha sat back on her heels. "Well," she muttered uncertainly. Freddie had seemed so gracious before. "I think that sums up the way you 'gentlemen' seem to have dealt with things." She cast a long look at Bill and, rising graciously to her feet, stomped out of the yard.

Smythe welcomed her back to the house. Placing a hand against the hall wall, Agatha tiredly unlaced her boots with sharp jagged movements and stepped out of them with a large step onto the carpet runner. The butler, Smythe, looked at her with raised eyebrows and then glanced back at where she had left her muddy boots in the middle of the doormat. With a bow, he turned and strode quickly towards and down through the servants' stairs, but not in time enough to stop his loud roar of laughter from reaching her.

Padding into the drawing room, Agatha found Victoria sipping tea and reading a book. Falling into one of the tub chairs, Agatha wiggled her stockinged feet against the footrest. She sighed.

Taking a deep breath, she prodded the footrest with her toe. "So just how is this house party going to help us?"

Victoria took a sandwich from the cake stand and fed it piece by piece to Ponzi, her remaining dog. "We are going to fight rumors with rumors."

"More rumors!"

Victoria looked up. "We can't be sure if any of the guests we've invited are involved with _Monsieur Herr_. So we need the guests I've invited to take back stories to the ton. That will in turn flush out the spy and make her play into our hands, just as she has been making up stories about you to push you around."

The sound of the front door opening stopped Agatha speaking. A crash and a loud growl of frustration echoed down the hallway.

"Agatha Beauregard, your boots are in the way..." the voice quietened. "Bloody eggs and spoons..." Henry appeared in the doorway. A smear of mud covered one eye, enhancing his forbidding presence. He stood and stared at Agatha, blinked and turned his gaze to Victoria. "And just who have you invited, Victoria? I thought this was a normal house party."

Agatha blushed. She couldn't help it. A tingling in her toes made her rub them harder against the footrest. What was it about this man? "You haven't told him?"

"No. He wouldn't have agreed," Victoria said hurriedly. "Did you find her?"

Henry rubbed at the mud on his face. "She escaped. Her horse was one of my best. And she is resourceful." He shook his head. "She had too much of a head start. If she had got to Bill's horse too, I wouldn't have managed to get after her as fast as I did."

Agatha sat up and coughed. "Victoria. You were telling us of the guests." Henry narrowed his eyes at her.

"Ah yes, there's Earl Harding..."

Henry groaned.

"A few of my friends, then Lord Fashington and Miss Guthrie and errr... Celine and Edward." Victoria patted her dog absently.

"What!"

Victoria gave a small smile. "Yes, Fashington seemed to be caught up in the middle of all of this. He does seem rather pleased about Agatha's predicament."

"What about Miss Guthrie?"

"I felt sorry for her. I think a few days alone with Fashington without her father and stepmother might open her eyes somewhat. I didn't invite Lord and Lady Guthrie on purpose. Don't want to see anyone making the same mistake that I made with my marriage."

Into the small silence that followed, Agatha watched as Victoria took the opportunity to feed another sandwich to her dog, keeping her face lowered.

"And Celine and Edward?" Henry spoke more gently.

"Celine is one of the other people who seems to have a gripe with Agatha and yourself. I thought if we kept her at close quarters we might be able to see if she is part of the problem. And Edward is her latest paramour so I invited him too," she added.

"How did you get them to agree to come?" When Agatha had met Celine and Edward, Edward had seemed to want to be anywhere but in Henry's proximity. Certainly Agatha didn't want to be anywhere near Celine either.

Victoria laughed. "Everyone wants to see Lord Anglethorpe's secret estate. His many mistresses have raved of the beauty of the place. They seemed to regard it as romantic, with its closed air and the fact that Henry has never invited anyone else to stay. The fact that he has never had a house party here made the invitation even more delectable."

Agatha watched as Henry swallowed visibly. "You said it was like a mausoleum," he said.

Victoria nodded. "It was."

Agatha rubbed her hands together uncomfortably. "So just how are we going to flush out _Monsieur Herr_?" __

Henry advanced into the room slowly and menacingly. "Flush out _Monsieur Herr_?" He stopped and turned to his sister. "You mean, Victoria, that you were actively searching for _Monsieur Herr_ rather than trying to help me?"

"Yes, Henry." Victoria took a sip of tea. "You gentlemen seem rather taken up with the idea that Agatha was _Monsieur Herr_."

"Look, I have never for one second believed that..." Henry put out his hands imploringly.

"And given that Agatha is my best friend," Victoria continued blithely, "I thought we would actually do something about finding the real spy instead of calling in some doxy from abroad to give us patently false information."

"You heard," Henry said flatly.

"We heard. How else do you think Agatha was standing there when you rushed out of the stables. Magic?" The sarcasm in Victoria's voice was palpable.

"I think we ought to join forces, don't you?" Bill leaned wearily against the doorway, blood staining his shirt, revealing the muscles of his massive chest. Harriet nodded behind his shoulder, her arms full of bloodstained bandages.

Henry stood with a muffled oath. "How's Freddie?"

"He will live. Although he needs to rest." Bill laid his head back against the door frame. "I think that the facts imply that Agatha is not the spy."

Victoria threw up her dainty hands. "Of course she's not."

"With respect, my lady, you are her friend, one who she did not speak to for a while at that," Bill continued smoothly as Victoria flushed a bright red. "In private Anglethorpe has continuously maintained Miss Beauregard's innocence."

Agatha looked up in surprise. Henry would not meet her gaze.

Bill brushed tiredly at the blood on his sleeve. "But I think the main point is that _Monsieur Herr_ is sufficiently worried that she has brought someone over from France, to implicate Agatha and thus Henry further. Why would Agatha do something like that, surrounded as she is by everyone here?"

Agatha shook her head. "I'm sure I recognized something familiar about that woman, and Freddie did too."

"What of your other plan?" Henry said abruptly.

"Other plan?" Victoria looked innocent.

"Yes, the reason you have invited everyone to the house party. Including an ex-paramour of mine." Henry twisted his lips. "And that buffoon, Fashington."

"As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted..." Victoria folded her hands primly in her lap. "We are going to fight rumors with rumors."

"Huh." Henry blinked, his eyes riveted to the foot rest under Agatha's legs.

Agatha pushed her stockinged feet to the floor underneath the stool. "What could we say that would make _Monsieur Herr_ appear from the shadows?"

Victoria took a deep breath. "How about this first one? Lord Anglethorpe is going to offer for Agatha Beauregard's hand."

Agatha gaped as her feet suddenly felt icy cold. She gazed downwards at the carpeted floor. "I... I... How is that going to make _Monsieur Herr_ appear?"

Bill straightened and clicked his fingers. "If they think that government man Anglethorpe is marrying Agatha, even with the rumors, then they will understand that their efforts have not been successful."

"And when they come up with their next attack we should be able to isolate where it is coming from." Henry sat back slowly into his chair. "Possibly it might work."

Agatha looked upwards, and met Henry's gaze. Her toes curled into the carpet as he stared at her, unmoving.

Victoria coughed. "My next one is that we know who _Monsieur Herr_ is and that Henry is close to catching them."

Agatha frowned and broke away from Henry's stare. "Why on earth would she take that bait?"

"Because she sent a person who, as you said, is close to her. So she might wonder what this person would have, could have revealed."

Henry shook his head. "Enough. Don't you realize that all of these plans mean that the threat against Agatha rises?"

Agatha took a deep breath. "What makes you think that?"

"No, no, no, he is right," Victoria mused. " _Monsieur Herr_ has been keen to target Agatha, or Henry from the start. She may take more full-on action if she feels that she is threatened directly."

"Like shooting me, you mean?" Agatha grimaced. "She's probably done that once before."

"It might have been for me." Henry stood. "I'm sorry, but I can't let you use Agatha in this way."

Agatha rose, incensed. "What do you mean they can't use me this way? I speak for myself!"

Henry's eyebrows rose. "Agatha, my dear—"

"I am not your dear anything." Agatha hesitated and lifted her head as a long forgotten ball of tension lodged itself high in her throat. "I will pretend to be your fiancée." She paused and, with a black look, turned to face Victoria, "but only until this affair is over." With as much élan as she could muster in her stockinged feet, she stomped across the carpet and into the hall. If only she hadn't taken her boots off.

In her room she rifled through her petticoat drawer, pulling out the foul smelling packet of gunpowder. _Throw it away._ She stared at it as argument after argument, hypothesis and experiment warred through her head. Mechanically she started to fold her petticoats that lay scattered through the cupboard, her knuckles knocking against the cold glass of a jam jar at the bottom of the drawer. She stared at the whiteness of the insides. It had taken a year for it to fully fur up. Lack of oxygen hadn't seemed to stop the mold growing, she'd noticed idly over that time. _You kept an experiment and it had no impact on what happened to you. You told yourself it was a reminder. And yet you couldn't stop yourself noticing._ The realization trickled through her. What had Henry said? _I wanted to point out that not drawing attention to yourself normally allows you to do everything that you want and more._

Was it possible to pursue her dreams and still attempt a normal life? What passed for a normal life now anyway? Pretending to be Henry's fiancée when in reality all she wanted to be, _was_ Henry's fiancée?

Agatha finished folding the petticoats and bundled them back into the drawer, hesitating as she bent to pick up the pungent packet of gunpowder, glancing back at the jam jar. The past and present, all in her petticoat drawer. And what about the future?

With one decisive thrust she pushed the gunpowder back into the drawer and kicked it shut. For the first time, it seemed the future was full of possibilities.

# CHAPTER 36

Victoria had outdone herself. Berale House _sparkled_.

Henry walked slowly down the central stairs, pulling at his cravat. His footsteps slowed as the stairs turned a corner, his gaze caught on the painting of his mother and father. The painting hung clean and level. Putting out a tentative finger, he traced the flat oils of the pocket watch in his father's hand.

This idea of his sister's was futile. How were they ever going to catch a spy with a few randomly selected guests?

The sound of a crash in the direction of the ballroom made him jump. With great steps, he descended the stairs and rushed towards the great room. The footmen paused in their work of picking up a stack of fallen chairs as he pushed the door open violently.

"Oh. I thought... never mind."

He'd thought that perhaps Agatha had started experimenting again. For an instant the heady days of finding his house in uproar and the sparkle in Agatha's eyes flooded back to him. He'd never been so distracted. He'd never been so focused.

With a sigh he trudged back to the front door to await the first guests for that night's dinner. Dancing and music were to take place the following night. During the day there would be walks for the guests and entertainment in the form of croquet and painting.

For most of that afternoon he had stood on the front steps of Berale House greeting the guests as they had arrived on horseback or in sumptuous carriages. Many had stayed nearby in Honiton the previous night and were therefore full of cheer. Others who had come longer distances were jolted and worn.

Charles and Miss Guthrie had arrived separately as custom dictated. Charles had ignored Henry's proffered hand, reluctant though it was, merely enquiring of the butler where his room was. He disappeared immediately. Miss Guthrie had meekly greeted him, her gaze sliding away as he welcomed her to his house.

Standing at the front door again below the central stairs, Henry wondered if Miss Guthrie could say boo to a goose. She had been accompanied by a severe lady companion in a large bonnet who seemed to do most of the talking.

Henry shuddered as he glanced up the stairs.

"Oh, Henry darling. Berale House is just as I remembered!" Celine looked down on him with a large smile, supported under a bare arm by Edward.

Victoria glided to a halt next to him. "Welcome to Berale House, Celine, Edward. We were so glad you could come." Victoria elbowed Henry in the stomach.

"Oh hello, Lady Colchester. Didn't see you there." Celine appeared to trip on the bottom step, grabbing Edward by the arm. "Come on, Teddy, let's go and get a drink."

"Really, Henry. I don't know what you saw in that woman." Victoria tapped her feet as the couple walked away towards the drawing room.

"I do," he answered wryly. "And anyway, you were the one that invited her."

"Yes," Victoria grumbled as she turned on a perfect heel to follow the guests down the hall.

Henry wondered how long he could keep up his normally inscrutable air as more guests turned up, chattering loudly at the spectacle of the lanterns on the lawn. Bill and Lord Stanton were the last to arrive. Good grief, he hadn't realized that Victoria had invited Bill as well, even if he was one of Henry's key men. It would set the cat among the pigeons when the other guests realized he was the local blacksmith. Despite his massive frame, Bill carried off the evening wear well, seemingly at ease in the tight breeches and well cut coat.

Henry greeted the men cordially but inwardly shook his head. Normally Victoria was a stickler for propriety. The back of his neck prickled as the last step of the stair creaked lightly behind him, primed intermittently by Mrs. Noggin with five years' worth of vegetable stock.

He caught his breath as a finely turned ankle appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

# CHAPTER 37

"Lord Anglethorpe." Agatha regretted the insouciant kick out of her skirts as she took the last step on the stair. Whilst she had been trying to make a point, she had revealed too much ankle. In the dark hallway, her peach skirt gave the impression of being even more brown than it had done in the dingy bedroom.

Henry smiled. "How lovely to see you again, so soon."

Agatha wondered if Henry was mocking her. His granite-like face was even more inscrutable than usual.

"I think most of our guests have arrived, so if you would like to follow me, we are serving champagne in the drawing room before supper."

This time Agatha took the proffered arm, gritting her teeth. He hadn't even complimented her on her dress, as custom dictated. However, she did have a sneaking suspicion that she looked rather like a mushroom. Glancing sideways, she caught Bill's barely concealed grin behind Henry. Lord Stanton stared at the ground away from her, biting his lips.

Henry led them through the house as muffled sounds of merriment grew louder. Victoria slipped through the drawing room door, her cheeks pink at the edges.

"Really, Henry! I know I invited that woman but truly, I still don't see what you saw in her!" Her voice trailed away as she stared at Agatha and smiled, her mouth not quite turning up at the edges. They all knew who Victoria was referring to. Indeed, part of the plan was to make her behavior worse.

"So. Does everyone know what they have to do?" The harried look on Victoria's face faded away to be replaced with steely determination. "Agatha. A word."

Agatha watched as Henry's large form slipped through the door to the drawing room, where the noise dipped slightly and then continued again at normal volume.

Victoria patted her arm. "Agatha. Things are going to get bad before they get any better."

"I know, Victoria. I know."

"And I know that you have been through worse before."

"Yes, Victoria."

"In that case, remember to keep your chin high, and to act like you don't care."

Agatha pushed her chin up. For years she had acted as if she didn't care, didn't care about herself, pretending to be someone else. It should have been ingrained in her by now. But recently she hadn't been able to stop herself. Little acts here and there had broken free from her carefully constructed exterior.

Hands shaking, she pushed open the drawing room door. The drop in sound this time went on for much longer. But one voice continued to speak shrilly into the silence.

"And did you know, someone told me that she stood in for the Grand Albertino and actually threw knives at someone in Vauxhall Gardens! If that isn't a measure of ill character, I..." The voice was as loud as a bell and clear into the hush.

It was not hard to see that it was Celine talking. Quickly, Agatha affected a hurt stance, opening her mouth and widening her eyes in shock. Although they had concocted a series of tales and rumors of which this was one, it was still hurtful to hear in the cold light of the evening. There was no point in being ashamed. Most of this one _was_ true. And she had been forced to do it. _Somewhat scandalous_? That was it.

Henry, who had been lounging by the wood paneled door talking to Edward, straightened and strode to her side. He slid a hand around her waist and with the other, lightly caressed her cheek.

And then he kissed her in front of all the guests, his smooth lips moving firmly against hers, persuasive, questing... commanding.

_Ah yes_. Another part of the planned charade. It did not stop Agatha's cheeks flaming. Henry looked down at her with an amused expression on his face. Agatha blinked and her breathing slowed as the amusement leached from his face and he lowered his head once more.

And then she remembered the guest that she had just heard speaking. He had feigned it for Celine. Why could he not feign it for her?

Lowering her eyes, she broke away from him, greeting guests that she knew, friends of Victoria's. Chatter broke out again among the groups of guests arranged around the room, louder this time and more excitedly.

"So you've hooked yourself another gullible lord, have you, _dear Aggie._ " Charles Fashington stood slumped by the fireplace, alone. He swayed slightly, one hand steadying himself against the mantel. A fire roared in the grate but he seemed impervious to the heat.

Agatha tucked a rogue ringlet behind one ear. Taking a deep breath, she tipped her head to one side and smiled, forcing out a giggle. "Yes. Isn't it exciting? Did you know he's been looking for the famous spy _Monsieur Herr_?"

"No." Charles' pallor whitened imperceptibly and his fingers clenched even tighter against the mantel.

"He thinks he's found _her._ And she's terribly high up in society, don't you know." Agatha was tempted to try another giggle. "I mean, just think, they thought it was me for a while."

"They did? But they don't anymore?" Charles' voice was hoarse.

"Oh no. I mean. That's ridiculous, isn't it? Almost as ridiculous as me applying to the Royal Society of Sciences."

"Err yes... of course." Charles looked over her shoulder and sneered. "Anglethorpe would have supported you, though. He always did think you walked on water. You know what he said to me when he forced me into an engagement with you? You were too good for me and to never let you stop experimenting. Hah! If only it had been the type of experimenting I liked." He swallowed. "Would you excuse me?" Charles pushed himself off the mantel and, brushing past Agatha, snagged a new glass of champagne from the waiting footman. Without pausing, he made straight for the drawing room door.

Agatha stared after him. Henry had said _what_?

"I'd say job well done," Victoria whispered in her ear. "Oh dear." Her gleeful demeanor dropped quickly. A new arrival stood at the door. Earl Harding filled the doorway. "Oh, that odious man. Why ever did I invite him?"

"My darling." Henry appeared at Agatha's elbow before she could respond to Victoria.

She sidled away slightly. "You don't have to continue calling me your darling, Lord Anglethorpe." _Henry had said she was too good for Charles._

"Oh, but I do. Come and meet a friend of mine. Celine."

Ah, a dose of reality. Agatha batted away Henry's hand, and with a regretful glance to Victoria, followed him as he sauntered over to where Celine stood, surrounded by women and some men who were hanging on to her every word.

"Lovers' tiff already, Henry?" Celine drawled. Her red dress left little to the imagination, dipping low at the front and hanging off her shoulders in the sultry imitation of a bath robe. "We never argued when we were together." Celine gave Henry a coquettish look.

"You were too busy hanging out for diamonds and becoming the next Lady Anglethorpe, Celine. Whereas this," Henry drew Agatha closer, "is true love."

Agatha stifled a gasp. Henry was really pushing the boundaries of what they said they would do. They had had a two pronged approach. First through Charles—one of the spy's notes had been lost in his clothing—he had to be connected somehow, and then through Celine. They had to pretend they were in love so that Celine, a notorious gossip, would spread the fact far and wide in the hope it would reach _Monsieur Herr_ 's ears. And then hopefully, _Monsieur Herr_ would worry that nobody believed that Agatha was _Monsieur Herr._ After all, why would Henry, the consummate spymaster, continue to pursue a relationship with the woman that he assumed to be the spy?

Desperately she flicked a glance around the room and caught Harriet's eye. Harriet gazed at her for a moment before slowly, and imperceptibly closing one eye in a wink. But her pallor whitened as she looked away from Agatha, towards the door where Lord Stanton had strode in as though he was going to conquer a battlefield. Oh gods. _More trouble_.

Agatha pasted a smile on her face, and drew a deep breath, turning her attention back to Celine. "Darling Henry has told me all about you." Henry's hand tightened sharply on her waist and Celine frowned. "Why, did you not..."

"Ah, Earl Harding has just caught my eye. We really must go. Ladies, gentlemen, Celine..." With a nod, Henry swung Agatha away from the crowd and pushed her in the direction of Earl Harding. "What did you think you were doing?" he murmured.

"What did you think _you_ were doing? True love!"

"We had to convince her somehow. Your little display did nothing for our cause."

"It wasn't a little display."

"It was."

"Stop bickering, you two!" As Victoria spoke, Earl Harding regarded them with interest.

"You know, I really think..."

"Isn't it a wonderful gathering?" Victoria broke into Earl Harding's musing.

"But Victoria..."

"This is not the time, Hades. Anyway. You were telling me what you had done with my dog, Arturo."

Agatha's mouth dropped open. Earl Harding's first name was Hades? God of the underworld? Hades Harding! The man gave her a stony glare as Henry drew her away.

"What is it between those two?"

"I'll tell you another time. Suffice it to say, they have a long history. And it has never ended well."

Agatha shuddered. Was he still speaking about Victoria and Earl Harding or about themselves?

"I think we have done enough here. It is time to go through to supper." Henry clapped his hands. The footmen opened the door to the drawing room. Delicious smells wafted through from the dining room directly opposite. "Harding, if you could escort my sister, please?"

Charles was already in the dining room, drinking steadily from a wine glass. He did not look up when the others entered. Each place was marked with a name. Agatha's heart fell as she read the card. To her left was Earl Harding, to her right Henry, directly opposite Charles and either side of him Celine and Miss Guthrie.

Henry drew out her chair for her and she nodded as she sat. The smile he gave her was soft, but she ignored him. Gathering her full skirts in her hands, she gently seated herself in the chair.

Their section of the table was quiet to begin with, as they concentrated on the soup course that arrived immediately. No one made eye contact. Around them the other guests chatted excitedly. Victoria shot concerned looks down the length of the table and muttered urgently in Bill's ear. Lord Stanton sat on her other side, alternating between stonily glaring at Harriet, and smirking at Agatha and Henry. Agatha wanted to ask him what he meant to Harriet. But Harriet had refused to tell her, and Lord Stanton was no longer the young man that she had known. Now he was tall, formidable. And hard, like all the men at that the table.

"So. Where's Lord Lassiter?" Celine was the first to start the conversation.

"He fell from his horse," Henry said shortly.

"He never falls from a horse," Charles slurred looking up from his plate. "He's known as one of the best riders in the army."

In an effort to turn the conversation, Agatha concentrated on Miss Guthrie who had been the quietest. "So have you set a date, Miss Guthrie?"

"We haven't," Charles answered for her. "We are still discussing settlements."

Celine snorted, crashing her soup plate from the table in her mirth. "Settlements? What settlements? The only settlement in your marriage is what you'll be receiving from Guthrie."

"Shh, Celine." Edward tried in vain to intercede from further down the table as more guests turned to watch.

"Yes, shut up, Celine, you little trollop." Charles raised his face from the soup, his cheeks a bright red. The dinner guests gasped.

"I would remind you, Fashington, that you are at my dinner table and if you cannot control yourself, then you should leave." Victoria stood and rang the bell for the footman.

Charles threw his napkin on the table. "No need. Lady Colchester. Miss Guthrie." He nodded his head and stalked out in a wobbly line. Those sat round the table breathed a sigh of relief.

"I say," Celine huffed indignantly.

"Enough, Celine." Henry took a spoonful of soup. "Let us discuss something else. I hear that Darkangel is running at Newmarket tomorrow. What does anyone think of its odds?"

Shoulders slumping in relief, Agatha picked up her own spoon as discussion of the riders and runners at the races swirled around her.

The next day dawned bright and clear. In the morning room, Agatha slowly finished her breakfast. She had spent the night tossing and turning. Henry's declaration to Celine had rocked her. _This is true love_ , echoed in her ears. What had really disturbed her was the sense of longing that consumed her. With a jolt of chagrin, she wished that it were true. She wanted him to love her. She wanted it to be true love, the man that had declared her too good for Charles.

Clouds swept across the blue sky, the grass bending gently in the breeze outside the breakfast room windows. All the other current residents of Berale House had been delivered a breakfast tray to their rooms including Harriet who had waved her away and disappeared under the duvets when she had invited her down to breakfast.

The stable boy saddled a horse for Agatha, a fairly docile grey mare with a kind temperament that Lord Stanton had lent them for the duration of the house party. Agatha guided her down the drive and out onto the rolling hills above the coastline. They started out first on the hedge-enclosed tracks around the quarries which led out slowly onto the scrubland. From there it was an easy climb up the field behind, already planted with the summer's crops.

She wasn't alone when she reached the top of the hill.

Miss Guthrie looked down at her, seated on a magnificent stallion that excitedly twitched its tail at the sight of the mare.

"Good morning, Miss Guthrie."

"Oh! Please call me Matilda. I do hate the formality of Miss Guthrie." She wheeled the stallion in a circle as it snorted at the mare.

"Matilda it is then. I'm Agatha. What a fantastic horse."

"Isn't it just." Miss Guthrie pulled the reins lightly. "My father gave him to me. He bought him at Tattersalls. My stepmother, Lady Guthrie, was aghast at how much he spent."

"Gosh! How do you control him?" The stallion snorted again.

"He's actually quite even-tempered. He will quieten down in a minute." As she spoke, the stallion stopped prancing and swishing his tail and arched a nose out towards the mare.

"Isn't it a magnificent view from here?" Miss Guthrie said quietly.

Agatha nodded. It was indeed. As they looked south towards the coast, the sun rose to the left of them, glinting off waves in the water.

"Would you like to join me?" Miss Guthrie asked shyly. "I would love some company."

Agatha thought of the morning's entertainments of painting and croquet and decided that some quiet company would probably be just what she needed. "Yes, I would love to."

"I'll come too." Unnoticed whilst they had been considering the view, Celine had trotted up to them. She was dressed in a riding habit that accentuated her curves. A little hat sat cockaded on her head.

Agatha's insides tightened. "I don't think that—"

Miss Guthrie shook her head. "It's fine, Agatha. I want to hear more about what Celine has to say."

Agatha's heart fell. "Well I—"

"Oh, don't be such a widgeon, Miss Beauregard." Celine lifted an eyebrow. "Buck up. You need to if you want to catch Lord Anglethorpe. I'll meet you two at the bottom by the hollow."

Agatha gritted her teeth as Celine cantered down the hill.

"She's quite a character, isn't she?" Miss Guthrie said innocently.

"Yes," Agatha blurted out.

"I quite admire her actually. She has made the transition from a lady of the night to semi-respectable woman quite well."

Agatha choked. Someone had definitely replaced Miss Guthrie in the night.

"I've heard that she is actually quite a clever woman. If only she was my stepmother instead of that odious woman."

Agatha stared down the hill. Miss Guthrie did have a point. Despite all the rumors and hearsay the woman spouted, none of it had been said in a spiteful voice. It was as if Celine was merely playing a role, going through the motions, _giving information_.

"I'm afraid I can't hold him any longer. See you at the bottom." Miss Guthrie kicked the stallion, which responded with a gigantic leap into an immediate canter. Agatha watched admiringly as she crouched low in the saddle, fitting her form to the horse. Giving a light tap to her own mare, she held tightly to the reins as the smaller horse picked its way slowly down the hill.

When she reached the hollow, both Celine and Miss Guthrie were laughing like old friends.

Miss Guthrie stopped suddenly, her hands twitching at the reins held lightly in her hand. "Celine, you said something last night at dinner about my marriage settlement."

"Yes, I did."

"I want to hear more."

"I'm not sure I should—"

"It's not your marriage and you are not the one who is being pushed into it!" Miss Guthrie shut her mouth like a trap and slumped.

Agatha cursed as her mare chose that instant to circle away. Pulling hard on the reins, she guided the horse back to the others.

"Interesting. Exactly who is pushing you?" Celine cocked her head on one side.

"My stepmother. Lady Guthrie," Miss Guthrie spat out, stilling her twitching hands. "She has convinced my father that this is a worthy match."

"You must have liked him at first," Agatha ventured. After all, she had too.

"I did. Before he started drinking. He was charming."

Agatha nodded. Yes. Charles had been a very charming man.

Miss Guthrie stroked the head of the stallion. "I was so pleased that I had found someone that I liked and whom both my father and stepmother welcomed."

"Oh, I just bet Lady Guthrie welcomed him," Celine said. "The affair between her and Fashington when old Foxtone was alive used to be the worst kept secret in the ton."

Agatha gasped.

"My fiancé had an affair with my stepmother whilst she was married to Lord Foxtone?" Miss Guthrie pulled on her horse's reins as he sidestepped in disquiet.

"How... how do you know?" Agatha asked.

Celine stared at them. "A woman of my means," she started delicately, "hears many things. Especially when she caters to those who have specific needs."

"Specific needs?"

Celine whacked her riding crop against her glove-clad fingers, causing them both to jump. "Let us just say, this crop doesn't work only on horses." She looked intently at Agatha. "I tried to tell you that time in the park."

"But Charles..."

"Oh, particularly Charles. How else do you think I knew that he had no money left?"

" _What?_ " __ Miss Guthrie gasped.

"Surely your father told you? Charles is penniless. He has spent all his money from the estates on gambling, women and wine. We found out when he couldn't pay his bill."

" _His bill!_ "

"All the girls were enormously disappointed. He was a bit of a favorite of some really. Very charming and chatty, even if they did have to enjoy the occasional horseplay." Celine coughed into her hand. "I like you," she said abruptly to Miss Guthrie. "I even think I like you, Miss Beauregard, despite your interest in Henry. But Miss Guthrie, I think you should know. I think your fiancé is still having an affair with your stepmother."

In the silence that followed, the breeze grew stronger and the trees in the hollow swayed, creaking through their moss-covered trunks. A fox barked in the distance, and even the rabbits that had scattered at their approach stopped munching on the fertile grass.

"I think," began Miss Guthrie, "I think, you can call me Matilda, Celine."

Celine sat bolt upright on her horse and with a sigh visibly lost the tension in her figure.

"To be honest, I am not that surprised. The relationship between my stepmother and Charles has constantly been too close for my liking. I was just so grateful that that _bitch_ had stopped mentioning marriage." Miss Guthrie lightly tapped her horse setting him in motion. "I want to ride."

She led the way through the hollow and out the other side to a path that bordered a small stream. Agatha pulled the small mare into a trot beside her.

"What are you going to do now?" Agatha asked lightly, jolting in the mare's saddle. Celine's revelations had put the whole Charles affair into context for her. If Lady Foxtone had been having an affair with Charles Fashington all those years ago, then no wonder she had been so irate when she had discovered Charles and Agatha in a compromising position.

Miss Guthrie bowed her head. "I'm not sure. Breaking off the marriage will look bad."

"Yes, I know. I was engaged to him too."

"Hmm, yes. I've only recently found that out. I wanted to ask you why you broke your engagement?"

"I never wanted to marry him. He tried to kiss me and we were caught in what looked a compromising position."

Celine snorted behind them. "That sounds like the Charles of old."

"It seems as if I can't really stay engaged to him." Miss Guthrie looked as though a weight had fallen from her shoulders. "Now I just need to find a way to tell Father without the stepmother finding out. He tells her _everything_."

# CHAPTER 38

Henry studied his reflection in the mirror. He did not like what he saw. More streaks of hair around his ears were turning grey, and his formerly unlined forehead was gathering creases. It was that damn woman who was doing this to him. He didn't like not knowing where she was or what she was doing.

He had felt James Stanton's laughing gaze on his back too many times the previous evening at dinner.

He shrugged on his frockcoat and deftly tied his cravat in a barrel knot. He had no need of his valet, Ames, who stood watchful in the corner of the room, his head still clad in the ludicrous John Smith wig.

Henry pulled at his cravat. "Will I do?"

"She will like it, my lord."

He sighed. Even his bloody valet was matchmaking. It seemed as if all his staff wanted desperately to believe in this charade. The valet remained silent, folding up the clothes that Henry had shed after taking a bath to clean himself from his ride.

"Out with it!"

"Janey told me that Miss Beauregard sleeps badly."

"Janey?"

"Her lady's maid, sir. Miss Victoria, I mean Lady Colchester, recruited some of the locals from the village. Very nice Janey is too."

"Just keep your eyes and ears open this evening, Ames. Last night we shook the trees and tonight we must see if anything falls out."

"Yes, my lord."

Henry stepped lightly down the stairs. The main staircase wound round descending to the black and white flagged hall that led from the front of the house to the back. As he descended the last flight, the loud clinking of salvers and glasses reached him from below stairs, as did the creak as guests walked backwards and forth above. He had an hour before the first guests arrived from both the house party and around the district.

In fact, what was he to do with himself in the intervening hour? The staff had everything organized. He was only needed to form a receiving line at the start of the evening, and from then on his sister had decreed that everything would work like clockwork. He retreated to his study.

The room was just the same as he had left it on the previous evening. He fell into the leather chair that sat on castors behind his desk. Idly he swung his legs to and fro. Then, with decision, he pulled out a drawer and lifted a small box onto the desk. The birds and lilies embroidered on the top seemed to move for an instant and then freeze again into their perpetual dance and song.

He opened the box and sat for a while, inhaling the faint perfume. Patting his breast pocket, he withdrew the dainty gold and amethyst band and placed it into the small indentation next to the large gold ring. He pulled the gold ring from its velvet enclosure and rolled it in his fingers. He closed the box with a snap and carefully placed it back in the desk drawer. Rising, he left the study to face the guests.

The reception line was interminably long. The noise in the ballroom reached a crescendo as the number of people gathering increased. Guest upon guest sat in the chairs around the outside of the room, or stood chatting in small groups. They each held a glass of champagne in their hand, helping with the merriment and laughter.

He had already greeted Bill, Lord Stanton, Harding, and a fragile-looking Freddie who had shaken him rather gingerly by the hand, not quite regarding him in the eye.

Even Fashington looked less drunk this evening and more in control of himself, his face open and engaging.

Victoria turned from greeting the last guest and elbowed him in the ribs. "Look at her!"

Henry's heart leapt, but fell like a stone. In the queue of people to enter the ballroom, Miss Guthrie stood tall, and graceful. Her dress was a stunning sky blue which shimmered as she walked. She held her head high, and laughed, as clear as a bell, as her companion made a remark.

Miss Guthrie did not look at Fashington once, even though he stood nearby trying to attract her attention.

"What's going on this evening?" Victoria elbowed him in the side again. "First Miss Guthrie and now..."

Henry looked again to the ballroom door and took a deep breath. It was like the first time he had seen the Grand Albertino. Agatha stood on the top step, glinting and flaming as the candles cast their light on the gold of her dress. Harriet stood behind her, but Henry didn't notice. Agatha was like the sun emerging from the night. As she entered, a broad smile crossed her face, causing her beauty to flair into life. The soft light of the hall caressed her creamy shoulders, and set off the red-gold tints in her hair.

"Close your mouth, Henry!" Victoria gave him one last dig in the ribs and then swept over to greet her friend.

He could not stop staring. This was not the same Agatha he knew, and he thought that he had met them all, the reckless scientist, the endearing academic, the infuriatingly loyal friend to his sister. This was a woman who was in touch with her sensuality, and knew how to use it. This was a woman that was going to have all the men at the dance lusting after her.

Before he knew what he was doing, he was moving forward and pulling Agatha straight back out of the door through which she had come, with barely a courteous nod for Harriet in the process.

"Henry—" Victoria squawked, "you can't..."

He closed the door firmly behind him, uncaring and dropped his hands to his side, clenching them in to tight fists. "What are you wearing?"

"Don't you like it?" Agatha shrugged her shoulders.

"Of course I like it. The problem is, so will everyone else too."

"And why does that matter?"

"Because, because..." Henry stuttered. Agatha shot a disdainful look at him and pulled the door back open again to where Victoria still stood.

"What a delightful gathering, Victoria," Agatha said cheerfully, sweeping in through the door. She shut it quietly on him as he looked after her.

Henry could feel himself shaking. He strode down the hall and out the front door, taking in deep gulps of the cold night air.

"I'd stick to her like glue, sir."

Henry jumped and then shook himself. Ames lounged quietly in the shadows, his preposterous John Smith wig low over his eyes.

Henry covered his disquiet with bluster. "What are you doing there? You are meant to be finding out what is going on in the ballroom."

"Best place to hear the gossip, my lord. As the guests have been queuing they've been discussing all sorts of interesting things that they won't talk of inside."

Henry looked back at the door. "Go on."

"Lots of guests from the local area are suspicious of you finally opening your house for a ball. You've owned it for more than five years, and never done something similar."

"And?"

"And they think that you are doing it because you are near to getting married. They are all craning their heads wondering who the lucky lady is."

"Hmm."

"Then there is the group of people who wonder what you actually do when you are down here, given that you don't seem to go out very much."

"Sounds normal."

"And then the ladies are wondering if they are going to have a chance to entrap you."

"What?"

"Oh yes. Fairly unscrupulous bunch. Watch out for the gaggle of local ladies in awful dresses."

Henry flicked a glare at his valet. "So in reality you haven't found out much at all, have you?"

"I was going to come on to that. It wasn't one of the guests going in, but one of the guests coming out that caught my attention. That gentleman, Lord Fashington, stood for a while on the top step smoking. I thought it was a pretty odd place to do it, given that he could have gone for a walk in the grounds. He dropped his cigar the moment after the last coach arrived and slipped inside."

"Who was in the last coach?"

Ames frowned. "I don't know him very well. I think it was Lord Stanton's cousin, an Edgar Stanton."

"Did he speak to anyone else?"

"No one at all. Most of the crowd avoided him."

Henry was puzzled. Most of the guests had been smoking on the terrace during the weekend as asked to by Victoria. Certainly when a rush of guests were arriving, the normal thing would not be trying to go out through the same door as the one that people were coming in by.

"Are you sure he did not speak to anyone?"

"Of course."

Henry nodded. "Go round the back and enter through the terrace. See if there is anyone trying to get in that we haven't invited."

With a tip of his cap, Ames moved silently through the shadows and disappeared around the corner of the house.

The hall was empty when Henry re-entered the house. All the guests had now arrived, and Victoria was presiding over the affair in the ballroom.

Henry opened the ballroom door slightly and stepped in quietly. The dancing had already begun with locals and house party guests mingling good-naturedly. As soon as he had stepped in, his body sensed where Agatha was standing. She was surrounded by a sea of males who were listening attentively to her every word. Miss Guthrie too was also similarly accompanied. Fashington stood frustratedly at the edge of her circle, Miss Guthrie angled away from him as if on purpose.

As he strode towards Agatha, she glanced at him and then said something to the man next to her, Harding. Henry gritted his teeth and strode forward more quickly. But he was too late. He was already leading Agatha out onto the dance floor. Harding met his eyes briefly and smiled wolfishly.

Henry clenched his hands by his side.

"I say, Anglethorpe. Jolly good gathering." Granwich tapped at his shoulder and handed him a glass of champagne. "Haven't been to a ball with such interesting guests since your parents' gatherings. Too bad your mother died of consumption. She was an excellent hostess here, even without your father."

Henry gripped at the champagne glass tightly. "Consumption?" What in the hell?

Granwich stared at him. "Yes of course. She contracted it several months before your father died."

"She did? I..."

"She never wanted to make a fuss, your mother. She was a very special lady. Always understood the pressure your father was under and the risks that he took."

"She didn't die of a broken heart?"

Granwich frowned at him. "Good God, man. Where did you get that idea? No, she and your father were very much in love, and of course Helen was grief-stricken when he died, but she always said she was lucky to have had her time with your father, and she wouldn't have exchanged it for anything else. The thing was, he knew she was going of course, before he even died. It was the cough that gave it away."

His mother coughing with laughter outside the carriage.

"Why didn't she tell me... us?"

"I don't think she wanted to burden you with it. Consumption is rumored to be highly infectious. Also plays havoc with the body... most patients end up looking like skeletons at the end."

So that was why she had refused to see Victoria or Henry. _Not_ because she was languishing with a broken heart.

Henry balled his hands into a fist. "If only Father hadn't died... if I could just find what my father was looking __ for _."_

Granwich stared at him. "That won't bring her back." He grasped Henry roughly by the shoulder. "Henry, you've been looking for years. Searching for something that you believe will bring back those halcyon days of your family. Your mother and father are dead and you can't bring them back. You've been concentrating on the wrong thing—you should be creating your own family, your own happiness. Then in time, a strand of information will surface and you will be able to continue again looking for whatever it is." Stepping away, Granwich picked up his cane and turned back. "Imagine dying without having ever loved or been loved?" he said in a low voice. "What use would all your searching have been then?"

Granwich strode away into the crowds, his hand white on his cane.

Henry gasped, a sharp pain seizing his shoulders. He should have known. His father had tried to tell him that day in the Cheshire Cheese. _Look after her if I go._ He'd known already that his mother was dying, that only his sister would be left to look after.

From the terrace, a roar rippled across the crowds. Henry started, running a hand through his hair.

"Why, you little bitch!" Charles pushed open the terraced door and staggered through it, pursued by the small dark form of a woman.

"And whilst we are here, Lord Charles Fashington, I never want to see you again in my life." A disheveled Miss Guthrie appeared behind the lurching Charles. She lifted her reticule and thumped him on the head.

"No wonder no man wants you, you washed up prude." Charles seemed unaware of his audience and appeared incandescent with rage. "You can't break our engagement off. Your father won't allow it. Especially when I tell him what you have been up to."

Miss Guthrie drew herself to her full height. "What I have been up to!" She laughed hysterically. "I think that everyone—" She gestured to the shocked ballroom in front of them—"will be interested in the fact that you have spent your entire inheritance on courtesans, gambling and my stepmother!"

"Who told you that?" Charles straightened, his hands still covering his head, cowering away from Miss Guthrie. "It's not true!" he cried wildly to the ballroom. "She's a wild fantasist and a liar. She's just jealous of Lady Guthrie."

He looked around himself, eyes bulging as the guests turned their backs on him. "What are you doing?" he burst out as voices here and there echoed 'inheritance', 'gambling', and even more worryingly, 'depraved sexual tastes'. "What have you done?"

"I'm not sorry, Charles." Miss Guthrie collapsed onto the supporting arm of Victoria. "I asked you out onto the terrace to break the news to you in person and discreetly."

"Oh, come on. Everybody knows that if a lady asks you onto the terrace then she only wants one thing."

"Really, Charles. I would have thought you had learnt your lesson on that front by now." Striding across the ballroom, Henry bent to pick up a piece of paper that had fallen out of Miss Guthrie's hand. "Hmm." He read the note aloud, "I promise the bearer five thousand guineas."

"I thought I could buy him off." Miss Guthrie bit the words out. "He could give it to his lover, my stepmother."

"I'll still take it." Charles looked hopeful. "Consider it a parting present."

"I don't think she needs to do anything like that, Charles." Victoria ripped up the waiver. "In fact I think you can collect your things now and a coach will take you to the local inn, and then you can leave from there." She signaled to two waiting footmen.

"Look, we don't need to do anything hastily. Anglethorpe? Henry," Charles pleaded. "Goddamn it, you can't do this to me! I'm a peer of the realm and my work is important!"

Henry watched immovably as the footmen led a hunched and shaking Charles away. He looked at the guests who had gathered around, the initial excitement of the new gossip wearing off.

"I think, Victoria, that more dancing is needed." He checked his pocket watch and stilled. "And this time we should play a waltz." Henry walked over to the string quartet. After a murmured conversation, the players enthusiastically picked up their instruments and started a lively melody.

He clapped his hands together. "Ladies and gentlemen! Please find your partners for the first waltz of the evening!"

A shimmer of gold distracted him. Agatha slipped through the open terrace door that Charles had staggered through. He strode quickly after her, but on the dimly-lit patio, however, there was no sign of a golden siren. A few gentlemen stood smoking, discussing shooting and estates. He strode into the gardens beyond. The grass was long and wet underfoot and bent where footsteps had already crossed it.

He found her at last in the center of a dark box hedge enclosure, seated on a semicircular marble seat, the strains of the quartet floating through the air. She gazed unblinking at a hollow sphere-shaped sundial.

With a slender finger she traced the edges of the marble seat. "Why didn't I have the courage to deal with Charles Fashington in the same way?" she asked in a low voice.

"Because you were younger and because you had received those threats, Agatha." He stood in front of her and stared down at the auburn highlights in her hair. "And you had no one to advise you as Miss Guthrie did." Henry plucked at his cravat and unbuttoned his coat. Despite the cool air, he was rather hot. "And besides, I had forced you into it. I was in a way meant to be your guardian. I was just..." Henry strove for control in his voice, "...so angry at what you had done."

"He wasn't meant to be there. In that room, the blue one, I mean."

Henry sighed. "Charles is an opportunist. You were young and inexperienced, your head too full of ideals."

Agatha looked up at him, and then away quickly, small strands of her hair falling delicately against her neck. "There you go again, telling me about who I am and what I should be. And yet you... you _kiss_ me as if nothing else matters."

Henry shook his head and pulled at his coat. "Agatha, will you, could you dance with me please?"

Agatha turned back to stare at him, the golden dress rustling as she moved. Slowly she put out her hand.

Despite everything she still liked him. With a gasp, Henry tentatively put out his own hand, knocking at the side of his coat. In horror, he watched as the pocket watch he had thrust in with little care earlier fell out and crashed to the hard floor with a dull thunk, the casement opening to lie flat on the stone.

Agatha stared open mouthed at the dented watch, her hand dropping back to her side. "Where did you get that?"

Henry stared at her disappearing hand. "It was my father's." He bent down and cradled the watch in his palm, the old metal warming in his hands.

"Not the watch, the paper with the Greek letters. I've seen it before." She looked away. "It's not very funny, is it?"

"Pardon?"

Without looking at him, Agatha pointed at the charred scrap of paper tucked into the lid of the watch casement.

"It says _'ihn'_ ," Henry said dully. "It's part of the _Monsieur Herr_ affair. It means 'him' in German."

"No, it doesn't."

"I beg to differ, Agatha."

"It doesn't say 'him'."

"You would argue with the German ambassador?"

"German's do not capitalize within words. At least, none of the famous German scientists I know did. But they certainly knew the universal language of mathematics. Greek letters. Like the ones in that book of verse you have."

" _Greek letters_?" So she had taken _Conversations on Science_ with her. He couldn't help the burst of hope that bloomed further in his chest. "My book of verse is in translation."

"Oh. That would explain it. Yes. It says I H Π, Iota Eta Pi in Greek to be precise."

"Iota Eta Pi." Good God, so it did. "That's not a joke, Agatha." He held out his hand again.

Agatha stared at his hand, her arms straight by her side. "If you say it quickly, it sounds like _I ought to eat a pie_."

"I ought to eat a pie. I ought to eat a pie." Henry slammed his fist down on the bench. "It still makes no sense. We're no further forward in finding this man." He thrust his arm out again. "Come, dance with me."

"It's not a man—you've said that yourself."

"Hell and damnation." She was right. "We'll dance in the ballroom, tell everyone..."

"No." Agatha put out one hand and slid further away on the marble seat. She wrapped her arms around herself, clasping her dress to her. "I've remembered where I saw that paper before, in the grate at Lady Foxtone's ball. Good God, you didn't even ask me about it." She paused, rubbing at the exposed underside of her arm. "That's why they all thought I was the spy. Why didn't you just ask me? My brother asked you to look after _me_." She looked up at him, her eyes glassy, searching his. Slowly her features hardened. "It's all just a game to you, isn't it, Henry? The half-truths, the unanswered questions. You don't really care for anyone at all. It is all about you and your work."

He couldn't answer, could only stare at her, clenching his fists so tightly his nails dug into his hands. With just a few words she had revealed the real truth. How could he tell the woman he loved that while he had told himself he was protecting her, in truth it was because he had been protecting himself? He, the famed Hawk, was in reality a selfish, gutless _chicken_. And she, rightly, wanted nothing to do with him.

# CHAPTER 39

The string quartet playing in the large recital chamber in Hanover Square Rooms sawed their bows valiantly on across their instruments despite the chattering from the third row of seats.

"I heard that she actually kicked him _there_!"

"You mean as in...?"

"Yes, precisely! And then she told him that she never wanted to see him again."

"I heard that he had been having an affair with her stepmother."

"Lady Guthrie? How awful. I did wonder why she married that old man. Charles Fashington used to be rather dashing."

"Yes, but the _stepmother._ "

"Do you think he meant to carry it on when they were married?"

Agatha turned away from listening. The gossip was vaguely sickening. And the turbans an even more putrid shade of violet than ever. On a positive note, at least the gossip wasn't about her.

The two rather strident voices carried above the mediocre musical recital. Agatha shuddered, looking around at the opulent room with its hanging curtains. The last time she had been here she had become engaged to Fashington herself.

The gossips sat fanning themselves with their programs as a young lady sang an operetta at the front. Despite the disapproving looks being leveled at the matrons, no one had yet dared a direct confrontation. Most of the audience were too interested in hearing what they were saying.

"I'm not sure. You know, I've also heard that he is penniless."

" _Really_?"

"Hmm. Not a bean to his name."

"Bang go his chances of finding another lady to marry him. It would have been all right if not for the nasty public nature of the break-up."

"And the stepmother."

"Of course."

"Isn't this his second broken engagement too?"

Oh dear.

"I've heard that the woman who broke the first engagement is now engaged to Lord Anglethorpe."

"What's her name?"

"Agatha Beauregard, I believe. Practically an old maid now."

Ha. They had that right. And an old maid she would remain. Agatha stood discreetly and, with a murmured apology to the gentleman sitting at the end of the row, edged past and out of the door. She collected her maid Janey from the hall. Janey had made the transition from Brambridge nicely, and seemed to be ecstatic to be out of Devon and in the smoky stacks of London. Harriet, however, had refused to come to the recital rooms with her. She seemed to becoming more and more downcast as their time in London went on.

As they left the Hanover Square Rooms, Agatha looked at the typical blue sky of summer above the narrow streets.

"It's a nice day, Janey. I would like to take a walk."

"Yes, miss. I'll just tell the carriage to go back to Upper Brook Street."

"Thank you."

As she hurried to the waiting carriage, Janey exchanged a secret smile with the waiting footman. "Miss says that you should meet us back at Colchester Mansions, John. We are going to walk from here."

Agatha watched, her heart clenching, as the coachman looked knowingly between the bearded, hunched footman and Janey. "I'm sure you two lovebirds can stand to be away from each other for a bit." With a click of his tongue, he maneuvered the two horses into the road and set the coach off in the direction of the Upper Brook Street.

With one last longing glance at the footman, Janey walked jauntily back to the steps where Agatha stood.

"How long have you known John?" Agatha asked abruptly after a few moments silence.

"Oh, since Devon. He's ever so nice. He says he only had eyes for me since he saw me."

"Hmm."

Agatha was troubled. There was still something about the footman that seemed a little off. And despite his shoulder, something about the way he walked was very familiar. He was a bit older than some of the other fresh-faced footmen in Victoria's household. And he had acted strangely once or twice around Henry, in London and Devon. She had assumed that John Smith had been attached to Berale House as extra staff were needed for the house party.

She walked a bit further down the road, Janey trailing half a step behind her. Soon they reached the main thoroughfare of Duke Street where shop wares spilled onto the pavement, greengrocers with fruits, hardware stores with numerous buckets. Enticing aromas crept through the door of the corner bakery where small pastries were laid out in the window _._

Hunger gnawed at her belly. "Let's go and buy some iced buns," Agatha said on impulse.

Janey brightened. "Let me open the door for you, miss."

"Thank you, Janey."

Agatha stood back and waited as Janey pushed open the door and took a strong sniff of the melting smell of baked bread. Suddenly she felt a large object pushed into the small of her back.

"I have a pistol. Don't turn around," the voice whispered in a menacing tone. Agatha stiffened, her blood running cold. She looked desperately into the window of the bakery to see if she could see the reflection of who was behind her, but her view was obscured by a sign advertising _Blackberry pies 2d_.

"On the floor you will find a message. Pick it up now."

Agatha took another desperate look in the window but the figure was obscured by a large hat and nondescript pantaloons. Another jab by the pistol in her back motivated her. She saw the paper by her foot and bent down to pick it up. She stood quickly, but the person was gone.

"Are you coming, miss?" Janey held the bakery door open and frowned.

"Did you see the man behind me, Janey?"

"No, Miss Beauregard. I was too busy examining the pastries. You're very pale. Are you alright?"

Agatha glanced at the paper in her hand, then at Janey and around at the busy Duke Street. Whilst there were many people thronging the pavements, no one sported a large hat and pantaloons. It was as if the person with the pistol had vanished into thin air. She blinked hurriedly and tucked the paper into her reticule, her hands shaking.

"Oh, I'm fine. Shall we get those buns and go home?"

The walk back to Colchester Mansions seemed interminable. Janey chattered nervously, trying to fill the silence. Agatha found it hard to think of a response. The folded scrap of paper she had picked up from the floor seemed to make her bag as heavy as lead.

As soon as they were welcomed through the door, Agatha sent Janey to get some hot water. As she stood in the hall, momentarily alone, she withdrew the paper from her bag. Her fingers trembled as she unfolded the note.

She gasped when she saw the writing. Barely seeing what it said, she pushed it swiftly into a pocket in her skirts. Peering wildly around her, she rushed up the stairs to her room. In her chamber, she scrabbled at her jewelry box which stood on the top of a vanity table. Withdrawing a large locket with a picture of Harriet in it, she popped open the back. A blue slip yellowed at the edges fell out. Swiftly, she snatched it from the table. She moved to the window where there was more light.

'Leave London, or you will die. If you do not leave, your family will die too. Especially if you tell anyone of this note.'

The words still made her shudder years later. She thrust her hand into her pocket and withdrew the new note.

'Be back at the Hanover Square Rooms at midnight. Come alone. Tell no one or else Lord Anglethorpe will be killed.'

The handwriting was the same, the loops on the letters as flamboyant as five years ago. Agatha gasped and collapsed into a bedroom chair. Once again a note was threatening her. And this time they had Henry in their sights, the only man she had ever cared for. The only man that she had thought might want her in return.

Gods, how her heart had leapt when he'd asked her to dance. He never dances, his sister had said, he's too afraid that a woman will ensnare him. And then she'd seen a scrap of paper in his pocket watch, and the reality of the situation had come crashing back down on her.

Tears welled up into her eyes. The last time the note in her locket had precipitated her rush to Devon and several years of living in anonymity. She glanced at the golden cover of the locket. The reverse side showed a miniature portrait of her brother and his bride. She had been too late to rescue her only family, who despite all appearances had cared enough for her to send Henry to her rescue. And now if she didn't do something, anything, she would be too late to risk harm coming to the only man she had ever loved.

Gods. Yes. She loved him. Agatha hung her head as her heart threatened to burst from her chest. He'd asked her to dance and she'd refused. She'd thrown spite and empty words at him from years of hurt, and yet, she would have acted the same as him in the situation. Evidence. That's what she'd said again and again. With great yanks to the cord by the fireplace she rang her bell for Janey. Janey appeared quickly, a tea tray in her arms.

Agatha swallowed. There was no time for tea. "Janey, where's Victoria? And Harriet?"

"I believe they've gone out shopping, Miss Agatha. Lady Colchester said something about new clothes."

Agatha rubbed a tired hand against her eyes, not knowing whether to be relieved or cry. Opening the drawer of the vanity table with leaden fingers, she withdrew a leaf of parchment and a quill. Pulling up a stool, she slowly started to write. A few short paragraphs later, she blotted the script carefully and folded up the blue note and new white slip into the parchment, sealing it all closed with wax.

"Janey. I want you to get me ready." Agatha started to fumble with her clothes. "I am going out for the evening." She looked up and winked as hard as she could at Janey. "I have an assignation and I don't want anyone going with me, if you know what I mean."

Janey was ecstatic. "Ooh, miss! Is it with you know who?"

Agatha sighed inwardly. She hated playing on Janey's romantic nature, and especially her own current circumstances. "Of course."

"I knew he was a deep one. He's a handsome man, that's for sure. In Brambridge we used to see him with all these ladies..."

"Yes. I am excited as well. Please can you help me get ready?"

"You need to wear that golden dress again. Last time you could barely scrape his tongue off the floor."

"Who told you that?" Agatha said sharply.

"Oooh, John told me. He knows an awful lot about Lord Anglethorpe. He doesn't tell me much but I can tell he admires him..."

"I will wear the peach dress."

"The peach dress? It makes you look like a mushroom! You are meeting a man for a romantic assignation. You want him to shake in his boots." Janey stopped abruptly, red-faced. "Sorry, miss. It's just that from what I've been told you two need more than momentum to get you together and I'm just so pleased to see you coming to your senses."

Agatha shook her head. Drawing the folded up note from the vanity desk, she held it out. "Janey. Please could you see that this note is delivered to Lord Anglethorpe in the next hour? I will dress myself, thank you."

Janey took the note slowly. "I don't understand. I thought you were going to meet him this evening?"

"Of course." Agatha smiled tightly. "But er, he left it to me to pick where we should meet." She coughed. "He said it would be more _exciting_."

Janey's face cleared. "Oooh, you lucky lady."

"Mmm yes. Of course."

Janey held the note up to Agatha. "I'll deliver it as soon as possible." She paused. "What about Lady Colchester and Miss Harriet?"

"Tell them—" Oh what could she say that said nothing at all but everything at once? "Tell them that I have gone to do something somewhat scandalous. Again. But not to come—I have everything in hand."

Janey looked at her suspiciously.

Agatha sighed. She prayed with every depth of her being that whoever had sent the latest menacing note hadn't already got to Henry otherwise everything would be for naught. "Now then. You will need to leave with me to make it look like we are going out for the evening together. Get your things. We need to leave in fifteen minutes."

Janey squawked and left the room, banging the door. Agatha unhooked a large black cape from the cupboard. Despite the warmth of the day, the evening was cool.

Moving back to the cupboard, she shrugged on the peach dress and pulled out her boots that lay at the bottom of the cupboard behind a large box. After lacing up the boots, she took a deep breath and lifted the lid from the large box. With a shaking hand, she unpacked the tissue paper that formed the top layer. A crumpled bag lay beneath, the smell nearly gone, but still a faint pungent odor emanated from it as she moved it. Laying it on the dresser, she pulled out the lower cupboard doors and pushed a hand right to the back. Fingers trembling, she rolled out a small glass jar. The contents within were almost white, the paper label on the jar yellow with age.

Good God. No experiments. Not one since she had left for Brambridge. But it was damn well time that she was going to put some of the ones she had written about in her notebook into action.

Pushing the bag into her skirts, as well as the jar, she felt along the dresser and, picking up her notebook and pencil, pushed them into the remaining space in her skirts, along with the potato knife and a small tinderbox. Agatha sat back into her chair, her dress creasing awkwardly. This evening would not be focused on ball gowns and ton censure. This was about finding out who had been responsible for all the turmoil.

With a gasp, she jumped up and hurried down the stairs and into the back study. Pressing at the desk drawer, she pulled out one of Victoria's secret cheroots and slipped it in with the rest of the items in her plump skirts.

Janey waited for her in the hall, garbed in a black cloak, sturdy boots peeking out of the bottom.

"Have you the letter?" Agatha rounded the bannister and opened the door to the under-stairs cupboard.

Wordlessly, Janey produced it from underneath her cloak. "I'll deliver it as soon as I've left you. Where are you going to go?"

_Was someone listening as they spoke?_ Agatha swallowed. "It's a secret." Pulling a long coat out of the under-stairs cupboard, she turned to the door. "Quickly, before Carruthers notices."

Her throat dried as she unlatched the bolt on the door. Janey followed her silently onto the front step. Finger to her lips, Agatha beckoned to Janey and ran down the steps as lightly as possible. The weight of the items in Agatha's pocket pounded against her leg. As they turned the corner, Agatha trailed her hands against the railings, eyes flicking left and right. She couldn't see anyone following them. This was it. She was nearly on her own.

"Janey, you know what you need to do. Take a hackney cab to Lord Anglethorpe's. Do not deviate."

Janey nodded. "I hope you have fun, miss."

Agatha bit her lip. "I... yes. Of course, thank you, Janey."

# CHAPTER 40

The darkness of dusk gathered in the morning room, creeping towards where Henry and Lord Harding sat sprawled in large wing-backed chairs. Henry's footmen closed the curtains to the night around them as Smythe served another brandy. Outside the carriages clattered up and down Mount Street with audible clacks of their wheels.

"How's Albert getting on with that Asian man?" Harding swung a long booted foot and kicked the underside of the stool in front of him.

"What? Oh. Haven't heard from him in a while." Henry heaved himself up from his own comfortable chair and, with heavy feet, crossed to the dresser. Flipping open a small green leather-bound book, he ran a finger down the page. "Stanton, Standish, Jaquard, Lassiter, Lovall, ah. Albert. Hmm. I believe he might not have been feigning some of his illness which got him out of the Moreno debacle. He occasionally sends me the odd note. Apparently the mysterious Asian man hasn't done very much up till now."

"What about Stanton? Have you spoken to him yet?"

"I did on the night of the house party in Brambridge. He was quite surprised." Henry crossed back to the chair and, placing the book on the low table between them, sat back down with a thump.

"Is he any closer?"

Henry sighed deeply. So many questions. "Depends on what you are asking about. Closer to taking a bride? Hmm perhaps. Closer to finding out what's going on in Brambridge with the riding officers? Definitely. He had better hurry up, though. Renard says he won't put into port again until the situation with the customs officers is closed down."

"I'm thinking about moving my operation to Dover."

Henry gave a discreet hand signal to Smythe who stood ramrod straight at the back of the room. "I didn't think you had an operation. I thought you were more in the line of strategy?"

Smythe moved forward with the coffee pot. "More coffee, Earl Harding?"

"Thank you, Smythe. Jolly nice to be catered for. Everyone seems intent on serving alcohol these days."

"Sandwich?"

"Don't mind if I do. All I get at home is biscuits. Can't think when I last had a decent meal."

Henry shuddered. If he didn't get a decent meal he knew he was liable to do things that he regretted. "Food is very important."

Harding took a sip from his cup. "I beg to differ," he said with a smile on his face, "coffee is more important."

"You can't live on coffee alone."

Harding seemed reflective. "Mmm, I seem to manage it."

"Beg pardon, sir, but a message has just come for you."

Henry looked up, confused. He hadn't noticed that Smythe had slipped out of the door and back in again. "Thank you, Smythe."

The butler placed the message on a silver tray and left it on the sideboard.

"No. I'm still into strategy. Got a bit of time on my hands. Had the heave ho from the War Office. It seems that now conflict on the Peninsular is settling down, they don't have any need for someone of my skills."

"Short-sighted fools."

"I thought that too. Aren't you going to have a look at your message?"

Henry nodded. He had been getting quite comfortable in his fugue state. It wasn't often that he had the opportunity to speak man to man to someone cut from the same cloth as himself. Even if he had planted that man a facer a while before, and even that had not deterred him from going after his property. Holding a hand in front of himself, he coughed. Harding had good taste. That was all. Good taste in _Agatha shaped_ _baggages_.

Pulling himself out of the comfortable chair, he stretched his legs and strode to the sideboard. The parchment was folded in half in the middle of the silver salver. Licking a thumb, he picked up the note and pulled it open.

He stopped in shock, the words swimming in front of his eyes. Patting at his waistcoat with his free hand, he pulled out his pocket watch and flipped it open.

"I say, Henry, everything alright, old chap?" Pages rustled behind him.

Henry nodded slowly. Placing the note lightly back on the silver salver, he scrabbled at his pocket watch and drew out the scrap of paper that had lined it for five years. Carefully, he slipped it onto the plate next to the message.

The handwriting on the scraps of words around the signature 'IHΠ' were a match, right down to a small curl on a letter Y.

"Here, this book is nothing but a fairy tale by Hans Christian Andersen!"

Henry couldn't even muster up a smile. He'd wondered if the lord would fall for his trick. He'd thought he'd appreciate it.

"Very clever, Henry. You got me this time."

Henry swallowed. Fingers shaking, he spread the new message out against the platter.

Come to Hanover Square Rooms now, unarmed, otherwise I will kill Agatha Beauregard at daybreak. Do not tell anyone, otherwise I will break all of her fingers before I kill her. I will enjoy doing so. The little slut.

He slammed his fist against the platter, the note burning against the fleshy underside of his hand. They were going to break her fingers. "Dear God. I think I've found _Monsieur Herr_."

"What's that?"

Henry drew a hand across his forehead. _Do not tell anyone..._ "Nothing. Err. Harding, you will have to excuse me. Something has come up."

"Can I help?"

"No. I don't think you can. But I will tell you this." Henry turned and leant against the sideboard. "Agatha is definitely not _Monsieur Herr_." He needed a few moments to plan, just a few moments _please_.

Harding cocked his head on one side and stared at Henry. "You never thought she was, though."

Henry shook his head. "I never thought she was, but it was a convenient enough reason I gave myself to not try harder to persuade her into marriage."

"And ever since."

Henry nodded. "My mother and father had a loving marriage. Full of trust. But then my father left my mother by getting himself killed, and she died of a broken heart." He shook his head. "I've just found out she actually died of consumption. Why am I telling you this?"

Harding stood up and gathered up his coat. "Because you need to. The time is right. As Confucius said, our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall."

Henry stared out of the window. "I didn't want that to happen for Agatha and me. I don't want her to worry about me, to die of a broken heart if something goes wrong. I trust Agatha, have always done so." He was wasting time. Shaking his head, he turned to the door. "You need to leave. I have business I need to attend to."

Harding nodded and followed him into the hall. "Of course."

Without waiting to see Harding out of the house, he took the stairs two at a time to his bedroom. He pulled off the bright floral cravat that he wore, the golden waistcoat, and light cream breeches. In their place he hitched up a pair of dark blue finely cut military breeches, a white shirt, which he covered with a dark red waistcoat, a deep green cravat and over the top, a loose tailcoat of dark blue superfine. His reflection in the mirror looked out at him with a stony set to its face.

Henry turned away from his dark reflection and pulled a small box from under his bed. He opened the box, his fingers shaking, and lightly stroked the pistol that lay within.

"I'm coming for you, Agatha." He closed his eyes for an instant and pulled the pistol roughly out of the box. "And you too, _Monsieur Herr_ , __ whoever you are. You had better be ready."

# CHAPTER 41

Agatha waited till Janey was safely away in a passing carriage for hire. As it pulled away from the curb, she started to walk, following the garden walls and the forbidding doorways of large villas, away from the safety and watchful eyes of Colchester Mansions, before hailing a passing hackney cab.

The carriage driver pulled his horses to an abrupt halt and looked down at her from the top of the perch. He sneered and jerked at his reins. Agatha glanced downwards. The ties on her coat had come undone, revealing the pinky brown of her dress.

Clutching at her cloak, she pulled a couple of gold coins from its pocket and held them in the air. The sneer left the man's face immediately as she had known it would.

"Take me to Hanover Square Rooms, please."

The carriage driver smirked. "Hanover Square Rooms? Is there a recital on tonight?"

"Of a kind." Agatha rubbed the coins together.

The smirk on his face grew bigger. Agatha refused to be discomforted. This wasn't the worst she was going to have to endure by the end of the night. Lifting her chin high, she held out her hand. "Do you want the money or not?"

The man jumped down from his perch and opened the door. "Anything for a lady."

Agatha glared at him. He offered no hand to help her from the low road into the tall cab. Grasping hold of the window on the cab door, she pulled herself inside, lurching sideways against the wooden seats as the driver climbed back on the coach, causing it to sway madly with his weight on the springs. Taking a deep breath, she took her seat on the wooden benches that lined the carriage and hung on to the window as the cab jolted into motion.

The coach journey took half an hour through the winding streets. Braced against the wall of the carriage, Agatha pulled her notebook out of her skirt and began to methodically rip out its pages, littering them on the seat next to her. When just the cover was left, she plunged her hand back into her pocket and, with shaking fingers, pulled out the foul smelling paper packet. As the paper peeled away, a greasy black cake was revealed. Breaking a piece off, she picked up a mangled page from the seat next to her and wrapped it around and around the gunpowder. The parcel needed to be _so_ large, with a twist of the paper at the end like _so_... Agatha added another page to the package. She needed to build up more pressure. Prodding at it with a thumb, she nodded, and made another.

Pushing the packets back into her skirt, she drew out the jam jar. Holding her breath, she opened the lid. A sweet pungent smell filled the carriage. Who ate _fig_ jam anyway? Using one of the pages of the notepad, she scooped out the moldy growth of jam and tossed it out of the window of the carriage. Breaking off a larger piece of the black cake, she thrust it inside and bored a hole half an inch wide in the lid with her knife. Screwing the lid back on, she pushed the whole back into her skirts.

Agatha looked up through the glassless window as they turned into Bond Street. The hustle and bustle of the day had been replaced by the carousing of the night. Every five shops a tavern appeared, its patrons spilling onto the pavement and much merriment emanating from within. Agatha looked back longingly at the brightly-lit oil lamps as they passed into Tenterden Street and through Hanover Square. Soon darkness was complete as they turned into Mill Street. The carriage pulled to a stop opposite the looming Hanover Square Rooms. The road was the length of the recital hall, being only a small turning off the residential end of Hanover Square.

No light emanated from the windows of the Hanover Square Rooms. The road was utterly dark.

"Are you sure that you wish to stop here, miss?" the coach driver asked doubtfully, opening the cab door. "There ain't no concert on 'ere tonight." He sniffed. "'Ere, it smells rather funny in—"

"—Yes." Agatha shook herself to try and dredge up a braveness that she did not feel. Stepping out of the carriage, she pushed the door closed and handed a gold coin to the man. "I'll be fine."

With more confidence than she felt, she walked to the main doors which she had left through earlier in the day. As she trudged up the steps, scuffing her feet against the rough stone, she felt the eyes of the coach driver on her back. At the top step, she hesitated, but then pushed out her hand for the large brass handle of the doors.

Even though it was a heavy oak door, it swung inward lightly as she pressed on it. It opened slowly then stopped, thudding gently on something soft. She slipped halfway through the door, stumbling as she tripped against an object on the floor.

Hanging on to the door handle, Agatha looked back desperately to see if the coach driver was there, but the dim light of the moon showed that he had already left. Abruptly letting go of the door, she fell over in a tangle of cloak and dress onto the polished walnut of the porch way. Gasping for breath, she pulled her fallen hood back away from her face and screamed. Scissoring her legs beneath her she slid across the polished floor, away from the entrance.

A man's booted legs lay in front of her, sprawled against the open door. The legs gave way to a bloodied and coatless torso. The head was turned away. In the dim light, Agatha could not tell what color his hair was.

Agatha scrabbled back across the floor, sobbing as she slid across the wooden parquet. Surely there hadn't been time for them to have killed him already?

"Oh no. Oh God no. Henry, I need to tell you—" Agatha bit her words off. Her skin crawled at a soft movement in the corner of the hall. There was someone there watching her.

"I know you are there!" she yelled wildly. "What do you want with me?"

A soft laugh reached her as footsteps padded away. Quickly she grasped the head of the prone man by his hair and drew it to her. It turned with a dull thunk.

It wasn't Henry.

The once habitually sneering face was now peaceful in death. Charles' handsome features shone with a deathly pallor in the moonlight.

God help her for the relief that trickled through her. She leaned over him and gingerly touched his face. His skin, whilst warm, was cooling rapidly on the wooden floor. Closing her eyes, she shuffled forward and kneeled above him, putting her ear to his face. No breath of air blew back her hair.

Scuttling sharply away from his body, her knees stuck to the polished floor. She stood slowly, gently feeling at her skin. Her fingers came away wet, the distinctive iron-like smell of blood filtering through the air. She glanced back at Charles, her eyes catching on the dark pool of shadow by his body, a black trail leading across the floor to where she stood. _Forgive me_ , she thought, _forgive me for feeling nothing but relief for your death_.

A door shut ahead of her. She should have left as soon as she saw it was Charles on the floor. But now it was obvious that whoever was perpetrating the intrigue would not stop at just threatening notes. They had killed someone, why wouldn't they hesitate at killing more?

Agatha rubbed at her arms and looked longingly back towards the large entrance doors. No. She was wasting time—they already had Henry. Oh dear God. Rising to her feet, she walked slowly across to the door at the end of the entrance vestibule and stepped into the familiar long dark carpeted hall, the doors on the left leading to the different recital rooms and the blue room at the end; the wall on the right lined with square panes of dark windows giving out onto a garden beyond.

Shuffling up to the wall on her left, she walked crab-like along it, hugging the wall, trying to keep to the deepest shadow. All the pot plants had been put away. Nothing moved in the corridor, her footsteps masked by the soft carpet.

Gingerly she pushed open the first door and slipped inside. It was unusually dark. Agatha had thought that all the recital rooms had windows that would let in at least a small amount of light. She put her hand out to the right of her and, trailing it against the wall, started forward. She could only go forward two steps before the wall stopped. In front of her, instead of a further wall, rows of shelves pressed against her body, right from the floor to above her head. Blindly, she felt along the shelves, fingers running across strange smooth cases that lay tightly packed across the wood, closed with metal clasps.

Agatha chose a case at random and flicked open two clasps. The lid lifted up easily. Biting her teeth against her lip, she reached in. Immediately her fingertips encountered a sharp edge and then a rising bridge. Her questing fingers brushed lightly to the side of the bridge, eliciting a thrum from the case.

With a gasp she jumped backwards, fingers pushed into her skirts. Shaking her head, she started forward again and laid her hand against the vibrating case until the sound ceased. The object in the case was an instrument, a violin or a viola. The thrum had started when her fingers had brushed against the strings of the instrument.

With increasing confidence, Agatha felt along the walls. She was in the music store cupboard of the recital rooms. The room was only a few paces wide and a couple of paces deep, with each wall lined with more instruments, even larger than the violin. Some, which must have been cellos, were even taller than her herself.

There was nobody else in there with her, of that she could be certain. But she couldn't stay in there forever. Slowly padding along the wall, she found the door handle and pulled at it, wincing as the hinges squealed. But the corridor remained quiet. Slowly she stepped out and flattened herself back against the wall.

With one hand forward, she advanced towards the door that led to the recital room she had been in earlier that day. Faster and faster she walked until she fell with a shocked "oomph," brought up short by a large cloaked _solid_ form. Strong hands picked her up and yanked her up against the wall.

"I have a knife to your belly." The voice was decidedly male, its tones causing warm shivers to caress her spine. "Who are you and why did you ask me to come here?"

Agatha gulped, working saliva into her throat. The tip of the knife gently pricked at her stomach and the man's other hand stretched her chin upwards. She licked her lips. Henry could not have been the one to lure her here, could he? There was no way he could have arrived in such good time...

"You received my note?" she croaked.

"Agatha?" The voice then swore softly. "You mean they haven't got you? Dammit to blazes, woman, why aren't you at home safe in bed?"

The firm male hand gently released her throat and the knife point disappeared. Agatha relaxed as relief filled her.

"Your note?"

Agatha nodded silently and then realized that he couldn't see her completely in the dark.

"I asked for your help, Henry."

Henry stood poised for a moment and then dropped his hands to his side. "I received an unsigned paper telling me that if I did not come here they would kill Agatha Beauregard by daybreak."

"Mine told me to come here, and if I told anyone they would kill you... I... I couldn't let that happen."

"You couldn't?" Henry's tones were gently probing.

"No, I..." She stopped and put a hand out. Unexpectedly it came to rest on his chest, in between the lapels of his coat. "Did you tell anyone where you were going?"

Slowly his hand came up and rested lightly on her up-thrust arm. With the nub of his thumb, he stroked the delicate underside of her wrist. "No. There wasn't enough time. How about you?"

Agatha drew in a deep breath. In the darkness her heart slowed to the strokes of her arm. "I... gave Janey a note to give to... you. If she can't find you, she might open it."

"Or give it to my valet Ames."

"Ames. Your valet?"

"Hmm, yes. One of my sister's footmen."

Agatha drew back. He held her for an instant and then let her go. "You had someone spying on me?" She shivered as cool air hit the warm underside of her wrist. "It was John wasn't it?" Gods. She should have seen it. The disappearing hunchback and ludicrous hair. And then it hit her. Without both he looked a lot like the gardener Jaquard. Henry had had someone watching over her for years.

Henry bent forward. "I had to make sure you were alright. It was the only way I could look after you." He brought his head down to hers. "It was the only way you would let me be near you," he whispered. With tantalizing slowness, his breath fluttered across her cheeks, and then his lips captured hers, stroking, demanding, comforting.

Agatha froze, the intimacy of the situation complete in the silent shadows of the hallway. She moaned, the shades of her fears expelling with every caress.

"I want you to stay here." He ran his finger over her lips. "I want you to stay here and be safe, Agatha. I care for you, very much. I need to tell you—"

"I... I can't," she stammered, her world reeling. "I have to find out who has been doing this to me."

"Agatha." Henry stopped abruptly, choking slightly. "You can't stay. I can't risk you dying before I... before..."

She drew in a sharp breath and broke away from him. "Did you find Charles?"

"Charles? What has he to do with all of this?"

"He's dead. In the vestibule. Shot... You couldn't have missed him if you came through the front door."

Henry cursed. "I came through the garden into this hallway. I broke a window to get in." Henry fumbled for Agatha's hand. "You need to get away, go home and wait for me."

"I can't, Henry. They said that they would kill you. I have to find out who is here."

"At least can't you find somewhere to—"

"This is all very touching."

Agatha froze as an unfamiliar voice echoed down the corridor. Henry's hand tightened on hers. A dim light backlit a figure that stood in the open doorway to the large recital room.

"Please come in when you are ready. Do remember whichever of you comes first, that if the other leaves we won't hesitate to shoot the other." The figure flitted away, leaving just the unobstructed light shining into the corridor.

Henry's soft sigh was audible in the quiet that followed.

"I'll go first." Agatha made to leave the shadows of the corridor.

"No, Agatha, please..."

Pushing up on tiptoes and clasping at Henry's hand, Agatha drew a finger down his nose. "I know you will be there for me, Henry," she said softly. "You always have been. In my heart I never doubted that."

"Agatha—" Henry gasped audibly as Agatha stepped out of his reach and walked resolutely into the recital room.

The dim light came from a small candle placed on the conductor's stand. The recital room seemed cavernous as the candle's light did not quite touch the edges of the room. A figure sat primly upright in the second row of seats.

Agatha walked alone up the central aisle of seats towards the rigid figure, darting furtive glances behind her as she did so. There was no sign of Henry. As she drew closer, the person turned round.

The well-dressed form of the woman was familiar, as was the sneer that stretched across her face.

"Lady Foxtone? I mean Lady Guthrie?"

The woman inclined her head and raised her eyebrows.

"It's not a good idea to be here." Agatha realized she was babbling, but couldn't stop herself. "Someone has already killed Charles, and I don't believe they are very nice..."

Lady Guthrie's sneer became wolfish, and yet still she remained silent.

"That's right. They aren't very nice at all." The contralto tones reached out from the corner of the room, deeper in the shadows. "But then, they grew up on the streets and had no other means of survival."

Agatha drew back and scuttled down the third row of seats as the owner of the voice appeared by the conductor's stand, fully illuminated by the light.

"Monique!" she gasped.

"Miss Beauregard." Monique inclined her head towards Agatha. "I don't believe we met down in Devon when your shambolic lover tried to fool me that he was just a stable boy."

"He is not my lover!"

Both Monique and Lady Guthrie laughed harshly. Agatha darted an agonized glance at Lady Guthrie, searching for reassurance. But Lady Guthrie only continued to look at Monique.

Agatha reached the end of the third row. From where she stood, she swiftly looked up and down the edge of the room. There were no obstructions between herself and the side door which led out to another hallway.

"He is not my lover, but I... I love him," she said quietly, edging towards the wall.

" _N'y pense même pas_ , do not think about it, Miss Beauregard. It would be a _bad_ idea."

Without Agatha realizing, Monique had skirted the edge of the orchestral area and now stood less than ten feet away in the middle of the first row. To Agatha's horror, she also held a pistol in her hand, a wide grin stretching across her face

"You... you killed Charles?" she asked querulously. Monique laughed.

"Oh no! He wasn't mine to kill."

"But are you not _Monsieur Herr_?" Agatha looked round at Lady Guthrie for support, but the woman looked away from her towards the stage, ignoring her darting glances.

The candle at the center of the room guttered slightly, dripping tallow wax down the stand. As the flame flared, it threw Lady Guthrie's face into shadow against the wall. Agatha looked back at Monique. Her jaw dropped.

Monique cackled. "I see you are beginning to _see_ , __ Miss Beauregard."

"You're twins!"

"It must have been the nose, Monique." Lady Guthrie stood and turned. She sighed. "It's the nose each time."

"I quite like our nose." Monique's pistol never wavered as she laughed.

"We're cousins actually." Lady Guthrie moved daintily down the second row of chairs. "I was the one who grew up on the streets of Paris, and Monique had the good life in Strasbourg."

"You killed Charles," Agatha said flatly. "You left him in the hall to die."

"Oh yes. He was beginning to annoy me. He had run out of money and couldn't even keep little Miss insipid Guthrie in check which was our route to a fortune."

"You are the one that he said he loved five years ago," Agatha whispered, a cold shiver grasping at her neck.

"Mmm. I catered to _all_ of his needs, very nicely indeed."

Celine had said the same. Agatha rubbed at the back of her neck and grimaced. She had to keep the conversation going, still having no idea why she was there. "Why didn't you marry him when Lord Foxtone died?"

Lady Guthrie threw back her head and laughed. "Don't you get it, you little fool? I'm surprised Anglethorpe fell in love with such a silly girl like you."

"I don't understand." Agatha kept her eyes on Monique and the pistol.

"Charles was my primary source of information! His fall from grace after compromising you made him worse than useless. I had to find myself another government man. Unfortunately your lover turned me down. Lord Guthrie has done very nicely instead. He tells me _everything_."

Unwillingly, Agatha detached her gaze from Monique and the pistol and for the first time turned to face Lady Guthrie directly.

"You are _Monsieur Herr_?"

"Of course I am! You really are silly, aren't you? Monique laid it all out for your incompetent lover, and yet he still did not come any closer to realizing my identity."

Monique nodded. "We were quite surprised when they came up with the rather apt name of _Monsieur Herr_ , __ weren't we, cousin?"

Lady Guthrie nodded. "Of course it should have been _Madame Frau_. But no man would have thought of _that_."

Agatha was bewildered. "But why did you involve me in your plot? Why the notes, the threats?"

Lady Guthrie drew back. "You mean you haven't worked it out yet? You must have realized when he showed you?" She paused and threw back her head and laughed again. "Oh, this is priceless. All these years I've been worrying and now I find out I never need have worried at all."

Agatha glanced back at Monique. The pistol was still trained on her, Monique's finger resting nonchalantly on the trigger. Agatha realized she was shaking. There was something unhinged about Lady Guthrie tonight. Before when she had seen her she had constantly been in a rage, but now she was deadly calm.

"Why the threats?" she repeated. "Why draw me into this?"

"It was stupid Charles' fault. Even though we were having an affair he did like to dally with the ladies. I had just disposed of some letters my contact had given to me at the ball. As the host I did not have much time so left the fire burning in the grate. That stupid man took it into his head to meet a little strumpet at my ball in the room where I was burning secret letters."

Agatha gasped and clutched at the chair in front of her. The letters that Henry had shown her, the ones that forced everybody into believing she was a spy.

"I can see you now realize what you had seen. And yes, the little trollop is yourself. I had to get rid of you immediately in case you put two and two together. I had no idea how much you had seen of the letters. Unfortunately I did not bargain on the spymaster general also discovering you _'in flagrante delicto'_ as well and seeing the letters in the grate for himself."

"You knew he'd seen the letters too?"

"Of course! Why, it was so easy to shift the blame onto yourself years later. Thank you for leaving London, by the way. You helped me escape discovery so easily. It was just luck your brother dying at the same time. Saved me from following through on my note."

Agatha flinched. Oh gods. Peter's death had had nothing to do with _Monsieur Herr_ 's note. There hadn't been any need to cut herself off from everyone after all.

# CHAPTER 42

Behind the curtain on the stage, Henry's stomach rumbled. Oh God, not now. Not now in one of the most important times of his life, when he finally had the chance to put the mistakes of the past right, to be with the woman he loved, and to whom all intents and purposes had just declared to _Monsieur Herr_ that she loved _him_ in return.

With the shaking tip of his pistol, he edged the curtain slightly to one side. Through the small break in the material he could see Agatha, frozen in the aisle of seating.

"But what about the gunshot?" she said, her face white. "Surely you meant to end me."

Henry nodded approvingly. Good, let them talk, waste more breath and give him time to think of a plan.

"Oh! You mean in Vauxhall Gardens? When you were playing at being the Grand Albertino? Charles took me to watch the knife throwing. He said that he'd asked an old friend of his to deal with you—Moreno. After the first knife throw, Moreno was meant to uncover you to the crowds to embarrass you and give Fashington a legitimate reason to jilt you. Turns out Moreno then wanted to blackmail Anglethorpe with the information. He knew Anglethorpe was watching him, and it was curtailing some of his activities. No—I was trying to shoot Anglethorpe! If you hadn't started a bloody nodding fit with that stupid mask and put me off my aim, I would have got him. He was getting a little too close to finding out who I was. And he wasn't useful. You were next, though."

Henry gasped. His pistol shook slightly on the curtain. Agatha had never been the intended target. Although Lady Guthrie _was_ ruthless, it seemed it would have only been a matter of time before she would have come after Agatha if she hadn't disappeared herself. Of course Lady Guthrie had been aiming for him, how else had he been able to find the bullet so easily, not ten feet behind where he had stood?

Tightening his grip on the pistol, he shifted the curtain a little more. If he just took it half an inch he could nearly see the other two. Ah.

Lady Guthrie made a moue with her mouth and shifted in her seat. "I think, Monique, it is time to deal with our Miss Beauregard here."

"What shall I do with her body, cousin?"

_Surely the note had said daybreak?_ He didn't have much time.

Lady Guthrie gave a terrible smile. "I think we will leave her with Charles in the front hall."

Her cousin laughed. "Ooh, make it seem like a lovers' quarrel?"

"Yes, after all, despite my stepdaughter throwing him over, I think there is still enough coal I can stoke on the old rumor mill to persuade the ton that they were still seeing each other." Lady Guthrie stood. "Lady of easy virtue and all that."

Monique nodded. "What about Henry?"

With a curse, Henry drew back the pistol from the curtain and froze.

Lady Guthrie looked directly at him. "Anh yes. Lord Anglethorpe, you can step out from the curtain now."

Damn.

His hand shook on the trigger of the pistol. Carefully he removed his forefinger and wrapped it around the hilt of the gun. He couldn't chance a rerun of the Wales disaster, with Agatha in the room there was a risk that she would be shot too.

Pushing back the curtain with a free hand, Henry stepped through into the orchestral area and stopped.

Agatha gasped. "Henry!"

Lady Guthrie laughed. "I was counting on your love for Miss Beauregard to keep you here. I've been watching you standing behind the curtain for some time."

Of course she'd known he was there. She'd remarked on the touching scene in the hall, they would have been waiting for him to appear.

"Do you know, Monique," Lady Guthrie scratched her chin, "I think we can expand this scenario a little further. Anglethorpe discovers Charles and Agatha together, kills both and then kills himself. At the same time he realizes that his lover was _Monsieur Herr_ working in concert with Charles Fashington all along."

"That makes an extremely neat story, Lady Guthrie." Henry stepped down from the stage, the glinting candlelight reflecting off his pistol. He hoped they wouldn't see that he hadn't got his finger on the trigger. "But I'm afraid that I really can't let you kill Agatha."

Lady Guthrie looked affronted. "And who is going to stop me?" She smiled soberly. "Come on, Monique. We won't be able to carry their bodies to the entrance."

"Why didn't you kill us at Berale House? I saw the footsteps in the garden. You must have been there?" Henry stalled for time.

"Berale House?" Lady Guthrie looked blank. "Where is that? Brambridge? I've never been there. I didn't want to get too close in case you discovered me." She sniggered lightly. "It turns out you weren't even close in suspecting me."

"What about you, Monique? Perhaps you kept an eye on us?" Henry pushed his gun further forward in his hand.

"Pah. Why would I want to get caught a second time? The first time I was only lucky because of that Lassiter man being drunk. I prefer being free, thank you very much."

Lady Guthrie waved her hands impatiently. "I don't have time for this. Move, Miss Beauregard. Now."

Monique slid forward, the pistol ever outstretched in front of her. Agatha looked imploringly at him, but he shook his head. There was nothing he could do to help her whilst Monique still held her gun on her. Agatha stumbled forward, down the side aisle, keeping five paces away from Monique. She shivered visibly.

There was no chance for him to help Agatha to escape in the carpeted hall. Monique sped up in order to keep up with her, the pistol grazing her thigh as they left the recital room. Lady Guthrie had already gone ahead, evidently to stay out of the way of Henry's gun.

Henry followed slowly, keeping his pistol on Monique. Why didn't they just shoot Agatha now? _Of course_. They were using her as a chip to stop Henry shooting them. The sound of Agatha's footsteps slowed as she crossed the carpet and into the vestibule.

The entrance hall was chilly. The residual heat of the day had left the building. Charles' body still lay across the front doors as Agatha had described. Lady Guthrie merely gave it a dispassionate glance and grunted, pointing at Agatha.

"Get over there by Charles and kneel down. Monique, check that there is no one outside. Come in, Anglethorpe, and stand in the corner."

Agatha crossed to where Charles lay and kneeled down beside him.

"Was Charles a spy too?" she asked quietly. Henry stopped as she spoke, but walked to the corner as Monique gave a jerk of her head.

Lady Guthrie pouted whilst keeping her eyes on Henry. "Of course not. He was just extremely indiscreet. He provided me with much information that I put to good use over the years. After I had _satisfied_ him, he was always rather garrulous and hungry."

Henry winced. "Bloody hell. The Belgian buns."

"Of course. Such a silly bit of information. He thought he could make me laugh with a tidbit such as that without revealing what he was up to. The stupid man didn't understand that _all_ information is food for a spy. And it was so bloody _pertinent._ "

Agatha shook her head and looked up at Monique who was still checking the window. "Pertinent? Poor man."

"Poor man? You try having an affair with a man with strange tastes for five years and still call him poor. He received everything he deserved."

Henry looked at the still figure of Charles on the floor. He hadn't been a traitor, just a man with exceptionally poor judgement.

"Why the Greek letters?" he said suddenly.

"I beg your pardon?" Lady Guthrie turned her head towards him.

"Why did you sign yourself with Greek letters, _iota eta pi_?"

"Can't you guess, dear Henry? You mean your mathematical lover here didn't explain it to you? I thought I was famous for it. That's why it's so bloody pertinent."

Henry shook his head, tightening his hands on the hilt of the gun. He had to move his hand to the trigger. There was little time left.

It seemed trivial now, the confusing Greek letters, but he damn well had to carry on the charade a little while longer—his finger was rigid on the hilt, refusing to move. "I never thought you were _Monsieur Herr_ , Agatha. From the moment you came into my life, I couldn't stop watching you. I was aware of your presence every hour of the day. You didn't have time to write those letters, you were too busy thinking up ways to be scandalous."

Agatha gave a huff. "Only somewhat scandalous, Henry."

"Hmm."

"I used to call you Horrible Henry. Only to myself though."

"Ha!" Henry couldn't help the bark of laughter. It helped free the tension in his hand. With a slow movement, he laid his finger on the trigger.

"Enough with this stupid talk." Lady Guthrie stamped her foot. "Don't you want to know why I used those letters?"

"No not really. But I'm sure you are going to tell us." Agatha straightened her fingers and flexed a single forefinger.

Good grief. Henry narrowed his eyes. Agatha flexed her forefinger again, as if pulling the trigger of the gun. Oh hell.

"I left _iota eta pi_ on everything I wrote. It became my signature."

He couldn't shoot now. Both Lady Guthrie and Monique were equally dangerous. "I know that already. I want to know why you used that as your signature."

" _Ça suffit_!" Lady Guthrie opened her eyes wide. "I have never been so angry since Lord Foxtone stamped on Monique's foot at that _putain de merde_ shop opening."

_Shop Opening_. "Bloody hell, Agatha, you were right."

Agatha blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"It was a joke, but the joke was on me. Exactly as you said, the phrase _was_  'I ought to eat a pie'."

"Not as stupid as she looks then, your lover, Anglethorpe." Lady Guthrie narrowed her eyes.

"When Lady Guthrie was married to Lord Foxtone, she caused the closure of one of his factories when she ate one of his blackberry pastries—"

"—pie actually. Foxtone was very precise I always had to call it a pie. _Dieu_ I hated that man. And it was Monique's foot."

" _Blackberry pies_ , then, and told the newspaper men that it was disgusting." He glanced at Lady Guthrie. "Monique? I thought it was a strong reaction for being stamped on the foot."

Lady Guthrie frowned. "I wanted money... to buy information. He wouldn't give it to me. Tight fisted _bȃtard._ I had to report back to my... _organization_ in France so Monique covered for me with Lord Foxtone. Everyone said we could pass for twins and the old fool was shortsighted anyway."

"But the old goat demanded relations!" Monique pouted.

"It was the only thing she could think of to get him off her. But then the shops closed and there was no more money. The first people to cancel their order of cakes were those at the War Office. If only I'd managed to poison you all. In the end Lord Foxtone wasn't even worth the effort it took to kill him."

"She came in through Brambridge," Henry said slowly. Renard had been wrong. Both Monique and Lady Guthrie had been the woman that had traveled both ways beneath his very nose, their resemblance heightened in the dark.

Agatha's gasp was audible above Lady Guthrie's angry breaths.

"You might think the joke was on you, Anglethorpe." Lady Guthrie's accent changed slightly as she became more agitated, revealing for the first time her French origins. "But really the joke was on me. I believe the English idiom is... to eat humble pie. Well, I decided to remind ourselves of that episode every time I wrote to France to Monique, every time in my signature, _I ought to eat a pie_."

# CHAPTER 43

Agatha couldn't think of any more delaying tactics. It was going to be now or never. Whilst Lady Guthrie ranted, Agatha sat back on her heels as if waiting. She slid her hand into her skirts and withdrew the cheroot she had stolen from Victoria's secret drawer and her old trusty potato knife. Sliding a glance at Monique ahead of her, she quickly waved the cigar in the air.

"It is a shame that you are going to be caught." Agatha shifted slightly to attract both Lady Guthrie and her cousin's attention. "I alerted my maid and Henry's valet to where I was going. Help will arrive shortly." She cut the end of the cigar off with her knife.

"I don't believe her." Monique's gun never wavered. "I'm getting bored, cousin. Let's kill the goose now. The coast is clear. We don't need either of them after all. I've found out what we need to know. I sent a message back to France about Lord Anglethorpe."

Agatha stilled. Monique had fallen for it. Pushing her hand into her pocket again, she flicked her eyes to Lady Guthrie. Four yards. Her hand closed around the tinderbox and one of the twists of paper. She didn't have time to work out which twist of paper would be most appropriate.

Lady Guthrie cocked her head on one side and smoothed down her skirts with her left hand.

Henry's gun remained steady. "A message about me?"

Agatha glanced back at Monique. Both of them had their eyes on her. Slowly she opened the tinderbox, and drew out a char-cloth, the fire-steel and a flint. Hiding the twist of paper in the palm of her hand, she struck at the flint with the fire-steel. In an unlikely burst of fate, a spark of flame fell from the flint on to the dry material of the char-cloth instantly. Breathing out a sharp breath she brought the cigar and the hidden twist of paper in the palm of her hand to her face, as well as the burning char-cloth. Cupping her hands together she held her breath briefly and shouted, " _Now_ , Henry."

Dropping the unlit cigar to the floor, she drew back her hand and threw the burning twist of paper at Lady Guthrie.

The paper tumbled through the air, an imperceptible flame licking at the paper. Lady Guthrie frowned and then gasped.

The paper exploded with a crackle and shower of fire. Holding her ears, Agatha fell to the floor as two more loud bangs followed, a burning sensation piercing her shoulder.

Monique screamed and slid down the door, a blooming flower of red staining her dress across the chest. Agatha looked back up at Lady Guthrie, expecting her to also be incapacitated. But it wasn't the case—as Agatha watched, Lady Guthrie moaned, the left arm of her dress a charred mess where Agatha's firecracker had lit her clothes. Leaning to the side, she brought up her right hand which had been hidden in her skirts. Damn. The problem had never been Agatha's calculations, merely that she just couldn't throw straight.

Agatha screamed as metal glinted in Lady Guthrie's hand. "Henry, she has a gun!"

Henry stepped forward in a burst of sound.

She was too late. He fell crumpling to the floor, his cheek thudding violently against the wood.

Agatha took several gasping breaths, sucking at the air. She was an idiot. She should have remembered that Lady Guthrie had killed Charles. She had mistakenly thought that they had used Monique's gun.

Lady Guthrie was already stiffly reloading the pistol, inhaling great moaning breaths. Agatha could see the scatter of the firecracker paper at Lady Guthrie's feet, her carefully drawn diagrams from her notebook charred and wasted. She spared a glance for Henry. His eyes were closed and his body did not move.

The sound of a bullet dropping to the floor woke Agatha from her stupor of shock. She fumbled in her skirts, but the bulky jam jar was sat on top of the other firecracker. She couldn't get to it. Lady Guthrie was still scrabbling to reload, cursing in pain as she chased the bullet across the floor. Agatha looked out of the front doors. There was no time to leave and get help. The area was deserted and by that time Lady Guthrie would have managed to fire the gun again. She briefly considered leaping onto Lady Guthrie, but realized that she was already closing the butt of the gun ready to fire again.

Agatha rose swiftly in one motion, swiping the unlit cigar and discarded tinderbox from the floor. Leaping past Lady Guthrie, she ran back into the carpeted hall and thudded to a stop. There was no point in continuing to run. The hall only led to more recital rooms and high walled gardens, more spaces where the pistol would be dangerous to her. The sound of the hall door opening galvanized her to action.

Gasping, she fumbled at her tinderbox again. This time it took an impossible six tries to get the char-cloth to light. Twice the flint skittered out of her hands across the floor. Finally, as the char-cloth caught, she pushed the cigar into her mouth. Hands shaking, she lit the cheroot and puffed in and out.

She couldn't hear Lady Guthrie.

With a shuddering breath, she pulled out the jam jar and inserted the cigar in the hole in the lid and stuffed some more pages of her notebook around the snug fit. Taking a deep breath, she rolled it down the corridor towards the blue room where she had been discovered so long ago with Charles, and ran—in the opposite direction.

There was only one room on the corridor left that she could go to. She slipped inside the instrument storeroom and quietly shut the door, holding her hands to her head.

The roar of the jam jar bomb shook the doors in their casements.

Holding her breath, Agatha listened to the slow tread of Lady Guthrie lurching down the corridor towards the recital rooms. In the complete darkness of the room, Agatha gritted her teeth and planned her escape.

All was quiet in the storeroom. The door opened slowly. A sliver of light fell through the door. Nothing else moved.

"I know you are in here, little Agatha." Agatha held her breath as Lady Guthrie slowly stepped into the small space, her gun held out steady in front of her. She held a taper in her other hand, which she held up to the small oil lamp to the right of the door. A soft yellow glow filled the room. "That was a nice piece of misdirection, but you know your lover is dead. There is nothing else to live for."

Lady Guthrie grinned suddenly and, with a sweep of the gun, pulled the middle tier of instruments from their shelves. Agatha tensed as, with a muted roar of rage, Lady Guthrie one-handedly pulled more cases from the shelves, instruments thudding to the floor around her.

Soon there was just one instrument case left. The rest of the shelves lay bare and empty, the walls scuffed and marked behind them. Lady Guthrie laughed, her eyes staring from her head.

"This must be fate. You and me in here. Do you know that Charles and I made love in this room just before Anglethorpe caught you with him?"

So that was what Charles had been doing, and why Lady Guthrie had been so upset. Agatha bit her lip until it bled. Nothing was going to induce her to move from where she was.

Lady Guthrie looked around herself wildly, the gun swinging from side to side as she did so. All the cello cases remained in their original positions, standing upright with just one cello case over on its side, its clasps undone.

In her dark cramped position, Agatha fumbled beside her skirts and pulled a rolled sheet of music she had found across the floor towards her head. She poked the dry paper through the only gap she could see, making sure the other end of the sheet music came into contact with the far corner of the fallen cello case. Awkwardly she brought her other hand which held her tinderbox to her face and struck wildly at the tinderbox flint with her fire-steel as Lady Guthrie pulled down the last remaining violin case. Sparks showered around Agatha, until finally one fell and lit the bone dry roll of paper music. Agatha closed her eyes briefly in the sudden silence and waited for the paper to burn.

Lady Guthrie paused, a blank look on her face, before starting towards the horizontal cello case with a smile, her footsteps loud in the quiet room. Agatha took a sharp intake of breath. Whilst the music had caught light firmly, the sheet had not yet burnt fully to the end.

"You once called me a mouse, Lady Guthrie." Agatha's voice echoed around the uncarpeted room, causing the instruments to thrum in response.

Lady Guthrie swung her head from side to side and took another half step forward towards the case. "Of course I called you a mouse, little Aggie, with your pathetic experiments. A mouse that I crushed again and again with my actions for years." She laughed harshly. "And now I will silence you forever, just like Anglethorpe."

Agatha shook her head as Lady Guthrie reached the cello case and switched her gun to her left hand... just five seconds more was what she needed. "I am a mouse no longer," she whispered, her voice getting louder and louder. "Hear... me... roar!"

With a wave of sound, the cello case exploded as the makeshift taper ignited Agatha's last firecracker at the bottom of the case. The case lid flew open, knocking the gun from Lady Guthrie's hand. In an instant, the wire strings of the disintegrating cello inside whipped through the air and lacerated Lady Guthrie's face, as a shard of wood harpooned her in the hip.

Lady Guthrie screamed. Agatha didn't wait for a pause—she shot out her arm from behind the protective bottom pile of instrument cases where she lay and drove the cello spike she had taken from the case through Lady Guthrie's foot into the ground. Lady Guthrie's scream rose higher as, with the flat of her hand, Agatha drove her arm into her stomach. And then she was silent.

Wiggling and twisting from behind the instrument cases at the very bottom of the shelves, Agatha stood with a wince. Lady Guthrie was pinned into place on the floor. She couldn't fall backwards or forwards, her pistol lying useless, feet away on the floor. Gazing at Agatha, her mouth agape, she sighed and passed out, doubled up against the shelves.

Agatha leaned back. She had been lucky. Lady Guthrie's haste had led her to overlook the bottom shelves behind the cellos. The falling instruments from the upper shelves had piled up in front of where Agatha had hidden. She had only just been able to get her hand out in time, armed with the cello spike, thanking the memory of the fallen Mr. Daventry as she had driven it into Lady Guthrie's fragile ball slippers.

Sobbing, Agatha pushed the remaining cello cases out of the way and swept the pistol from the floor. Without a second look behind her, she hobbled gasping into the vestibule.

As the sickness roiled in her stomach, she stood over Monique, the useless gun in her hand outstretched. But she needn't have bothered. The woman's eyes remained open and unseeing, quite dead.

With leaden steps she crossed to Henry. Kneeling beside him in a sense of déjà vu, she turned his head towards her.

His eyes were closed, but his face was still warm.

She sobbed gently. "Henry, I love you. Please be alive."

Henry lay still on the floor. Frantically she shook him, cradling his head in her lap, tears running down her face.

"Father." Henry's lips moved imperceptibly as he breathed the soft word.

Agatha lifted her head. "No... Henry... don't go."

"Dying without being loved," he breathed again, his eyelids flickering. He opened his eyes slowly and stared into hers, his hand fumbling at his chest. "Agatha, promise me..." With a grimace of pain, he fell back unconscious. She gripped his hand tightly.

"Promise you what?" she cried. "Henry?" But there was no reply.

This time there was no one to stop her running outside. But the previously quiet street was now a hive of activity. Three coaches with sweating horses rumbled to a stop in the road. With loud shouts, men jumped down from the coaches and rushed up the steps.

"Put the gun down, miss. We have you surrounded."

Agatha looked round in bewilderment.

"Drop the gun," someone said slowly.

She looked up into the eyes of Earl Harding. "I don't think I can," she said.

"Hades, do something for her!" Victoria stepped out from the tall earl's shadow and, unpinning her cloak, threw it around Agatha's shoulders. "It's alright," she murmured, rubbing at Agatha's shuddering arms. "We are here now. We got your message, Harriet decoded it. She said you had mentioned a somewhat scandalous incident in your past at the Hanover Music Rooms."

"Harriet? Is she alright?"

Victoria nodded. "She's safe at home. Though I believe Lord Stanton has given her some bad news, she just isn't herself—Oh Agatha!" She jerked her head at Earl Harding. "Hades, if you please?"

Harding reached forward and gently removed the gun from her hand.

"Cooee lads. Did you ever think we'd catch _Monsieur Herr_ in her nightwear?" one of the coachmen hollered to the crowd.

"I'm not _Monsieur Herr_ ," she whispered to Victoria. "And it's not all right." Her voice hitched as a sob rose through her throat. "Henry needs help. Gun shot. In the hallway."

Earl Harding stepped forward sharply. "Did you shoot him?" He paused, the barrel of the gun pointing towards her in his hand.

"Lady Guthrie did it." Agatha shivered again and swayed. "She's _Monsieur Herr_. She's in the instrument room."

Victoria gasped as with a soft sigh, Agatha crumpled into her arms.

# CHAPTER 44

Smoke and spice. That was all she could smell. She was surrounded by the comforting odor. Taking a deep breath, Agatha opened her eyes.

There was nothing but blue, everywhere she looked. Smoke and spice and blueness. She frowned. It didn't make sense. Pulling at her arms, she winced as her shoulder strained. Strangely, her hands were clasped around a warm object. A breeze ruffled in her ear.

"Be still, baggage. I have you now."

Agatha moaned as her body jolted. Around her waist, a hand tightened.

"Out of the way, Ames. I have her. You may always be late but this time you were better late than never."

A soft fabric rubbed against her nose. Breathing in, Agatha inhaled the spice and smoke again. It was so _familiar_. With a hiccup, she pushed her face forward, into the softness. It could only be a dream. Henry was still laid out on the cold floor in Hanover Rooms shot by Lady Guthrie. He couldn't have survived.

A warm hand stroked at her head and cradled her hair. "Shhh. I won't let you go."

Agatha sighed. It had to be a dream. No man had ever looked after her. Not since Henry had assured her he would deal with Charles. Not since he had come to rescue her.

"Look at me, Agatha."

The voice was commanding.

"I don't want to." If she did, then the dream would break and she would still be outside Hanover Square Rooms, shivering in the cold.

The low voice caressed at her senses. "If you don't look at me, I can't tell you what I want from you."

Oh the devious man, cunning even in her dreams. "Tell me now," she demanded into the soft fabric. "I can still hear."

Strong hands stroked her on the nose, pulling her away from her nest.

"Look at me... dear heart... Agatha."

Unwillingly Agatha looked upwards, into the deep blue eyes of the only man she had ever loved. "Henry," she breathed. "Don't... please don't disappear."

The rumble of his laugh pulsed through her. "I'm not the one that always disappears."

"You're not real. I saw Henry die with my own eyes..."

The deep blue of Henry's eyes vanished as he blinked, then creased as he smiled. "My head hit the floor. It knocked me out. By the time I came round I found you had fainted from exhaustion." His smile disappeared, his gaze sharpening. "Ever questioning, Agatha. That's one of the reasons I want you... I love you. You and I, we are two of a kind, constantly searching for knowledge, truth."

"You stopped me."

Henry's eyes disappeared as his chin pointed upwards. Agatha stared mesmerized at the strong jaw above her.

"I believed that it would make everyone happier," he said quietly. "Avoid scandal. Only recently has it been pointed out to me that there are many ways to search for a type of truth. I thought I was searching for what my father was looking for when he died in order to give me answers about his death to put my sense of family back together again." He looked down at her again. "But in reality I was looking in the wrong place."

Agatha licked her lips, and, raising a finger on her hand where it lay wrapped around the back of Henry's neck, stroked against his firm skin. Henry took in a deep breath and shuddered.

"What do I want from you, Agatha?" Henry lowered his head as his arms tightened around her. "I want you to promise to love me, no matter what happens."

"I... I can't love a dead man. I don't believe you knocked your head. I saw her shoot you in the heart."

Henry stopped, his head only inches from hers. "I'm no dead man, Agatha. Does a dead man feel like this?" Slowly, tenderly, he captured her lips in his. Agatha moaned softly as his tongue flicked gently past her parted lips and then withdrew.

"I saw her shoot you. I saw you fall," she insisted quietly.

Henry's laugh rumbled louder and louder. "I worried the effect my death might have upon any wife I took. Little did I realize that by finally allowing myself to pursue you would I prevent my own life from being taken." Tightening his arm around her waist, he brought his hand up to her eye line. In his hand lay a large lump of metal, deformed and gleaming, yet still in the unmistakable shape of a ring. "The Anglethorpe wedding ring. I've had it in my pocket ever since the house party. Ever since I was pushed into realizing that life is nothing without you. It stopped the bullet."

A door shut behind them as footsteps shuffled closer. "Ahem."

Henry sighed. "What is it, Ames?"

Turning her head, Agatha stared into the clear gaze of John Smith. A streak of mud was smeared across his face, making him look very much like Jaquard the gardener of Henry's estates. Oh what a fool she'd been.

"You..." Ames shuffled his feet behind her. But Agatha cared no longer.

She turned back to Henry. "Nothing without me?"

Henry closed his eyes.

But Ames wasn't finished. "Excusing me, your lordship. Mrs. Noggin and err Lady Colchester wish to know if you've asked her yet?"

Agatha looked upwards. "Asked me what, Henry?"

She felt his chest heave, as he clutched her tighter. Bending over, he opened his blue eyes and whispered in her ear. "Will you marry me, my love?"

Stunned, Agatha let her hands fall away from his neck, but still she did not tumble from his arms, as his embrace held her protected and steady.

"Bloody hell. Yes. Of course."

After all. It was the only logical conclusion.

# EPILOGUE

Upstairs in their Brambridge home the bride and groom danced slowly in the moonlight as the party continued. Berale House was lit and alive again for the first time since the fateful house party.

Cradling Agatha in his arms, Henry gently spun her round the room. "I didn't think I could better the science laboratory, my dear, but I have bought you an even more important present. An interest which I believe we'll share."

Agatha sighed in contentment. "Oh Henry, you shouldn't have... a jar of fig jam? Really—"

"I know how much it meant to you and it is my favorite preserve."

"—you shouldn't have." She leant back against the strong arms that encircled her and smiled.

Henry looked down at her, his blue eyes deeper than the sea. "My father would have liked you. My mother too. I wish you could have met them."

Slowly Agatha dropped her smile and traced a hand around Henry's open collar. "I wish I could have too, Henry." She picked at his shirt button. "I heard what Monique said about writing back to France about Lord Anglethorpe."

Henry drew in a breath as her hand rested against his hot chest.

She looked up at him, concern brimming in her eyes. "It was about him, wasn't it? Your father, what you have been looking for."

Henry shook his head. "It might have been." He looked her deep in the eyes. "Granwich told me in time a strand might surface." Stilling her hand with his own, he pressed it against his heart. "But I don't need him to tell me what is more important anymore, a ten-year-old mystery or _my_ lady in the here and now." He shivered as her free hand stroked the long blond hair at the nape of his neck. "There are others that can pursue it on... England's... behalf—"

Agatha muttered into his neck, interspersing her words with kisses. "My brother's death in Brambridge—I was told it was foul play—but it turns out it was nothing to do with _Monsieur Herr_. An accident perhaps."

"Stanton is already investigating the customs officers' deaths in Brambridge. Let him take care of it—" He groaned as with one last tantalizing stroke, the newlywed Agatha Anglethorpe reached up and pulled her handsome husband down into a deep kiss. His hands stole around her back and slowly unlaced her wedding dress.

As Agatha lay back on the bed, her new husband, Lord Henry Anglethorpe, stole kisses down her body. Goodness, if only she could work out how he—she gasped with desire and forgot her train of thought. Even though she had been the one to tame the enigmatic spymaster, he was the one able to pierce her heart with every move he made. She flew higher than the clouds and as a starburst of sensation fell he told her again how he felt.

"I love you, Agatha."

Downstairs, Lord James Stanton lurked at the edge of the dance floor and watched as the wedding guests swirled, avoiding his thunderous stare and formidable form with scurried steps as they swung to his end of the room. He paid no attention to them, his eyes tracking one couple in the midst of them who danced unheedingly on with broad smiles on their faces.

_Damn Freddie Lassiter_. Once again he was partnered with the one woman that James wanted and now would never have. How he wished he could go back to Brambridge Manor and hide.

When he had arrived back in London, he had never thought the future could be more bleak than when he had left. Yet here he was, pushing on in his third decade of life, engaged to a beautiful woman, the owner of two magnificent estates. And he had never felt so depressed.

James tossed back the remainder of the champagne in his glass and took another from the waiting footman. As he glanced across the ballroom, his gaze caught on a man who smirked and raised his glass to him. James nodded and turned away. He took another sip of his champagne and continued observing the room.

The happy couple were nowhere in sight. This was their wedding after all. The highly anticipated Anglethorpe reception. After so much drama, one would have thought that they would at least put in an appearance. James snorted as the champagne bubbles filled his mouth. At least for one couple things had turned out alright. He shook his head. He couldn't expect the same for himself. After all, trouble followed him everywhere, and had done so for as long as he could remember. No, he balled a fist and, turning, threw a look back across the ballroom. There _had_ been a fairly carefree time when he was young, but there had always been his father and then... that last run on the _Rocket._ James shook his head and strode to the door. Placing his empty glass carefully on a waiting footman's tray, he left the ballroom and slipped out into the night.

Read on for an exclusive extract from the next book in the Brambridge Novels series by Pearl Darling.

BURNING BRIGHT
BURNING BRIGHT

BOOK TWO OF THE BRAMBRIDGE NOVELS

PROLOGUE

Brambridge, Devon

A small cloud crossed the full moon that shed light on the sheltered beach. James stood from his crouched position in the sand and stretched his arms above his back. Gazing upwards, he searched the night sky for the Plough constellation. Quickly, he traced along its handle and found Polaris, the North Star, burning brighter than the other stars around it. He stared back down at the sand and quickly calculated in his head, just as he had done every week since he had gained his age of majority.

When they had landed on the beach, the stars that made up the Plough had been in line with his shoulder and now it was almost above his head. Forty minutes had passed and they still hadn't moved the barrels up from the beach and into the stone mine.

Soft sand crunched behind him. James whirled and crouched, his knife out of its sheath and into his hand in a breath, a move he had practiced many times in secret. A massive figure emerged from the shadows of the beach, hands outstretched. James grinned and, with relief, pushed his knife away as Bill Standish, village blacksmith and captain of the smuggling boat _Rocket_ , grimaced in return and clouted his shoulder.

"I do wish you wouldn't do that." James rubbed at his arm.

"Grow some more muscle then, Jamie lad."

"Mmmm. Not everyone can be as large as you."

Bill stared at him. "When I was your age I was already apprenticed to the Brambridge forge. A year later I was the master smith. Of course you could become as strong as I." Bill laughed and clouted James on the shoulder again. "Although now I'll take you as you are." He jerked his head towards the pile of contraband. "I've just been up on the cliff top. Tommy has the fire under control. As soon as we've moved the cargo he'll douse the flames, and the _Rocket_ will leave."

"Good. Get the men to move the brandy barrels now. Make sure they fasten the straps tight. I'll rub out the marks in the sand."

Bill nodded and quickly gave the orders to the waiting men. James glanced upwards again. Another ten minutes gone. They would only have another ten before they were at greater risk of being caught. As the last man disappeared into the undergrowth at the bottom of the cliffs, James took off his coat and ran, dragging it across the sand where the barrels had been stacked.

With a deep breath, he pressed his hands together and blew through them, making three low owl hoots. He waited, and sighed with relief as the call was answered by one low hoot from the headland. The _Rocket_ was barely visible in Longman's Cove, but a sharp-eyed observer might see the tall shape of her mast against the moon, or the occasional light as the crewmen moved across her decks. It was vital that she wasn't discovered. The contraband that she brought in from France was the only thing keeping Brambridge village alive. James might have been young, but he _cared_.

He strode to where Bill and the men had disappeared with the barrels at the back of the beach. Parting the undergrowth, he stepped onto a cleverly concealed path. Glancing quickly about him, he stilled, the dark shadows deeper than they should have been. Before he could move, hands descended and covered his eyes with a firm pressure. In a flurry of movement, he whirled, forcing them from his face and pushed the attacker back into the bushes. The small figure giggled and tapped lightly on his chest. James let out a groan. Not her _again._

"Harriet, this is not the time or the place." He stood and hauled her to her feet. "This is _dangerous_."

"I know, it's terribly exciting. The moon is so large and the sea is getting up. It's like a scene from _Hamlet_." Harriet stared at him, wide-eyed. She pushed her curly red hair away from her face and blinked. "I thought I might help," she said in a low voice.

James sighed. "I'd rather you didn't. You need to stay here or go home to the cottage and your aunt. Does Miss Aggie know you are here?"

Harriet shook her head. "No, she's alone at the cottage. I slipped out when she fell asleep over her correspondence."

James clenched his fists. "Don't follow me." He turned away and stepped back onto the upwards path.

"James, I—"

He cursed and turned back. Behind Harriet's hunched shoulders the tide was beginning to turn, cutting off her route home. He touched her arm lightly.

"Look, I'll come back for you, Harry. I always do, don't I?" James took in a deep breath and rubbed at his eyes as Harriet's shoulders slumped further. "I pulled you out of that pond when you were pretending to be a witch, I rescued you from the apple tree when you wondered what it was like to be a bird, and I rowed you back from the sandbank in the middle of the cove when you were calling to the gods of the sea. I _always_ come back for you _._ "

He waited until she nodded slightly.

"Good." He patted her hand lightly and turned resolutely away. Striding with hurried steps, he followed the concealed path up the steep cliff side and into a hidden arch partway up the limestone face. A narrow tunnel led upwards into the cliff, branching out at different points. Trailing his hand along the wall, he took first the left tunnel, a sharp right and then a succession of left forks.

All was quiet in the mine. With a slight shiver, James took a last right turn. He pulled a tinderbox out of his pocket and lit a char, blowing it out as quickly again as he had ignited it. In the flash of light he had seen the men lined up against the wall, each with a tot of brandy in their hand. The barrels were stowed into a stone alcove and covered with a piece of white sailcloth that blended well with the white of the stone around it.

"Go home," he whispered. "We'll move the barrels tomorrow night. Wait for Bill's instructions." He did not see them nod but felt the brush of the men's coats as they filed past him. The last man squeezed his shoulder strongly and a low laugh rumbled slightly as Bill left with the men.

James hurried in the opposite direction, out of the small chamber, into a larger one and then into another tunnel that moved upwards again. After fifty paces he came to an abrupt stop. He felt lightly at the wall to his right. Hooking his hands into the wall, he pulled out a small brass hook that was embedded in the stone. The hook moved seamlessly towards him and a chink of light appeared through the wall.

He held his breath but there was no sound. The light remained low as he pushed the door open and slid his chest and then his legs through, quickly closing the door again behind him. The door blended into the oak casement that lined the room and was impossible to distinguish from the other panels around it.

A woman gazed out at him from a painting hung over the wooden panel, a half-smile on her lips, her hands still upraised pointing to five stars that encircled her head. She had greeted his coming and going for the last year in the same fashion, the only woman surrounded by sneering male family portraits.

Lowering his head, James moved quickly from the room, and turned a sharp right into the sumptuous hall. Unwillingly his eyes flickered to the door to his father's study opposite the gallery. The door was slightly ajar but no glow lit the room. Hunching his shoulders, James ran lightly up the grand staircase and stepped into his bedroom.

_Damn._ He'd forgotten about Harriet.

He took a step back towards the door, but faltered as a loud crash reverberated through the house. Loud shouts came from the hallway. Running to the bed that sat in the middle of the room, he jumped under the coverlet and pulled a pillow over his head. He breathed quiet shallow breaths into the soft cotton covering his face.

The bedroom door opened in a burst of sound. Light footsteps pattered across the carpet and the pillow was ripped away from his hands.

His sister shook his shoulders violently, jerking his head from side to side. Opening his eyes, he focused blearily.

"James," she cried. "Oh, you fool. Get up. They're coming for you."

"Wha... who?"

"Lord Anglethorpe and Father." Cecilia stopped shaking him and pushed her hands through the long mahogany waves of her hair. "It's the new riding officer—Fairleigh, he's been murdered."

"I don't understand. Why are they coming for me?" James blinked. Bill had told him that Fairleigh was visiting his sweetheart in Ottery.

His sister's face darkened as she gripped the bed linen. "You and that blasted _Rocket_ ," she said tautly. "Fairleigh was pushed off the top of Longman's Point. They say his head was cratered in as he hit the rocks at the bottom of the cliff."

James took a sharp intake of breath as an ice-like tentacle of fear encircled his throat. Shaking, he sat and lifted up the coverlet and swung his legs out of the bed. But he was too late.

"Stop where you are."

He froze, one booted foot on the floor as his father barreled through the bedroom doorway.

"I told your mother that you were bad luck and look what you've done. Killed an innocent man. You can't deny it." His father, Lord Stanton, shook his head and fury filled his face. "That will teach her for letting you lead your own way and—"

"Enough, Stanton!" A broad-shouldered gentleman appeared in the doorway. "Don't be a fool. The lad looks quiet enough and we are not sure yet that he even did it."

"Of course he did, Anglethorpe. You've only been in the district for a day, despite your history here. You won't know his reputation. Can't you see the scratches on his hands and knees? Got them climbing to the top of the cliff to push Farleigh off, I'll wager. He's no son of mine."

"But Father..." James tried to twitch the coverlet back into place. "I was in bed."

His father shook his head. "Nonsense, James. You were seen creeping down the hallway by Edgar here at two o'clock of the morning, fully clothed."

James gulped and looked at his lone booted foot resting on the floor supporting his weight. Edgar. He might have guessed it was his cousin Edgar. He looked up at the doorway, and there Edgar was, stood behind his father and Lord Anglethorpe, craning his head over their shoulders. He bobbed up and down, a strange smirk pulling at his cheeks that froze when he caught James' glare.

_The bastard_.

James looked away. "I was stargazing," he said quietly. He pointed to the leather bound tube that lay on the table next to the bed. "I was told a comet might pass over tonight."

Lord Stanton snorted. Even Lord Anglethorpe looked disconcerted.

"A likely tale. No son of mine _stargazes_. It's something we tell the ladies to get them into bed." Lord Stanton walked further into the room, stopping suddenly as Lord Anglethorpe clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Take your hands off me—"

"I'll come with you quietly." James swung his other foot from the bed. There was no point in protesting when his father was in this kind of mood. He directed his words to Lord Anglethorpe, though it was clear that his father was listening. "I'm innocent though, I haven't done anything wrong. I was stargazing. Just let me change my clothes. Please?" The last word stuck in his throat. To his father that word would have been better than a scream.

Lord Stanton opened his mouth to speak again but Lord Anglethorpe stopped him. "Enough, Stanton. It's a bit of a walk to the lockup, and there is no way out of the room apart from the door and window." Lord Anglethorpe walked across the room and peered through a murky glass window. "It's too high for him to escape by the window and I'll put a guard on the door as well."

Lord Stanton glared balefully at his son, as if wishing he could pick up James and carry him to the prison himself, but James looked away. His father's hateful stare, so like those in the family pictures, was a typical Stanton sneer.

Lord Anglethorpe shouldered Lord Stanton from the room. "Come on. The quicker we leave, the faster he'll be ready. It's not as if he's going to escape to France."

Lord Stanton pulled away and brushed at Lord Anglethorpe's hand. He cast one last red-eyed glare at James and left, shoving a grinning Edgar out of the way. As Lord Anglethorpe pulled the door shut behind him, he stopped and stared at James. With a barely imperceptible flicker of his eyelid he winked and closed the door with a click.

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Somewhat Scandalous is the first book in the Brambridge Novels series. The other books currently available in the series are Somewhat Scandalous, Burning Bright,  _Dangerous  _Diana, Reckless Rules, Maddening Minx and Final Flirtation. Click on the titles to discover more about them, or visit www.pearldarling.com for my blog, books, and more.

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Pearl Darling
