He thought of the reams of reports he, Angelique, and Brandon had filed on each of their marks. Every waking moment of their lives was scrupulously documented by Harry and his fellow agents for Sidmouth’s files. They were to know everything about Crane, Doncaster, and Bethwell—everything. But most importantly of all, no one was to know they were watching, not even the men supposedly in danger of being attacked at any moment. And now he knew why.
They weren’t guarding Doncaster, Crane, and Bethwell.
They were watching them.
Three hours later Harry pulled up a chair near the bed and watched a man sleep.
John Stafford was a nondescript fellow, the sort one could see every day and yet never quite say what he looked like. He slept on his back, mouth slightly open, a red nightcap on his head. He might have been a clerk or a duke or a pig farmer instead of a spymaster. Harry gazed dispassionately down at his superior, so calm and secure in slumber, and considered one last time before he crossed the Rubicon, so to speak, and put his entire future at risk. He had done well at his job. He might never again have an opportunity like the one he had been offered upon completion of this assignment, and it would hurt—badly—to lose it.
But every man had to have his limit. He struck the flint.
Stafford awoke with the faintest of flinches. His eyes opened a mere slit, and for a moment he and Harry regarded each other in silence by the light of the single candle.
“How dare you,” Stafford finally whispered.
Harry gave a careless shrug. “Is it really so shocking?”
“This is my bloody home! My bedchamber!” Slowly, Stafford pushed himself up against his pillows, his expression fierce. “Explain yourself, Sinclair, if you wish to see tomorrow.”
“Now that you mention it, that’s why I’ve come,” Harry said conversationally. “My seeing tomorrow, that is. Obviously I’ve already handed over much of my life to your direction, but some parts I like to keep a close eye on. Particularly the longevity.”
“Talk sense,” Stafford snapped.
Harry leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, his clasped hands hanging loosely between them. “You’ve been lying to me.” His employer’s eyebrow arched cynically, and he added, “To all of us. I want to know why.”
“I am not in the habit of explaining myself,” the other man began in a sharp voice.
Harry smiled without humor. “Well, we all have some unsavory habits, don’t we.”
Stafford pursed his lips and said nothing more. It was at his instigation that Harry’s habits included breaking into houses in the middle of the night, unseen and unheard and almost always well-armed.
“Now,” Harry went on, “I met a woman this evening. Fascinating creatures, women. There’s no more potent force on earth for muddling a man’s mind and making him do the damnedest things. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Get to the point, if you please.”
“Ah—yes.” Harry leaned back in his chair, draping one arm over the back. “As I said, I met a woman this evening. At first glance I thought she was a mere tavern wench, but it turns out she was once much more. Almost…nobility, if my memory serves. French. Expensive. Spoiled and arrogant and capable of twisting a weak-willed Treasury deputy around her little finger.” Stafford’s face didn’t change but Harry knew he had touched a nerve. “And what should I discover but that she was also taking orders from you. How many agents did you have trying to catch Gerald Wollaston with his fingers in the Treasury till?”
Stafford’s stare could have chipped stone. “This is not your concern.”
“That’s what Phipps said.” Harry stroked one finger down his throat and tilted his head back to look at Stafford from under lowered eyelids. “I have to disagree.”
The other man’s mouth flattened. “Are you offering your resignation?”
Harry thought about it a moment. “Not…necessarily.” Stafford snorted, and Harry leaned forward. “Tell me why,” he demanded in a soft voice. “Tell me why we’re spying on Doncaster and the others. This isn’t a guardian assignment. Tell me the truth.”
For a long moment it seemed Stafford wouldn’t reply. His jaw tensed and relaxed several times, as if he were swallowing his words, before he finally exhaled in disdain. “These are dangerous times, Sinclair. I expected you would know that. After all, one presumes you wished to do your patriotic duty when you came into my employ. One wouldn’t want to question the motive of a man who agrees to housebreaking, impersonation, lying, stealing, and any number of other activities some might judge criminal.”
“No, nor would one want to question the motive of the man who charges others with those same tasks and then rewards their success in them,” Harry shot back.
Stafford dismissed this with a slight twist of his mouth. “Indeed.” He studied Harry with piercing eyes. “I hired you in part for your intelligence, so I suppose I ought not to be surprised at this.”
Harry just looked at him, waiting.
Stafford’s lips pinched. “From time to time,” he said, speaking each word as if he wished he needn’t, “it is necessary to engage in anticipatory behavior. Naturally one would prefer not, particularly in situations where some delicacy is required, but when the dangers outweigh the reservations, one must act. It would be dereliction of my duty not to do so. I placed you and my other agents with the utmost care, trusting in your ability to act with discretion and wisdom in the pursuance of your tasks. I trust you will continue to do so.”
Then he said no more. For a moment he and Harry just gazed at each other, before Harry leaned forward even more.
“So, which one do you suspect is the traitor?”
Stafford simply looked at him, coldly and silently.
Harry took that silence for confirmation. “All right,” he said quietly. “I understand.”
“I expect you to continue following your orders—” Stafford began.
Harry lifted one hand. “I will. But from this moment on, I follow my own instinct as well.”
Stafford shot him a cutting glance. “Whatever is required.”
Harry inclined his head, partly to hide his surprise. Stafford didn’t care what he did, just as long as he caught the traitor. He hadn’t quite expected that. “Then we comprehend each other. At last.” He got to his feet and crossed the room.
“How did you get into my house?” Stafford asked behind him.
Harry glanced back from the doorway. “All too easily.”
Stafford glared at him, clutching the blankets to his chest. “Do not do it again.”
Harry just flashed a tight-lipped smirk and slipped through the door.
Back out in the street, he took a deep breath. That could have gone rather badly for him, but it hadn’t. Stafford hadn’t sacked him or promised retribution; instead he implicitly confirmed the charges he made and gave him carte blanche to catch the traitor. That meant Stafford was quite desperate to find the man, for he had already seen how repressive his employer was regarding his missions.
And if the reward for safeguarding a few wealthy gents were as he’d been told, how much more would it be for discovering a traitor in the upper reaches of society, almost within the Cabinet itself? The government—even the new King himself—should be very grateful indeed.
Harry strode along through the dark streets, his blood beginning to surge at the thought. It was an awful risk as well. If he made a mistake and accused the wrong man, Stafford would gut him and spit him without hesitation. Harry would take the entire blame, not an inconsiderable drawback, as the penalty for falsely accusing a nobleman was death. And if he were correct, no one would ever hear his name associated with the matter, even though he would not be shy in claiming his reward.
But one of the possible traitors was Lord Doncaster, Mariah’s father. Harry didn’t want to consider the possibility that he could be the guilty party—for tonight. He didn’t want to confront that thought, or the choices it would demand, unless he was absolutely forced to do
so. It seemed unlikely Mariah’s regard for him would withstand the sight of him rising to testify against her father, ruining her family and disgracing her forever. He couldn’t think about that now.
By the time he arrived back at Fenton Lane, he had decided on at least a beginning. It was easiest to spy on Crane, so he would begin there. Crane’s diary and correspondence went through his hands every day, and he had been watching the old man for weeks now. The actions that must have caught Stafford’s eyes had to have happened some time ago, so he would have to go through as many of the viscount’s papers as he could. As long as he didn’t get sent off on too many pointless errands or dragged out of the house by any more of Tobias’s larks, it should take only a few days, weeks at the most.
Tobias. Harry stripped off his clothing and scrubbed his face and neck, thinking of Crane’s nephew. Perhaps that was the source of the treason. He didn’t think Tobias was clever enough to plot to overthrow a cricket pitch, let alone a government, but Tobias was a young man with lofty ambitions and no fortune of his own. It would be fairly easy for him to sell information gleaned in his uncle’s house to a radical group, possibly even without realizing what he was selling. The more Harry thought about him, the more plausible Tobias became. And searching Tobias’s belongings for any telltale signs of treachery would be easy enough to do, since Tobias had resided with his uncle since he came to town.
Harry fell into bed, exhaustion finally overwhelming him. Bethwell would prove difficult, since he had no entrée into the marquis’s house and only followed him sporadically. He would have to think on that. But as he drifted off to sleep, it was the earl he thought of.
Please God, don’t let it be Doncaster.
Chapter 19
Several days went by without any sign or word from Harry. Mariah felt at once weighed down and buoyed by his secret. A man did not masquerade, very convincingly, as an elderly man and a secretary without help, nor without a very strong reason. She had plenty of time to think about that and what his reason might be. He might have lied to her, and he might be as scheming and detestable as Joan had said. But she had seen no sign of that, and in the end she realized she must choose to trust him, or not, without having any of her questions answered. Despite all his secrets, she couldn’t distrust him. She missed his company and the way they talked so easily to each other. She missed his laugh and the tenderness in his touch. And when she finally heard the soft scrape and swish at her window again, she threw back her blankets and bounced upright in bed. “Harry!” she whispered in delight.
He rose to his full height and ran his hands through his hair. Cold rain was beating against the window behind him, and it had been the sound of him pushing up the sash that caught her attention. She hadn’t thought he would come to her in a storm, but was overjoyed that he had. “Come in,” she said, scrambling off her bed and grabbing a shawl from the chaise. “You must be soaked!”
He peeled off his dripping wet coat—Mariah could hear the drops hitting the floor—and folded it over the windowsill before taking the shawl she offered. His fingers were like ice when they brushed hers. She gasped. “You’ll catch your death of cold! Why are you out tonight?”
He swung the shawl around himself and slumped against the window frame. “To see you.” Even his voice sounded cold and tired.
“Come by the fire.” She took his hand and pulled, but he resisted.
“No. I cannot stay for long.”
Mariah bit her lip but didn’t argue. Her teeth were chattering, thanks to the cold breeze through the window, so she rummaged inside the wardrobe for another shawl and waited for him to explain.
“I’ve missed you,” he said instead.
Warmth filled her heart. “I’ve missed you as well.”
He shook his head and smiled. The fire gave off just enough light for her to make out his expression. “You undermine all my intentions to stay away. You should be out dancing with proper gentlemen, not wishing a scoundrel would come see you.”
“But the scoundrel is more interesting than all the gentlemen put together,” she said as she pulled her dressing table chair closer to him. He was still leaning heavily against the windowsill, and Mariah could sense that his good cheer was somewhat forced. “Why are you out in this weather?”
He wiped his face with one corner of the shawl. “No very good reason, it seems.”
“Why not?”
Instead of making light of her question or refusing to answer, Harry simply gazed at her for a long time. As Mariah’s eyes adjusted, she could see him a little better. His hair was slicked back from his face, his cheekbones thrown into high relief by the flickering firelight. Water trickled from his wet hair down his throat, running across his skin and melting into the collar of his soaked shirt. She tried not to stare at that little stream of water. “It’s difficult to explain,” he finally said. “I hope your evening was more enjoyable.”
“We went to the theater,” she told him, changing the subject to something other than the cares that seemed to have worn him down tonight. “It was a fine performance, although my cousin, Joan—Miss Bennet—thought it was silly and whispered the most awful things in my ear the whole evening. Joan is dreadful, capable of making sport of nearly anything. And the worst of it is, she does so with such humor, I cannot help but laugh at what she says.” She paused. “Do you enjoy the theater?”
This seemed to amuse him. A wry smile curled his mouth. “Moderately well.”
“I think it’s wonderful. I could go to the theater every week, but Papa says we might not return for a while.”
“Why is that? Does he not share your enthusiasm?”
“No—yes—that is, he likes it well enough, I suppose. But near the end of the performance, some people in the gallery stood and began shouting. They tossed handbills into the air, and Papa was very displeased.”
Harry lifted his head. “Why?”
Mariah flushed. “They were handbills in support of the Queen. Some in the audience cheered as they were thrown about. Joan caught one when Papa had his back turned, or else I’m sure we would never have known what they were.”
His expression changed, becoming strangely guarded yet alert. “Does your father sympathize with the Queen?”
“Papa?” Mariah asked in surprise. “No, of course not. He is a Tory, you know. I think he was angry at the way the Queen’s supporters behaved, ruining the play. Papa feels the people should respect the dignity of the King, even if they do not like him.”
“Then he believes they have good reason to dislike the King.”
“I…Well, I suppose he knows they do dislike the King, whether the reasons are good or not. Papa has always been more of a diplomat, used to dealing with the way people are instead of the way people should be.” She gave him a puzzled look. “Why?”
Harry just shook his head. “Does he support the King’s divorce?”
Mariah rolled her eyes. “No one supports the King’s divorce except the King. Even I know that.”
“Ah.” Harry pulled the shawl from his shoulders and folded it into a neat square. “What do you think of it?”
She tore her eyes from his wet shirt, plastered to his arms and chest. “I—I think…well, I think the King should not be able to divorce Queen Caroline when everyone in London knows he’s had a dozen mistresses. However badly she has behaved, he has done much the same. That doesn’t seem fair.”
Harry heaved a sigh. “No. It doesn’t seem fair.” He hung his head for a moment, looking so tired Mariah’s heart melted. She leaned out and took his hand. His fingers wrapped firmly around hers, as if he drew strength from her touch. She still longed to know what he had been doing and why, but held her tongue. He would tell her, when he could—if he could. Wordlessly, she raised her free hand to hold his hand between her two, offering him what comfort she could.
Harry’s throat tightened as he gazed down at their clasped hands. He’d needed to see her tonight, even though he had no strength to be charming. It was
freezing cold and raining hard, and he’d been out in it for several hours shadowing Lord Bethwell. Now that he knew it wasn’t to protect but to watch, he didn’t see the point in waiting outside the Cavendish mansion while Bethwell dined there, but if he didn’t go, Angelique would want to know why. He had kept his conversations with Phipps and Stafford to himself so far. He didn’t know what his fellow agents would do. He didn’t know what Stafford would do if the entire team mutinied. He had discovered the truth about their work, but it didn’t make anything about it easier.
Mariah believed her father loyal—and why wouldn’t she? Doncaster was a Tory, part of the government party. What motive would he have to turn against it and aid its opponents? But Sidmouth and Stafford thought he might have done just that. And Mariah would be devastated if it were true.
“You are very fond of your father.”
She looked up at him, no hint of distrust in her gaze. “Yes, of course. I could not ask for a better one.”
Harry nodded. It made no sense. Doncaster was publicly allied with the King. What had brought suspicion on him? “I’m glad,” he murmured. “Everyone should have an affectionate father.”
“Harry…” She stopped, then got to her feet. “I wish I could help you,” she said helplessly. “I hate feeling as though you might be in danger or troubled and I can do nothing.”
In spite of everything, he smiled, and raised her fingers to his lips. “This helps,” he told her, brushing her knuckles against his cheek. “Just talking to you helps.”
Her smile was tender and a little bit sad, as if she knew it was only a moment of comfort. She stepped closer and put her arm around his neck, until he rested his head on her bosom. He snaked one arm around her waist. “I’ll get you wet,” he mumbled even as he drew her closer.
“I don’t care.” Her fingers stroked his hair. She rested her cheek atop his head. “I’m glad you came to see me,” she whispered again.
So he kept his arm around her waist and his head on her breast, and shoved away the thought of what he had to do next.
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