“Oh, Christ on a crutch, not you,” Simon complained when he saw Sir Barnabas James sitting on the uncovered sofa in his apartments. Seeing his former commander from his military days dampened his joy at being home again, but only slightly.

“It is good to see you, too,” Sir Barnabas said with that slight crook to his upper lip that could pass for a smile, but could also be interpreted as a smirk. Simon had never been able to read him well. Not like Daniel. But then, Daniel and Sir Barnabas had been lovers for years. Even a spy as gifted in subterfuge as Sir Barnabas couldn’t contain all his secrets in the throes of passion, Simon supposed. Or perhaps he could and he only let Daniel know what he wanted him to know.

The rest of the furniture had been uncovered as well, although there was still an air of disuse about the room. Sir Barnabas had opened a window, but it remained miserably hot and stuffy. Simon sat down hard on his favorite chair and put a hand on his aching forehead. Dust motes flew into the air around him from the neglected, well-worn cushion. His apartment wasn’t palatial by any means, but it suited him well. Comfort meant more to him than status. It always had. It was why, of course, he had never pursued a career or played the market for longer than it took to make enough money to live satisfactorily, if not well. What use did he have for useless objects and closets of unworn clothes? He just needed rooms that weren’t drafty, a trusty stove, a soft mattress, and a fine jacket or two. All right, and several pairs of good boots. A man had priorities, didn’t he?

Anyway, when he wanted gilt and fine furnishings he only had to go to Daniel’s, or Freddy’s, for heaven’s sake. After all, Freddy was a duke. Simon practically choked on the gold dust in the air at his ducal estate, Ashton Park.

“Given yourself another headache with too much thinking again, have you?” Sir Barnabas asked with feigned concern. Simon didn’t need someone to interpret that for him.

“You’d think you’d have some sympathy for a man in my condition,” Simon whined. He dropped his head back to rest on the chair.

“What condition?” Sir Barnabas asked, crossing his legs.

Simon lowered his hand and stared at Sir Barnabas incredulously. “Just released from forced captivity? Kidnapped by Barbary pirates?” he reminded him. “Beaten? Tortured?”

“Hmm, tortured, were you?” Sir Barnabas said, his brow furrowing in what appeared to be real concern. “The cat o’nine? Fingernails all pulled out? The rack?” He leaned from side to side, observing Simon up and down. “You don’t look any taller.”

“You should see the brand on my back,” Simon told him wearily. “I’m tired, Barnabas. I haven’t the energy or, frankly, the wits to play guessing games with you, so just tell me why you’re here.”

“Did they really brand you?” Sir Barnabas asked, and this time the concern was unmistakable. Simon tipped his head to the side as he met the other man’s gaze and he was touched by what he saw there.

“Yes, they did. And no, it wasn’t your fault.”

“I wasn’t going to take the blame,” Sir Barnabas said, surprise on his face. “I certainly didn’t tell them to kidnap or brand you. I’m very sorry it happened, however, as you were doing me a favor at the time.”

“Most sympathetic human beings would feel a bit guilty about that,” Simon explained to him, rolling his eyes.

“Would they?” Sir Barnabas said, mere curiosity in his tone. “How utterly foolish of them. Although I do find guilt a great motivator in my line of work.”

“I’m sure you do.” Sir Barnabas was in charge of a shadowy department at the Home Office, although the favor that Simon had been doing for him had been personal. “How is Mrs. Jones?” he asked, using the pseudonym Barnabas had given to his lover when she came to work for him as his housekeeper and was trying to keep her identity a secret. She insisted on continuing to use the name for reasons known only to her, and Barnabas supposedly. Simon squirmed a bit, trying to get more comfortable. His back was hurting like the devil tonight after that carriage ride from the quay.

“Brilliant, of course,” Sir Barnabas said with satisfaction. “She refuses to marry, naturally, either myself or Lord Wetherald. Considering her last husband was a treasonous abuser and whoremonger, I can’t blame her. We are content with our present arrangement.”

Simon was surprised Sir Barnabas had revealed so much personal information, and it must have shown on his face. “As you said,” Barnabas told him, “you were kidnapped doing us a considerable favor in an effort to bring about the capture and ruin of her late, unlamented husband. If nothing else, I felt you deserved to know the results of your efforts.”

“Ah, yes. Daniel told me that Lord Wetherald killed him. That must have hurt. I’m sure you wanted the satisfaction.”

“Trust me, satisfaction was achieved.” The smile Sir Barnabas sent his way made it clear the double entendre was intentional. “What are you going to do now?”

“Now?” Simon asked in confusion. “As in, right now? This moment? Sleep, I should think. The passage over was rough; my back is aching; Daniel, as you know, talks far too much, and he got shot again, so I haven’t gotten much sleep since I was rescued.” He put undue emphasis on the last word.

“Yes, I heard about that,” Sir Barnabas said. This time Simon was quite sure it was a smirk and not a smile. “Harry is good in a fight, but he never did that sort of thing in the war.”

“No, thank God,” Simon said, “or we’d all be dead and it’d be King Boney of England, wouldn’t it?” Sir Barnabas actually laughed. “Daniel had to spend more time rescuing Harry than rescuing me. Although Harry did dispatch his fair share of pirates, I’ll give him that. But he’s a battering ram when a lock pick would have been more efficient.”

“Did you really blow up Menard’s compound?” Sir Barnabas asked. “Professional curiosity. I would be greatly obliged not to have to waste manpower on that particular threat anymore.”

“Consider your manpower saved,” Simon said, waving his hand negligently. “I blew the power kegs meant for the mines. Menard and most of his minions are dead.”

“Well done,” Sir Barnabas said, and Simon got that same thrill he used to get during the war when his superior praised him. He silently scolded himself for being a ninny. He didn’t work for Sir Barnabas now.

There was a loud knocking at the door and a flurry of activity as it was thrown wide. Several men Simon hadn’t noticed before materialized out of the shadows in the hallway, but Sir Barnabas waved them back as Mrs. Veronica Tarrant came bursting into Simon’s apartment.

“You’re back!” she exclaimed as she flew across the room. Right before she threw her arms around him he saw a trail of people following her through the door. “We thought we’d never see you again!” she exclaimed tearfully. Everything Very said seemed to end in an exclamation point.

“Simon, old man,” her husband, Wolf, said, offering his hand in greeting. Simon had to reach around Very to shake it since she wasn’t letting go. Simon and Wolf had worked together during the war, both of them spies in Sir Barnabas’s network.

“Sir Barnabas,” Wolf said coolly, turning to the other man who was already at the door, hat and gloves in hand. Wolf had never forgiven Sir Barnabas for the things he’d done under Barnabas’s orders during the war. Sir Barnabas accepted his resentment with the stoicism peculiar to command, as if it was a requirement of his position to bear the blame for his men’s misdeeds.

“Ladies,” Sir Barnabas said, bowing his head respectfully. “Mrs. Tarrant.”

The jibe made Very pull away from Simon with a frown. She grabbed Wolf’s arm before he could say anything. “Sir Barnabas, you really must stop trying to bait my husband,” she scolded him. “It is good to see you, too. Give Mrs. Jones and Lord Wetherald my love.”

She grinned at him. Very was a tall, robust woman, with dark hair and rosy cheeks and the combative temperament of a Valkyrie. Unlike her husband, she had come to terms with Sir Barnabas and his past. Simon had often thought that if she and Sir Barnabas had met in another time and place, they would have ruled the world together.

Sir Barnabas just crooked his lip and raised a brow at her public reminder of his very personal, unconventional romantic entanglements.

“Indeed,” he said. “Good afternoon.” He bowed his head again, and like a shadow fleeing the sun was gone in a breath.