The next day after dinner, James sat in the parlor with his best friend, Richard Denton, the Earl of Haley. The Haley estate bordered Abermont House, and the two boys had grown up together. James could not remember a single day of his childhood where Richard and their other neighbor, Deacon Drake, weren’t present.

Both Richard and Deacon now worked as agents for the Clocktower. In fact, Deacon was currently in London, overseeing operations while James was with his family.

“When you return to London this Season, your cover will need to be intact,” Richard declared between puffs on his cheroot, crossing one long leg over the other. “Sitting out one Season was acceptable when you were grieving your sister, but missing two is unconscionable. The ton is clamoring for the return of the new Duke of Abermont.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” James grumbled. “Elinor has already counted six mentions of our family in the scandal sheets.”

The upcoming Season would be an unmitigated disaster, as every old dragon with a marriageable age chit would corner him at balls and routs, as intent on making her daughter a duchess as Bonaparte was on reshaping the world in his vision.

Devil take him, he didn’t have time for distraction, and he certainly didn’t want to take a wife. England’s national security depended on him—even when all he wanted to do was run in the opposite direction.

“At least Korianna has already left for London.” Smoke wafted from Richard’s cheroot as he nodded. “With her in Town, it’ll give you time to plan ahead. The gossipmongers will be so focused on what Korianna’s doing that they won’t have time to look closely at you.”

James stifled a groan. He dreaded what the papers would write about his middle sister’s latest exploits. Korianna was too brash, too reckless. So far, she’d never come up across a situation she couldn’t lie or fight her way through, but every time she was in the field he worried.

She refused to take his direction. Just like Louisa had.

James ran a hand through his hair. “Let’s just hope she doesn’t blow something up again.”

“Again?” Richard stopped mid-puff, the cheroot dangling limply from his fingers.

He raised his eyes meaningfully at his friend. “Hanover Square.” He’d had a devil of a time explaining that one to Wickham. His heart constricted. Of course, Louisa had thought it hilarious. That had been the end of Korianna and Louisa partnering on missions. They were too similar, spontaneous and forceful. They needed a tempering influence on them, like Arden or Richard.

But even that had not been enough to save Louisa.

“You’re quizzing me,” Richard said. “She blew up Hanover Square?”

“Swear to the Virgin Mary.”

“Only in your family.” Richard threw his head back, his throaty laugh echoing through the parlor.

“I’m glad somebody is amused by that giant blaze,” James remarked dryly. “The three enemy agents who were injured weren’t particularly thrilled.”

Richard sniggered. “The French are never happy when we’re winning.”

“Her orders were to cause a distraction so that Louisa could drug the agents,” James said. “Apparently the bomb was her first choice.”

That only made Richard laugh harder, for as a field agent, he certainly didn’t have to handle Korianna, or her aftermath. Her exploits were simply amusing. Richard did not feel the gut-twisting dread every time one of the agents was on a mission.

James rose from the settee, going to the liquor cabinet in the far corner of the room. Pouring the brandy into a crystal glass, he eyed the amber liquid for a moment, remembering how a captivating blonde had downed a quarter of the glass in one gulp. He’d never seen a woman shoot liquor like that before.

And he’d never known how damn arousing such a sight could be.

He shoved that inconvenient thought to the back of his mind, where all the memories of his jaunt with her around the garden yesterday currently resided. A spy needed to be focused and committed to the mission. In no way, shape, or form did that include “inappropriate thoughts about his brother’s governess.”

Richard slapped his thigh, ashes from the cheroot drifting onto the plush Oriental rug. “I always knew Korianna was fiery, but I never imagined such a pronouncement would be literal.”

“The carpet, Richard.” Narrowing his eyes, James pointed to the cheroot. “I know you take no care with your things, but could you please exercise some diligence in my house?”

The words felt false on his tongue, tasting of lead and grime. It wasn’t his house. Ninth Duke of Abermont or not, this countryseat didn’t belong to him, and it never would. On paper, of course, he owned the furniture, and the land was entailed to his title. But he could never live up to his father’s legacy. Known as the Lion to his associates, the old man had been one of England’s top spymasters, second only to the Under-Secretary himself.

James’s gaze skimmed from one end of the room to the next. Everywhere, he saw traces of the old duke. The heavy oak furniture of the study, chosen because the duke had believed it would hold up nicely to bullets if they were ever attacked at home. The crimson accents, for the duke’s favorite color was red. And the tapestry above the mantel, an African jungle scene with two zebras and a majestic lion to rule over them, in homage to the duke’s code-name.

Louisa had loved that damn tapestry. James thought it was hideous. But still he kept it, a tangible token of an intangible girl.

“I take every care,” Richard protested, as he moved his foot to cover up the ash. “Just because I like to carouse does not mean I don’t understand responsibility.”

“How many times have you made that speech to Elinor?” The smallest hint of a grin slid across James’s lips. “Careful, old boy, for you know she could tell me exactly how often she beseeches you to be serious.”

“Curse Ellie and her blasted brilliant memory,” Richard muttered. “Ever since we were tots.”

“How I know your pain.” James chuckled, allowing himself to feel the happiness of old memories, just for a moment.

When they were children, it had always been him, Richard, and Deacon—with Korianna running after them, constantly trying to prove that she was just as strong, as fast, as the boys. Louisa had followed in Korianna’s footsteps. And when his parents had taken in Arden as their ward, she’d toddled along too; content to play whatever game they liked as long as she could spend time with them.

But not Elinor. He remembered Elinor watching them from the library window, a book spread across her lap and a pensive expression on her angular face. Rarely had she felt well enough to join them.

As if summoned by their discussion, Elinor poked her head into the open doorway. “I thought I heard your voice, Richard.”

James hadn’t heard her approach. But then, he never did, for Elinor was as fleet of foot as she was of mind. In a household of spies, footsteps rarely sounded.

Richard sat up straighter as she entered the room, his posture no longer so relaxed. “Good day, Ellie.” He snuffled out his cheroot in the ashtray and stood, sketching a quick bow to her.

Elinor nodded in return. Sitting on the settee Richard had vacated, she smoothed out her skirts—he hadn’t seen her in anything other than lavender or gray for the past six months, for the family was still in half-mourning for Louisa. Elinor reached up, patting at her titian chignon.

She did not ask for permission to join their discussion; she simply assumed she was invited. James took another sip of brandy, swallowing down his irritation. Elinor always had a way of taking over a conversation; he ought to be used to it by now.

“We were discussing James’s cover,” Richard supplied, pouring out another cup of tea. It was his fourth in the last quarter of an hour—James swore that the tea merchants in England remained afloat mostly on Richard’s habits. “Would you like some tea, Elinor?”

Elinor nodded, clearly grateful not to have to move. Her pain must be bad today. How did Richard always pick up on those things? She accepted the cup of tea he offered her, delicately wrapping her hand around the china. Tall and slim, everything about Elinor appeared delicate, as though she might tumble to the ground at the next gust of wind.

Until she turned her eagle-eyed glance upon someone, and then immediately, one realized she was an unconquerable force. No matter how much pain she was in, her mind remained fierce.

“I think you should marry,” Elinor said to James, with the same flatness as though she’d just informed him he should take clotted cream with his scones from now on.

He’d been mid-gulp of brandy, which promptly went down the wrong way. He sputtered and coughed as his throat burned.

“You want me to what?” He finally managed to squeeze the question out, though it was a fruitless endeavor. From Elinor’s staid expression and Richard’s quirked brow and failed attempt not to laugh, he was certain he’d heard her right.

And then Richard and Elinor exchanged a conspiratorial look, and he knew he was outnumbered. This was no casual afternoon. This was a trap.

When the two of them planned something together, they were unstoppable.

“You two talked about this before dinner so could you ambush me, didn’t you?”

Richard grinned, while Elinor shrugged as if it was his fault for not seeing this coming.

“It is a perfectly logical step. We have to move on sometime, and Society will expect us to do so soon.” Elinor laid one hand on the arm of the couch, while her other hand balanced the teacup and saucer. “This Season, you are out of full mourning. You’ll be expected to settle down.”

He didn’t want to move on, and he didn’t want to settle down. He wanted to cling to his bleeding memories, every last one of them, and throw himself into the Clocktower. If he gave the organization his full attention, then the chance of someone else dying on his watch would be reduced. Sometimes that was the only thing that helped him through the day.

“If I’m the bloody duke, then the rest of the ton can simply wait another year,” he said.

Elinor’s eyes widened. “You are a duke, Jim, not the king. You cannot just wave your hand and say it will be so.”

“But it would be quite fantastic if he could,” Richard interjected.

Elinor scoffed, and Richard winked at her. She rolled her eyes, and he grinned more. They continued like this for a minute, giving James an opportunity to puzzle over the situation.

Customs had to be followed, if they were to blend seamlessly into London’s Upper Ten Thousand. The ton could think of them as eccentric, yes, but they did not have carte blanche to act with complete disregard for the rules. No one could know their true occupations.

The rules dictated that a single duke would be in want of a wife, whether or not James actually was. Swallowing, he tugged at the stiff points of his cravat.

Elinor’s cool gaze followed his movements. She leaned forward, reminding him of a tiger about to pounce on an unsuspecting antelope. “What if you could avoid the Marriage Mart entirely?”

Richard watched them both silently, a smirk toying with his lips. Somehow, no matter how dark or treacherous their double lives became, Richard managed to find the humor.

“You mean marry before the Season starts?” James eyed his sister suspiciously. At Elinor’s nod, he frowned. “Impossible. We’re due to arrive in London in less than two months. How am I supposed to find a suitable bride in such short time? There’s courting rituals, banns to be announced, not to mention developing feelings for her...”

“I never knew you were such a sentimentalist,” Elinor said. “No one marries for love, Jim. Especially not people in our family’s line of work.”

Was it his imagination, or did Richard flinch at Elinor’s cold declaration? James turned his head to look at his friend directly, but Richard’s expression had smoothed.

“It would take at least three weeks to verify your possible duchess’s background,” Richard added, supporting his argument. “Wickham will want to check her personally.”

Elinor nodded. “The bride in question must not only be of a solidly English line of no reproach, but she must hold no unconventional political opinions.”

“Wollstonecraft devotees are out of the question,” Richard agreed. “Kori will be so disappointed.”

“One woman causing scandal for this family is more than enough.” Elinor set her teacup down on the table and reached into her reticule, drawing out a crisply folded square of foolscap. “I’ve made a list of six potential candidates. I’m sure you shall find one of them agreeable enough.”

He’d been raised to inherit the dukedom, yes, but he’d always hoped that when he finally married it would be to a woman who actually liked and wanted to be with him. But perhaps Elinor’s list wouldn’t be so bad.

James came toward her, taking the paper she offered him. He grimaced as he read the names.

No, it wasn’t bad. It was worse.

He recognized the women as the ton’s diamonds of the first water. Each woman was a sweet, timid debutante, who probably sang beautifully, painted reasonably pretty landscapes, and was well versed in the latest fashion trends. Perfect for the rest of the bachelors in the ton, but he led a dangerous life. He couldn’t see subjecting a milquetoast woman to the perils and uncertainties of his existence.

A woman like Miss Loren might know how to handle his complex life. She certainly already had the field dressing skills. And she’d made him laugh.

God, he hadn’t truly laughed in months.

He thought of her alabaster skin, her inquisitive blue eyes; that spirited smile she had when she teased him. The sharpness of her chin, her perfectly straight nose, and her high cheekbones dotted with pink when he’d touched her.

If he had to take a bloody wife, then why couldn’t it be Miss Loren? He suppressed a sigh. Because the ton would expect him to marry someone of similar standing. A daughter of a duke, or at the least, of a marquis. Miss Loren’s lineage traced back to a viscountcy, which wasn’t high enough. Her position as his governess made the match even more ill advised. While his family certainly wasn’t normal by most standards, he couldn’t see bringing on such societal stigma unless he had a damn good reason.

Sadly, his comfort around her—and the physical attraction she sparked within him—did not warrant enough of a reason.

Still, she’d given him a small morsel of hope. If talking to her came so easily, perhaps, someday, he’d be able to speak to his future wife about the past too. Perhaps he was not completely jaded.

He refolded the list, handing it back to Elinor. “No.”

Elinor’s forehead creased. “No?”

“No,” he repeated, ignoring the archness of her tone. “I don’t want any of these women.”

“But they’re all suitable in disposition and dowry,” Elinor protested. “What reason could you possibly have to refuse them?”

“How about, I’ve never once spoken to any of them on a topic of substance? Or that I have nothing in common with them but our collective fortunes?” He paced the area in front of her settee, pivoting with each suggestion. “Or, and I cannot possibly stress this enough, the fact that I don’t need my sister to choose my betrothed?”

“Well, you needn’t be so piqued about it,” Elinor admonished, annoyance flashing in her eyes. “It is a sound plan, and if you were smart, you’d recognize that we cannot have the scrutiny your being unmarried brings us.”

“If I were smart?” James repeated, spinning on his heel. “Elinor, do you hear yourself? You admonish me for my authoritarianism, but people are not chess pieces you can move around as you see fit. The world is not yours to control.”

“You think I don’t know that? I need only look at the bloody Clocktower,” she shot back, a scowl darkening her pale features.

Instantly, he regretted his harsh words. He’d never met anyone who could predict the outcome of an event, or find patterns in random occurrences, better than Elinor could. Details of every agent and every mission of the Clocktower were all stored in her encyclopedic memory.

But Elinor would never be allowed be to be an active field agent because of her sickness. She’d be forever stuck on the edge of the action.

And he’d thrown it back in her face. What an arse he was.

“I shouldn’t have said that, Ellie,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean it.”

Elinor’s eyes narrowed. “Of course you did.”

“Ellie—” Richard started, closing his mouth when Elinor glared at him. Instead, he stood up and ambled across the room to her, plopping down on the settee next to her.

Elinor’s rigid posture relaxed, ever so slightly, at his presence. Somehow, Richard had always been able to break through her icy reserves, even when her own siblings couldn’t.

James dropped into the chair Richard had vacated, sloshing the remaining brandy around in his glass. The amber liquid remained enigmatic as always; while liquor made many men spill secrets, it did not offer up any answers to his quandaries.

“Wickham values you, you know that,” James said. But it wasn’t enough—it would never be enough.

She was absolutely devoted to the Clocktower, but she’d never get to reach her full potential.

“Whatever that matters,” Elinor groused.

“I strive to make sure your opinion holds weight in the organization,” James said. “You know I always will, don’t you? We’re Spencers, damn it, you, Kori, Arden, Thomas, and me. We’re a unit.”

And Louisa.

“And me,” Richard piped up with a grin.

James nodded. “And you, Richard Denton, honorary Spencer family member.”

“As well as whomever you shall choose for your duchess,” Elinor added pointedly. “You can be reluctant and sentimental all you want, but it won’t change anything. You need to marry. And quickly.”

He looked to Richard for assistance, but the other man simply shrugged. Some help Richard was—the lucky bastard would be a bachelor for the rest of his life, most likely.

“Miserable fate for you, chap, but she’s right,” Richard stated. “You take a bride and the ton talks about it for a few weeks at most, and then they move on to the next scandal. You don’t marry, we spend the next four months besieged by curious ninnies, and suddenly the French know who we are.”

“It’s a risk we can’t afford to take.” Elinor’s eyes shone triumphantly, for she knew she had him now.

With Bonaparte’s ongoing invasion of Egypt, the organization couldn’t risk any impediments to their operations. The Navy needed the intelligence that their missions provided. The Clocktower relied on a system of hand-offs at societal functions, hiding in plain sight amongst the aristocracy. James, and his sisters, had to be able to attend the Season’s most popular routs without drawing too much attention.

Damnation. As usual, he couldn’t argue with Elinor’s logic. A love match wasn’t in the cards for him.

Our lives are meant for more, my boy. So many times, he’d heard his father say that. His entire childhood had been about learning to become a spy. At first, he and his siblings had thought they were simply playing games—but as they’d entered adolescence, they’d learned what their family legacy really was: not the Abermont title, but espionage.

He drained the last sip of brandy from his glass, and considered his options. His own mother and father had not been besotted with each other, but they’d achieved a companionable enough arrangement to sire four children. The Lion’s second wife had been much younger than he was, but they had shared a friendly bond too. Perhaps James could achieve the same dynamic, if he chose wisely.

“I’ll do it,” he declared. “I’ll marry quickly and with little fanfare. But I will choose my own bride.”