James stalked down the hall, intent on completing another hour’s worth of work before bed. After he’d finished going over the mission assignments, he’d headed down to the tavern to meet Richard. That had been a mistake, for Richard was brimming with “suggestions” on who James’s new bride should be. After an hour of listening to his friend’s running commentary on every available chit—and some who weren’t—in the Beau Monde, James craved the solitariness of the secret room behind his library. Nothing but two desks and a wall of filing cabinets in there. No one to tell him who to be, or how to conduct himself. Or more importantly, who to marry.

It had been easier around Miss Loren. He’d sought her out in the garden because talking to her had made him feel...functional. Like finally, someone else understood—someone who hadn’t known Louisa. Someone he could talk to without feeling as if he had to apologize for her death.

Someone he could simply be himself around.

Whoever that person was now.

His Hessians made almost no noise as he stole silently through the dark hall. He had not bothered to have to the servants light the sconces, for after years of night missions, his eyes adjusted quickly to the black. Welcomed it.

He stopped dead in his tracks halfway to his library, the hairs on the back of his neck raising.

The door was ajar.

The door should never be ajar at this hour, so long past when the maids were due for their cleaning rounds.

Pressing himself up against the wall, he drew a knife from the slit in the inner lining of his boots, wrapping his hand firmly around the handle. With the blade in his hand, he immediately felt more in control, far more than he’d have been with the pistol in his waist holster. The pistol might misfire, but the knife was always accurate. Deadly. He could slit a man’s throat as easily as he could count to a hundred. The motions had become routine. Training and a decade of experience had solidified him into a killing machine, built for blood and pain and not much else.

Creeping forward, he kept his back to the wall. Light peeked through the crack. The Argand lamp had been lit inside. Damnation. That would limit the nearness, and the angle, of his approach.

He edged closer, thanking God for Elinor’s strange desire to stick foliage in every open space. The tall, capacious potted plant was next to the entrance to the library, and offered him cover while he looked through the small opening in the door.

There was a woman. She stood with her back to him, but that made no difference. He recognized her instantly, from the flaxen curls contained atop her head in a prim coiffure, to the subtle curves hidden by a dreary gray dress just a smidgen too big. His mind rebelled at the very idea, even as his body answered with the same fervor that began whenever she was around.

Miss Vivian Loren.

His Miss Loren.

Possessiveness flooded him. He wanted to storm into that room, take her by the shoulders, and demand an explanation. God, he’d thought she was different. Untouched by the cruel spy game that had already taken too much from him.

He should have known better. He’d been made into a hardened spy. That life was all he’d ever have. Everyone, even his own bloody governess, would eventually hide an ulterior motive.

He pressed back against the wall, careful to keep out of sight. There was nothing to gain by acting now. He’d let her keep hunting. The more information he had, the better equipped he’d be to deal with the peril she now presented.

He forced the rage down. He needed to remain calm. Gather all the details, then make a decision. Through the sliver of open door, he could make out her movements. Her posture was rigid, her movements tentative as she flipped through the blueprints.

She was nervous.

Good.

That gave him a perverse flicker of pleasure. A trained agent would never exhibit such hesitance. A trained agent would move with efficiency, and a trained agent would not make the mistake of lighting the lamp. He’d bet a monkey that Miss Loren either had not been involved in covert activity for long, or more likely, she was a common thief.

Either way, she’d be no match for him.

She leaned over the cabinet where he stowed his plans for improvements on the village. Nothing incriminating there. Since her back was to him, he leaned a bit further into the room, scanning for further signs of upset. She’d moved the books on the low table. That was no issue either.

He held back a sigh of relief, for she bypassed the bookshelves on the back wall. If she’d pulled out a certain book on the wall and then pressed the far right volume on the third shelf, the back panel would be activated and the entire shelf would recede, revealing the secret room where he kept the records for the Clocktower.

Instead, she stepped to the right. As he watched, she tugged his ledger from the bottom drawer. His eyes narrowed as she flipped through the pages, finally getting to his financial records. All this searching, yet she hadn’t removed a single thing from his office. Her being a thief was becoming more and more unlikely.

As she turned, he was forced to retreat from the doorway back to the shadows of the potted plant. He dare not risk being seen through the crack in the door when she faced him. Though he couldn’t ascertain exactly where she was, the creak of wood moving against wood told him she’d found the window seat. In a minute, she’d closed it again.

She hadn’t found what she was looking for.

He heard her approach, then stop. From the length of her strides, he guessed she’d paused in front of his desk. He remained in the shadows, not daring to emerge, for her position would bring her directly in front of him. A loud squeak broke the relative quiet. She’d opened the top drawer of his desk, and she wouldn’t find anything there but writing supplies. For a few minutes, the room echoed with opening and shutting drawers, shuffling paper, and finally a muffled curse.

That sealed it—she was no thief. A thief would have seized the gold paperweight on his desk; the ancient Chinese vase on the low table, worth more than four times her annual salary; or the small red chalk study known as the “Three Graces” by the Italian painter Raphael, framed above the filing cabinets. The gilded gold frame alone was worth a mint, even if she did not recognize the value of the sketch.

Not to mention the fact that she was a bloody bad sneak. In all his years with Clocktower, he’d never seen anyone conduct such an inefficient, noisy search. Her strengths laid clearly in handling his rambunctious brother, not in stealth. So why in the devil was she searching his library? Had someone sent her here? Wickham had checked her background, but something must have been missed.

None of this made a damn bit of sense.

All he knew was that she’d betrayed his trust. If she didn’t have a damn good explanation, he’d make sure she paid for that mistake.

A shaky light appeared at the end of the winding hall, coming toward him. His fingers tightened against the handle of the knife. The beat of his heart quickened as his other senses sharpened, readying for attack.

But as the figure advanced, he discerned the hazy features of Mrs. Engle, his housekeeper. She held a candle in her hand, accounting for the moving flicker. His heartbeat returned to a steady rhythm. Though he did not fear Mrs. Engle, he tucked further between the wall and plant, taking refuge in the darkness. He couldn’t chance that the housekeeper would acknowledge him, thus alerting Miss Loren to his presence.

The housekeeper headed toward the stairs. When the door clicked shut, Miss Loren sighed in what he imagined to be relief. To her knowledge, no one had seen her. James held his breath as she came out from the library, willing her to pass by without noticing him.

As Miss Loren strode in the opposite direction, James inched after her. When the hall forked off, she took the right turn, heading toward the nursery. Her room was located beside the nursery, so that she could tend to her charge at all hours, if need be. Stopping at the entrance, she glanced over her shoulder. He ducked behind another potted plant. Never again would he question Elinor’s purchases of more plants.

She went inside the room, shutting the door behind her. Yet it did not close all the way, as Abermont House had heavy oak doors, and hence an extra tug was needed to seal the lock. James nudged the door with the tip of his boot, enlarging the gap enough so that he could watch her.

The oil lamp sputtered to life as she lit the wick, casting a shadow away from the candle’s flame. She faced him as she sat down on the bed, sliding off her slippers and lining them up neatly at the foot of the bed. In the lamplight, her hair looked even more golden than normal, reminding him of the softest satin. God, how could he still want to run his fingers through her hair when he didn’t know if she was an enemy or not? His body refused to listen to reason, ruled instead by primal urges.

She stood, facing him. For a second, he wondered if she could see him. But her nimble fingers plucked at her fichu, untucking the cloth from the neckline of her gown. His mouth went dry at the revealed expanse of porcelain flesh, the swell of her breasts. His cock hardened as she tilted her head back, rubbing her hand in a circular motion against her neck.

Bollocks.

If only he’d known how traitorous she could be when she’d offered to bandage his wound. Demanded to bandage his wound was more like it. He would have told her just what he did to people who betrayed him...or so he wanted to think. Because even now, watching as she strode to her jewelry box, a small voice in his voice sounded. Claimed this was not who she really was, that she’d been forced to spy on him. The woman who had listened to him talk about Louisa without pity could not be an enemy agent.

Please, Lord, not her.

He couldn’t explain how in such a short time this woman had come to mean so much to him. It lacked logic, and it certainly was dangerous. He couldn’t afford to be distracted by what he thought he knew of her.

She pulled open her jewelry box, dropping in her earrings. His eyes zeroed in on that jewelry box—there was a piece of parchment inside the bottom drawer. A letter, from how it was folded. Had there been more papers in that drawer? He’d have to investigate it further.

Closing her jewelry box, Miss Loren proceeded to the wardrobe in the far corner of the room. He could not track her movements in his small window of light, but he marked the swish and sway of fabric. She emerged from the wardrobe, and made her way to the bed, pushing the sheets down. Selecting a book from the bedside table, she crawled into bed.

He wouldn’t risk trying to find answers tonight. He’d wait until tomorrow when she was in the schoolroom and complete a thorough sweep of her room, starting with that note. He’d planned on staying in Kent for a few days, as the Clocktower was headquartered in London, but he’d write Deacon in the morning that he was extending his stay.

Miss Loren might have secrets, but she was about to find out that in a house of spies nothing remained unknown for long.

* * *

The following morning, James reviewed the notes he’d received from the housekeeper on Miss Loren’s schedule. Mrs. Engle was one of the few servants who knew the family’s secret—she’d grown up in service at Abermont House, as her mother had been their cook until her death. James had not given Mrs. Engle a reason for his enquiry, and the housekeeper had not asked.

James appreciated that about her. Mrs. Engle understood the importance of “need to know” far more than his sisters ever had.

He reviewed the note one last time as he stood in the hall outside of the nursery. From down the hall, he heard the clock chime eight times. Miss Loren awoke with the sun. At six, she would prepare herself for the day ahead. From the hours of seven to eight in the morning, she breakfasted with Thomas in the nursery. From eight until teatime, she was in the schoolroom with him as well. Then she’d go on a walk with Thomas, and eat dinner with him.

Outside of Thomas, he doubted Miss Loren had regular communication with anyone. Mrs. Engle had informed him the servants did not like her, for they considered her too highbred to be one of them.

What a lonely existence. Here in Kent, she had no family, no friends, no one who would understand her grief.

He understood her pain. Too well.

He scowled down at the paper. Damnation, he would not feel sympathy for Miss Loren, not until he knew exactly why she’d poked through his library the night prior. The knife sheathed at his side, and the other secured in his boot, reminded him that he needed to treat this like any other mission.

She was a suspect. A possible traitor.

James passed the nursery, stopping at the next door to the right. Miss Loren’s room. He glanced up and down the hall—no one was coming. He pushed the door open and entered, shutting it quietly behind him. Though Miss Loren was not due back for hours, he did not want to risk that someone else would see him and ask questions. For now, he kept his suspicions to himself. He pretended that his reticence was simply because he wanted to have all the facts before he presented the case to Wickham.

He knew better.

He stood back, his gaze darting from one corner of the room to the next. The furniture was sparse. A bed, a desk and chair, a wardrobe, and a bedside table. Abermont House’s various servant quarters were considered spacious in comparison to other estates, but even with that Miss Loren’s room was the size of his dressing room. One hell of a change from the viscountcy where she’d grown up.

His vision focused in on the jewelry box she’d opened last night and he stalked toward it. The lid stuck when he tried to open it; upon further investigation, a small brass lock clasped the two fasteners together. He took a seat in the chair, propping his foot up on his opposite knee. His top boots had been specially designed by the weapons expert at the Clocktower. A small repository was in the sole of each shoe, just wide enough for a pick and a tension wrench. He selected both, closed the receptacle, and stood.

Surveying the lock, he let out a derisive snort. The most inept of child thieves could pick this. If Miss Loren thought this tiny trinket would keep him out of that box, she was even more inexperienced than he’d thought. He selected the thin tension wrench, sliding it into the bottom of the lock and applying pressure. He heard the click as the lock opened. Gathering up his tools, he slid the case back in his pocket and removed the lock from the box.

“Let’s see what you have hidden.” He popped up the lid.

Four broaches, two necklaces, and three pairs of earrings lined the upper tray. All were clearly paste. The lock had not been to protect their monetary value. He’d encountered enough seemingly innocuous objects to know not to immediately discount them. He picked up each one, checking for secret caches in the metalwork, or defining marks that did not fit with the rest of the piece. Nothing. These pieces might have held sentimental worth to her, but that was all.

He removed the top tray and set it on the desk. The bottom cavity was not deep. A pink silk scarf folded twice covered the area, and to the casual onlooker, there appeared to be nothing else in the box. But he’d seen her place foolscap here.

“She thinks she’s clever, doesn’t she?” He addressed the box as he lifted up the scarf and deposited it on the desk. A handful of folded up parchment scraps littered the space. “But she’s not clever enough.”

Miss Loren must have affected his senses, if he was talking to a damn box as if it could deliver a response. He ran his hand through hair, frowning down at the notes. A part of him thrilled at doing something active again—though this was a far cry from the usual danger and exotic places of his old field missions—yet he could not crush the dread that welled up with him.

“Enough dillydallying,” he muttered. Too much time in the office had made him soft, if the betrayal of one meager governess unhinged him.

Drawing out the chair behind the desk, he settled onto it, careful to keep his weight evenly distributed so that the wood wouldn’t groan. He flipped over the first letter, glancing at the postmark. Written to her back when she’d lived in London, almost a year after her brother’s death. Though he was not as good at analyzing handwriting as Elinor, he knew enough to garner a few observations. The large, spidery script ran together, as if the writer both craved attention and crowded those around him. The letters were also sharply pointed, indicating the writer was aggressive and intelligent.

Great. Just what he needed.

He unfolded the letter, reading the message.

If you ever want to learn why your brother died, you will apply to be the Spencer family’s governess. When you are accepted, expect to hear from me again.

-Sauveterre

Whoever sent Vivian Loren to his door had done so by offering her with information about her brother’s murder. For a minute, he forgot to focus on the mission. Whatever she’d done, the pain in her eyes over her brother’s death had been real.

He clenched his fingers together in a fist, vise-gripping the note as memories besieged him. Nicodème had laughed when James encountered him. He’d gloated over Louisa’s torture, up until the moment James dragged the knife across his throat, effectively silencing him for good.

When he found Sauveterre—and he would find him—he’d rip him apart, limb by limb. Not just for daring to threaten James, but for hurting Miss Loren.

He remembered how hollow her voice had sounded when she’d asked him if he’d sought vengeance for Louisa’s death. She lived with this hole every day in her life, not just the guilt of having survived when he did not, but the inability to make it right. While Nicodème could never hurt anyone again, her brother’s killer was still out there, possibly preying on innocent lives. And instead of coming forward as a good Samaritan would have, this foul creature had preyed upon her grief.

That bastard. That violent, deceitful, immoral bastard. Fury boiled up inside him, threatening to take hold. He told himself his anger was purely intellectual. This was the lowest form of cruelty, using the demise of a loved one to get information. There were certain cards one simply didn’t play when controlling an asset.

He placed the note on the desk. Reminded himself that information was power, and the more he knew, the better prepared he’d be. He started with the signature. Sauveterre. He didn’t recognize the name—though that didn’t necessarily mean anything, for in his line of work people had many names.

He pressed his lips together, considering. Given that the sender had purposefully instructed Miss Loren to instill herself at Abermont House, the most likely scenario was that the sender was an enemy agent. Perhaps one of Bonaparte’s Talons—Nicodème had been one of the First Consul’s favorites. James had expected Bonaparte would seek revenge—he just hadn’t been prepared for it to come in the form of a pretty governess who was far too memorable for her own good.

Reaching upwards, he pinched the bridge of his nose. Her lack of experience could now be explained. He doubted she’d ever worked a spy before this. Why had Sauveterre chosen this woman? How had he known about her brother’s death—was it through personal involvement in the murder, or through a third party?

He flipped to the second note, which congratulated her on her successful hire and requested a list of people in the house and their usual schedules. Standard, easily obtainable information, most likely meant to test her skills. Sauveterre would likely match her responses against what intelligence he’d already received, gaging her willingness to tell him the truth. It was what James would have done.

The next few were more detailed. Inquiries on what she’d sent him. The handwriting became larger, the formation of the letters more erratic. Sauveterre’s tone became more brusque. He pushed her to dig further. To bring him something valuable.

James pulled in a deep breath. At least that was comforting. Whatever Miss Loren had sent him, Sauveterre wasn’t pleased. This meant that the threat might be more easily minimized—if this mysterious benefactor didn’t have concrete proof of James’s covert activities, he’d be easier to contain.

And if there was one thing James was good at, it was eliminating threats.

Unfolding another note, he spread it out on the desk beside the rest. In the final missive, he could almost feel Sauveterre’s frustration ebbing off the page. There was another demand for more information, and then this line:

I think you’ve become too comfortable in your position there. Don’t forget that easily as you obtained that job, I can take it away. Find me something useful.

James’s brows furrowed. Elinor had hired Miss Loren because of her education and social class. Had her past been forged as part of Sauveterre’s plan? He discounted that idea. Wickham had performed a stringent background investigation, which involved talking to many of her relatives and acquaintances. But he still had many questions about her that needed answers. What exactly had she told Sauveterre? What exactly did Sauveterre suspect him of? The fact that he’d sent Vivian Loren in, instead of attempting a frontal assault on Abermont House, was intriguing.

Abermont House was well fortified, with seven guards who patrolled the grounds at all times. Any unusual activity was immediately reported back to him, or in his absence, Elinor. Had Sauveterre attempted entry into the home himself, and been refused? James skimmed over the staff in the last year. No one else new—there was little turn over at the estate, for he made damn sure that their salaries were well above average. Well-paid servants were loyal servants.

The only position they’d had available in the last four years was governess, and that was only because Mrs. Garring’s mother had taken ill. Damnation, if he were going to instill an operative in the staff, he would have chosen the governess too.

He gathered up all the notes, and placed them back in Miss Loren’s jewelry box, rearranging everything exactly as she’d had it. Slipping the lock back on, he closed the box. A quick search of the rest of her room revealed nothing more.

Slipping his hand down, James checked the knife at his side, then the one strapped in his boot. He had no intent of using either on Miss Loren—unless absolutely necessary—yet their presence made him feel prepared for whatever was ahead. He wouldn’t wait for Miss Loren to finish her school day. He’d confront her now.