In the space of five minutes, Vivian Loren had transformed from a traitorous enemy to the asset he needed to keep safe.

During, his time in the field, he’d learned to judge when a person was lying. Her voice did not lower; she did not slant her head to the side before responding; she did not stare at him without blinking. Miss Loren was as real, as broken as Louisa had been that day when she’d begged him to send her after Nicodème. He’s hurting innocent women by forcing them into prostitution, she’d pleaded. We have to stop him.

He’d thought that since he’d grown up with four sisters, and worked countless missions where he was required to turn women against their own traitorous husbands, that he was prepared for crying women.

He’d thought wrong.

As tears splashed down Miss Loren’s face, his grip on impartiality did not just loosen. It released completely. Her frail body trembled so badly. He couldn’t help it—he’d thrown his arm around her before sense took hold. Before he knew what was happening, he was promising her he’d keep her safe. He’d left a trail of bodies in his wake. Justified countless morally deficient decisions with his duty to the nation.

And once the words were said, he couldn’t take them back. That vow became like a brand upon his soul. He had not saved Louisa, but by God, he would save Miss Loren.

All thoughts of turning her into Wickham fled his mind. The spymaster would interrogate her for hours upon end, and even after he’d discovered that she knew relatively nothing about Sauveterre or their true occupations, she’d still be kept in gaol on the very slight chance she might present more of a threat down the line.

Under his watch, no one would ever hurt her again.

He tugged her closer to him, snug against his body. They did not speak; no words were needed now. She leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder. He wanted to tunnel his fingers through her flaxen hair, see if it was as silky as it appeared.

He ought to release her. Yet he slid his hand down her arm, relishing the satin of her bare skin. Her walking dress had cap sleeves, leaving a tiny space between her elbow-length gloves and the edge of her sleeve.

Already, the stirrings of arousal slid through him, hardening his cock. Never had the touch of a woman undone him so, yet the mere act of holding her to his chest affected him more than the nakedness of any of the women he’d seduced for the Crown. She was too warm, too soft in his arms. And oh God, she smelled delicious. Roses, sweet but with an under-layer of spice. He breathed in deeply, thinking the scent of her soap most apt—that hint of something more beneath the surface, a minx disguised in the prim trappings of a spinster.

She was far too tempting. She made him forget who he was. Who he’d been. He did not deserve to forget.

He pulled back from her, settling back on his side of the bench. The distance did not make him less aware of her presence. Her eyes, reddened from crying, focused on him as if he’d provide her with all the answers to her questions. As if he was the only one who could solve her problems.

He handed her his handkerchief, and she took it gratefully, dabbing at her running nose.

“Tell me everything you told Sauveterre.” He’d be calm, rational. The Clocktower had faced worse before than this threat to his cover. Once he had all the details, he could manage the situation.

“He asked about your schedules,” she said. “He wanted to know your hobbies, and that of your sisters. Any gossip or strange occurrences around the house. So I would listen outside the door, and tell him what I heard.”

Though he was careful to exhibit no outward signs of panic, his stomach dived. He thought they’d been fastidious about where they conducted their business, but he’d spent most of the last year in London—he couldn’t be sure what happened at the estate when he was not home.

“What did you hear?”

She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes. Leaning back against the bench, she began to recite monotonously from memory. “Lady Korianna abhors a man named Simon Travers, but Lady Elinor thinks he’s a smart man and Korianna would do best to forget about her feud. Miss Spencer did not want to go to the ball Lord Haley has to commemorate the end of winter, until Mr. Drake told her that he’d be sure to save a dance for her. You think that Mr. Drake is far too rakish, and should exercise more care when it comes to the ladies. Lord Haley agreed with you, but he thinks that’s simply because Mr. Drake is twenty-two and has not learned the finer points of...”

On and on the list went, for a total of fifteen minutes. He tracked her movements as she spoke, and found no signs that she was telling anything other than the truth. While she’d overheard enough on-dits to keep the ton stewing for months, nothing she revealed was covert. The most “secret” thing she’d uncovered was the state of his investments.

But her memory was damnably good. He could use that in the future.

Miss Loren opened her eyes. “And that’s it. Everything I told him. When Sauveterre used to write to me, he’d post his letters as Aline Stuart. I told the postmaster Mrs. Stuart was my aunt.”

He nodded. “Your recall is impressive. So much so that I think even Lady Elinor would admire your skills.”

She looked pleased at that. “Lady Elinor’s memory is frightfully acute.”

“Oh, my dear, you have no idea.” He smiled wryly. “But what I don’t understand is why Sauveterre sent you here. What does he want from me?”

“He is convinced you are financing a revolution in France. No matter how many times I told him his theory didn’t have any evidence to support it, he kept insisting.” Miss Loren’s brows furrowed. “You aren’t, right?”

James smothered a smile. “No, absolutely not. If I were ever to get involved in revolution, I’d prefer to be actively involved, not just the moneybags.”

Technically, that was true. The Clocktower had its own budget, funded through the Alien Office. And his years in the field had certainly been active, to say the least.

She let out a sigh of relief, shifting on the bench to face him. “I thought so. You don’t even take your seat in the House of Lords. What interest would you have in the politics of France? It doesn’t apply to you.”

He nodded, though he hated to agree with that description of him. He sounded so shallow—if only she knew that he didn’t take his seat because there simply was no time. He was committed to serving in England in a much more direct way.

She’d already moved on. “How can you want to protect me, after all of this?”

A pithy lie about duty and the obligations of honorable men was on the tip of his tongue, ready to be used. But with her, it didn’t feel right to outright lie. When was the last time he’d felt something genuine? Pleasure or pain that didn’t contain artifice? He couldn’t remember.

And in that moment, sitting on this bench with her, he wanted one thing that was real.

“I want to protect you because I believe in you.” More truth than he’d meant to reveal, but for one moment, he didn’t want to hide. She was smart and vivacious, and he found that bloody attractive.

“Oh.” A flush spread over her high cheekbones. “Well, thank you.”

She reached for him, curling her fingers around the back of his hand. He made the mistake of looking down, and all he could think of was how her hand would look wrapped around far more erotic parts of his anatomy.

Christ. Releasing her hand, he gulped down his rising desire and tried to pretend he wasn’t aroused at all by her. That she was an asset, and nothing more.

“It won’t be easy,” he warned her, his voice coming out gruffer than he’d wanted. “The man who killed your brother clearly won’t hesitate to use extreme measures to get what he wants. If I’m going to keep you safe, you’ll need to follow my instructions. No questions asked.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I want to know what’s going on. It’s my fate we’re discussing. And I won’t stop until I personally have Evan’s killer brought to rights.”

He recognized the flash of fire in her eyes, for he’d seen it in every one of his sisters when they’d argued with him over mission objectives. Lord save him from stubborn women. His job of protecting them would be so much easier if they simply listened to him.

He opened his mouth to tell her he knew the best way to handle this, but then she set her jaw. Head held high, sapphire eyes shining, Miss Loren definitely wasn’t a shrinking wallflower. And she was already involved in this.

Right now, she thought the problem was limited to simply her brother’s murder. Keeping her out of the loop might actually endanger her more—he had a sinking feeling she’d burst into the middle of a meticulously planned mission and blow all their covers if she wasn’t aware of the stakes. She’d need training. Lots of training, if her sneaking in his library was any indication. Yet she had a quick mind, and she refused to drop a matter until she’d ferreted out the answers she wanted. He’d refine those skills. Harness her raw energy into something with purpose and direction.

Given Sauveterre’s knowledge of her existence, he couldn’t risk that whomever the man worked for would try to recruit Vivian too. Nor did he want Wickham to get his hands on Vivian. She deserved more than years of missions that would corrupt her soul. If he took her under his wing, he could watch her, make sure she wasn’t harmed. Assign her to missions that wouldn’t put her in great danger.

“If I keep you informed, you must do the same for me,” he said. “If Sauveterre contacts you again, I need to know. Every detail counts. If there’s anything you’re leaving out...”

She nodded. “I’ve told you everything I know.”

“Meet me in my office tomorrow night after dinner. We can discuss where to go from here.” He stood up from the bench, extending his hand to help her up too.

She took his extended hand, but she held on after she stood. “Partners?”

He shook her hand. “Partners.”

Whether she knew it or not, Vivian Loren had become the Clocktower’s newest agent.

* * *

Early the next morning, James sat at the small Cuban mahogany desk in the secret room attached to his library. He had always hated this desk. It was overly ornate with gilt mounts and tapered, fluted legs. He drummed his fingers on the black marbled top of the desk, pounding out the same beat his father had always hummed. But that didn’t help his concentration, and neither did sitting behind this damnably French desk. He tugged on the gold-enameled circular handle and wished for answers.

It was in times like these, when he had a difficult decision to make, that he missed his father the most. The Lion made choices swiftly, and it was the right course of action. Always. Though James inherited his father’s name, title, and responsibilities, he had not gained his infallibility; nor his ability to remain impartial, even when the ramifications would affect their own family.

He’d allowed his emotions to cloud his logic the day he’d sent Louisa out on that fatal mission. Now he had Miss Loren depending on him—what if he made the wrong decision? When it came to assigning missions to the seasoned agents of the Clocktower, he tried to remember that they knew the consequences of their covert work. They’d made an informed choice about their fate.

Vivian Loren hadn’t made that choice. She’d been used by a brutal killer to get to him. Her actions had been the by-product of her grief, not a deliberate desire to enter the world of espionage. Hell, after six months, she still believed that Sauveterre had the wrong idea about him.

He pushed the chair back from the mahogany desk and stood. No amount of old relics from successful missions would help him channel the Lion’s wisdom. After he’d left the conservatory yesterday, he’d immediately informed the guards that patrols around the estate needed to be increased. Then he’d spent all evening in this little room, for here he thought the best.

James turned on his heel, facing the wall of cabinets holding data on the Clocktower agents. The files were a small percentage of information compared to that kept in the organization’s headquarters in London, yet Elinor had lovingly cataloged each record as though this were the lost library of Alexandria. James paused in front of the drawer labeled L-M, pulling out Miss Loren’s file. He already knew the contents, yet the act of browsing through the paper always soothed him. As he set the file down on his desk, the panel clicked and the wall receded. James’s hand slid down reflexively to his knife, but he didn’t need to draw out the blade.

Richard took the seat he’d vacated behind the Lion’s desk. “Hundreds of missions and this place still makes me feel like I’m in the Mysteries of Udolpho. I like that. No matter what Ellie says, I’ll always have a soft spot for disguises and secret identities.”

“For the sake of everyone in the Clocktower and most importantly, my sanity, I beg you not to bring back Malcolm Mustachio,” he said, remembering Richard’s favorite costume from when they were children.

Richard placed his hand over his heart, feigning a wound. “You said you loved that mustache. You asked me to borrow it!”

James chuckled. “I was eight. Cooler heads have prevailed.”

Richard muttered something that sounded vaguely like “grumpy old badger.” It was their usual routine—Richard would tease his solemnity, and James would claim Richard needed to take life more seriously.

Their friendship had stretched from childhood to their schooling at Eton and now, as agents of the Clocktower, they relied on each other to stay alive.

That thought sobered James. He and his siblings had grown up so entrenched in spycraft that he’d never known anything different. Not until he left home did he realize how strange their upbringing truly was. This life had already taken so much from the people he loved.

But if he didn’t bring Miss Loren into the fold, she wouldn’t be prepared for the danger ahead. How could he keep her safe? Not just from this threat, but also from any other peril she might face? He couldn’t explain why he felt so protective of her—how she’d dug so deep under his skin.

Richard took a seat at the desk, crossing one leg over the other. “Why’d you call me here, Jim?”

James passed the folder to him and leaned against his own writing table. Solid oak, square-legged, and sturdy. Now that was how a desk should be.

Richard’s brows shot up as he flipped through the file. “Your governess? Hardly a cause for such secrecy, unless...” He paused, grinning wolfishly. “Did you bed the governess? I’ve noticed her too, you know. Quite a beauty. Wish she wouldn’t hide underneath those out-of-fashion garments. If she wasn’t in your staff, hell, I’d tup her.”

“Must you be so bloody crass?” James clenched his fists at his sides. He’d never minded his friend’s sordid comments before, as long as Richard didn’t attempt to flirt with his sisters. But now, when the subject was Miss Loren, his blood boiled.

A sly smile slid onto Richard’s lips. “From your growls, I’m guessing you have a personal interest in Miss Loren, but I still don’t know why you called me here.”

He handed the notes to Richard and explained what Miss Loren had told him about her brother’s death and Sauveterre’s reason for sending her to Abermont House. When Richard finished reading, concern washed over his normally jovial features. “So this man thinks you’re financing a revolution. That’s a damnably fancy way of saying he suspects you’re a spy. Well, this certainly complicates things.”

James snorted. “Understatement of the year, mate.”

Richard gave him back the letters. “But when are our lives not complicated? You’d think by now we’d be used to it.”

“There are many things I will never get used to.” He did not need to specify, for Richard could tell the dark turn his thoughts had taken. Though his friend had not been on the mission that claimed Louisa’s life, he’d tracked the Talons before.

Richard sighed. “I’m not going to tell you it wasn’t your fault, because you wouldn’t listen to me anyhow. Just know that I would have made the same call. She was a damn good spy, Jim, and she died doing her duty to the country.”

He frowned. There was that word again: duty. From the time he’d been old enough to form coherent sentences, the Lion had drilled into him that it was his duty to serve the nation. It was never up for debate. Spencers fought for the Crown. Death, destruction, and diabolical plots were all perpetuated under the name of the empire.

Before Louisa’s death, he’d never questioned their missions. He’d accepted, without any further thought, that what they did was for the good of the people. The needs of many outweighed the life of one. As they faced their hardest fight ever against Bonaparte and his assassins, James still did not doubt their cause. Bonaparte was an egotistical blackguard who wanted to remake the world in his own image. He needed to be stopped. Now that James was no longer in the field, Korianna and Arden were the best agents the Clocktower had.

But that did not mean that he had to like it. Every time his sisters were on a mission, his stomach twisted. He did not sleep until they came home. Hell, he did not sleep in general, usually.

And now he contemplated dragging Vivian Loren further into this muddle.

He pushed back his chair and stood. He needed to move, to be active, to feel the ground shift beneath his feet and know that he was in control. His Hessians pounded the carpet, back and forth, back and forth. He felt like he hadn’t stopped moving since the day he’d taken over the Clocktower.

Richard watched him pace, his hazel eyes following James’s every step. “You want to bring her in.”

James was again reminded why he and Richard had been so successful in their missions together: they understood each other, even without talking. He made another circle of the room before responding. “I fear what she’ll do if she doesn’t have all the information. She wants revenge on Sauveterre for killing her brother. If we don’t train her, she’ll get herself killed. But if we do take her in, we’ll not only protect her, but hopefully catch Sauveterre before he gets definite evidence against me.”

Richard shook his head. “Of course you’d manage to employ the lone governess who’s out for blood. It never ceases to amaze me how stubborn women just flock to you. Do you remember the Countess of Marcondeux?”

He blanched. “All too well.” The Countess had requested he visit her bedside—while her husband was right next to her. Needless to say, he hadn’t taken her up on that, ahem, generous offer.

Richard laughed. “I found her delightfully bawdy.”

James grimaced. “I prize loyalty far more highly than nice bosoms.”

“Your loss.” Richard shrugged. “You think Miss Loren can be trusted with our secret? After lying to you for six months?”

He remembered the tears raining down her face, the agony of her cries. It would take the theater district’s finest to fake that much emotion. Besides, she’d fought for a year and a half for answers to her brother’s murder. Long after most of people would have given into despondency and accepted the Runners’ party line. He admired her diligence. A woman that dedicated to her brother’s memory was a woman he wanted on his team, for hopefully he’d earn that same loyalty from her too.

“She lied to get answers on her brother. I do not classify that on the same level as a selfish lie told to gain fame or fortune.” Pulling out the red-cushioned chair next to Richard, James sat down in it, finally content to stop moving about the room. “Besides, the nature of what we do is deception. We all play parts to obtain information. I have lost count of the number of aliases I’ve had over the years.”

Richard grinned impishly. “That’s because yours aren’t as memorable as Malcolm Mustachio.” Before James could retort, Richard continued, “Yes, I know. Spies aren’t supposed to be memorable. We’re supposed to fade into the background, so no one ever remembers we’ve been there in the first place. I swear, if it weren’t for the Beau Monde, I’d begin to think no one remembered me at all. I’m counting the days until the Season starts.”

Therein lay the difference between the two men. While Richard thrived on attention, James was content to remain in the shadows.

James let out a groan. “The bloody Season. For a moment, I almost forgot Elinor’s dreadful plan.”

Richard waggled a brow at him. “Which of my suggestions was the most promising? You’re thinking of Lady Penelope Smythe, aren’t you? It’s her arse. Worthy of smacking, I tell you.”

James scowled. Lady Penelope could go rot. “Considering that last year at the Travers’ ball I caught Lady Penelope giving the cut direct to Arden, I’d sooner marry the Countess of Marcondeux.” Nobody insulted Arden and maintained his favor. Several cavalier members of the ton who’d decided to treat Arden as lesser because she was the old duke’s ward and hence not a true blue-blood aristocrat had found this out the hard way, for they no longer received invitations to any Spencer family routs.

“Ouch.” Richard winced. “Fantastic arse or not, that strikes Lady Penelope off my list too.”

That made James smile. “I appreciate your support.”

“Arden’s like a sister, you know that. I’d do anything for her.” Richard cuffed James’s arm. “What about Lady Melisandre Andrews then? A wallflower like her surely won’t go about insulting your family, no matter how wonderfully unconventional they are.”

“Lady Melisandre would last two minutes in this house. The first time Korianna starts experimenting with black powder again, she’ll be running for the hills.” And that wasn’t even mentioning Korianna’s habit of “pruning” the potted plants as target practice for her pistol, despite Elinor’s protests.

“Fair enough,” Richard agreed. He leaned back in the chair, clasping his hands behind his head, elbows out. “I believe we’d arrive at an easier conclusion if you told me who you think is worth considering.”

James let out a frustrated sigh. “How am I supposed to protect Miss Loren, catch Sauveterre, and find a suitable bride by the beginning of the Season? There’s simply no time.”

Unless...

This was either the best idea he’d ever had, or the maddest.

“What if I marry Miss Loren?”

Richard startled, losing his balance. The chair slammed against the desk, almost toppling him off of it. He barely managed to right himself. “This is the same Miss Loren we’ve been discussing, yes? You did not just magically produce one of her relatives out of thin air, did you? Because otherwise there’s no way under the sun that Ellie’s going to go for this.”

“She’ll be my wife. Elinor’s opinion is inconsequential.” He pursed his lips together, pausing for a moment to think. Before he’d known of the threat to Miss Loren’s life, he’d dismissed her as unsuitable—even though being around her had been the best few days he’d experienced since Louisa’s death. It had seemed selfish before to ask his family to undergo social scrutiny simply because he wanted to continue spending time with her.

But now she was in danger, and she depended on him to protect her. It didn’t matter what the ton thought when compared with saving a woman’s life.

“I need a way to keep watch on her, even when I’m forced to attend these God-awful parties,” James said. “My marrying her ensures she’ll be protected. Wickham won’t touch her when she’s my wife, and the Runners will afford her the same privileges of a peer. Even this Sauveterre, whoever he is, must know that the consequences of killing a duchess will be so much worse than a mere governess.”

“Ah yes, the whole ‘marriage to get a better day in court’ defense,” Richard quipped. “You’ll make your ancestors so proud with that one. Most people marry for money or a better position in society, but not you, Jim. You’ll marry only to protect a chit’s life.”

Richard was having far too much fun at his expense.

“Is this a ludicrous idea?”

Richard shrugged. “Unexpected, yes. Ludicrous, not entirely. You’re the bloody Duke of Abermont. I’d imagine you could marry a guttersnipe and eventually even the gossip-mongers would accept it.”

“It’s the eventually that concerns me.” He didn’t want to take Miss Loren from one fire and drop her into a conflagration. In Society, the time passed like sand in a broken hourglass; every minute an eternity. “But God, how I dread more months of balls. I’d avoid the whole bloody Season if I could.”

For decades, the Clocktower had used the shroud of high society events. Vauxhall had plenty of secluded avenues perfect for hand-offs, while a night at Covent Garden provided sufficient distraction for him to slip away to the cloakroom and meet with an informant.

Richard snorted. “Your invitations will decrease if you marry your governess, so you might actually escape that torture.”

“A definite point in Miss Loren’s favor,” James mused. The large number of parties he’d be expected to attend would diminish if he were no longer considered eligible marriage material. “You know, while I don’t agree with Elinor’s original principles for choosing my future wife, I do have to admit her logic is sound. I could maintain my cover and devote more time to the Clocktower.”

Richard smirked. “I suspect your future wife will want you to spend time with her.”

“Yes, of course,” James muttered, trying to play it off as though he’d thought this notion through, instead of concocting it in the wee hours of the morning.

Eying him suspiciously, Richard pulled his chair closer to him. “Please tell me you didn’t conceive this idea as a tactical strategy, without any thought to the woman you’d actually be pledging your troth too.”

“I’ve thought about her.” He’d thought about Miss Loren a little too much. He ached to run his fingers down her tantalizingly soft skin, kiss her luscious lips.

“If you’re willing to take the societal risk, and you trust her, then I say to do it.” Richard stood up, going to the tiny peephole in the wall and looking out. He turned back around to face James again. “Look, Jim, I believe in your judgment, even when you don’t. I’ve never met a more skilled interrogator than you because you understand people. Their thoughts, their motivations, their actions. If you think Miss Loren is worth your time, then I will defend her to the death.”

James clenched his teeth. This family had already seen too much bloodshed. “Let’s hope that won’t be necessary.”

“One thing, though.” Richard held up his hand. “Can I be there when you tell Ellie?”

“Absolutely, bloody, not,” James groaned. “I’m going to have my hands full already. The last thing I need is you needling her.”

“I don’t needle,” Richard objected. “I banter. There’s a difference.”

James narrowed his eyes. “The answer’s still no.”

Richard let out a loud sigh. “You’re a killjoy, my friend. But congratulations, nonetheless.” He skirted out of the room before James could tell him nothing was certain yet.

As James reentered the library, he prayed that Miss Loren was as loyal as he believed. Otherwise, the Clocktower’s very foundations might crumble before his feet.