West woke up in sweat-soaked sheets, his arms thrashing, lungs working like a bellows.

Damn it all, the nightmares were back.

He’d begun to imagine he’d outrun them. In the months after his return from Crimea, they’d come close to consuming him. Their determination to creep into his nocturnal thoughts was part of the reason he preferred late nights in strangers’ beds. A dreamless sleep was a hard-fought luxury in his world, most commonly achieved with a potent combination of strong spirits and the distraction of sweet, feminine flesh.

But in the past few days, those nightmares had returned with a vengeance.

And strong spirits and sweet, feminine flesh had been sorely lacking in his world.

He scrubbed his forehead, slick with sweat. Miss Channing had been in this dream, which was a terrifying departure from the usual script. He ought to be relieved she’d refused his offer of marriage so neatly, releasing him from any obligation of propriety. Ought to be forgetting all about her, instead of dreaming about her at importune times.

And what cause had a mouse-like virgin to be gallivanting about his battle scenes? In this nightmare, she’d been in grave danger, held at the point of a traitor’s gun.

No doubt that was why he felt strung as tightly as a bow.

He was convinced now, more than ever, of his rightness in dismissing her earnest attempts to help track down the traitors. She might be a bookish miss with a few good ideas, but Miss Channing was also an innocent. He couldn’t apply his mind to the problem at hand if he was constantly worrying about her safety.

And if nothing else, this morning’s dream was a vivid enough reminder of why she shouldn’t be involved in this.

He forced his body to unclench, though he still felt the thump of readiness in his veins. Thoughts of danger and mousy virgins receded to their proper shadows, and he turned an ear to the house outside his door. Had he awakened the house with his shouts this time? He didn’t hear anyone stirring about—but then, when he’d come back from Crimea, he’d asked for a room on the little-used west wing of the house because he’d known his nightmares would cause worry if others heard him. If Wilson had any idea that he sometimes still slept poorly, or that his nocturnal demons had returned, the servant would probably launch into yet another ill-timed lecture.

The nightmares were almost preferable.

He dragged a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. Outside his window, the light was just warming. He well knew this time of day. Usually, he’d just be stumbling home from his evening’s exploits. It was too bloody early to be getting out of bed.

Perhaps that was the trouble here. Since the business with the assassination plot, he’d been . . . distracted. His parents had been nearly relieved when he’d told them Miss Channing had very sensibly refused his honorable offer, but he’d felt a lingering sense of unease.

Not because he wanted to marry her.

He didn’t.

But something about the notion that she didn’t want to marry him sat poorly in his gut.

He’d spent the past few days pursuing the leads on Miss Channing’s rather well-thought-out list. In spite of his claims to the contrary, he’d even made inquiries at Bedlam, not knowing what else to do. Unfortunately, the officials there had taken his inquiries about as seriously as the authorities at Scotland Yard, and he’d come to the conclusion that escape—and lucid plotting—were probably beyond the capabilities of anyone fortunate enough to survive a stay there.

So he’d returned to Scotland Yard, trying to argue his case again. This time, he’d come close to smashing the nose of the sniveling constable who—once again—refused to take his statement. Since that memorable failure, he’d been waiting for Sunday, restless and relentless. He’d come to the irrevocable conclusion he needed to find the traitors himself, if only so he could descend back into a welcome oblivion.

And while his quarry may have eluded him so far, he was determined to end it today.

Which was why ten o’clock that Sunday morning saw the birth of a proper miracle: West, up, properly dressed, and stepping through the doors of St. Paul’s Cathedral.

In a past life, he would have come here with his family on a Sunday just to ogle the gorgeous, swooping lines of the high, arched ceiling. But his taste for unique architecture had dulled since his return from Crimea, and today he pushed inside without looking up. God, how long had it been since he’d attended church? For one, these days he was rarely up early enough on Sunday mornings to drag his still-inebriated arse to a pew. And for another, he found it difficult to truly regret the various lust-fueled sins he was expected to repent.

He half-wished Wilson could see him now. Then again, he’d probably just earn a lecture from the old servant for having missed so many Sundays in the past.

The day was hot, and bound to get hotter. The crowd seemed lighter than usual, no doubt thanks to the smell rolling in through the open doors at the rear of the cathedral. The overheated Thames had blanketed the city with its stench for nigh on a week now and seemed to only be getting worse. Many families who usually stayed through the end of the Season had already packed their things and retreated to the cooler countryside. There was even talk of ending the current parliamentary session early, and it looked as though many of the pews were empty today.

West was glad to see it. Fewer dukes to sort out.

Those who had braved the stench were just settling into their seats. As he lurked near the center of the outer vestibule, studying those in attendance, he considered again whether the traitor he sought might be someone he knew. Though the voice he remembered from the library had seemed vaguely familiar, he couldn’t quite put his finger on where he’d heard it before.

And unfortunately, West knew an awful lot of dukes.

To his right, he could see the Duke of Rothesay, his bulk spreading across the bench. West discounted the man almost immediately: that night in the library, his view had been hampered by darkness, but he’d at least gotten a glimpse of the men’s profiles. Rothesay’s girth was too large to match either of the men from the library.

The Duke of Strathearn shuffled past, and West considered whether the stooped old man might be a viable candidate for treason. But the voice he’d overheard in the library, while delivered as a terse whisper, had struck him as belonging to someone younger.

Strathearn was seventy, if he was a day.

Unfortunately, discounting two dukes didn’t even scratch the surface of the possibilities. He stared out across the rows of benches, discarding some ideas, turning over others. He didn’t particularly like dukes, although he could allow there were a few out there that weren’t so dodgy. The thought of bringing at least one of them down a peg or two gave him a devilish sort of pleasure. He thought back to his experience at Harrow and the endless torture he and Grant had endured at the hands of Peter Wetford, the eldest son of the Duke of Southingham. The boy had used his superior standing as a formidable shield against retaliation. The one time West had even tried to physically defend himself, he’d found himself dragged before the headmaster, threatened with expulsion. It had been a lesson he’d long remembered.

One didn’t go about striking peers of a superior rank, no matter what they did to you.

Truly, the rats had been his only option for teaching the arrogant sod a lesson.

West was startled from those unwelcome memories by the sudden scent of lemons, nicely pushing out the eau de Thames. The realization of what that meant made his hands curl to fists.

He turned his head and caught Miss Channing’s slender profile marching by.

Bloody hell, it was the woman who’d refused to marry him. He stared at her as she passed by, his mouth open in surprise. Had she come to church because she’d changed her mind on that front? Perhaps she wished to accept his offer after all? For some bizarre reason, the idea didn’t seem to carry quite the same degree of dread today as it had only a few days ago.

And the sight of her felt like a punch to the gut.

She was wearing brown wool again, and she was walking beside the same stern-looking housekeeper who had served as a chaperone during their drawing room conversation. She did not glance toward him, or give any sign that she recognized him. In fact, they sailed right by him, as if he was beneath their notice. But then Miss Channing suddenly stopped. Reached into her reticule. Pulled out a handkerchief and clutched it to her nose.

“Oh, Mrs. Greaves,” he heard her gasp. “What is that terrible smell?”

“’Tis the Thames, miss.” The older woman frowned. “They’ve got the doors open on account of the heat. Is it bothering you too much to stay?”

“No, we can’t leave when we’ve come all this way. I . . . I think I’ll be all right.” Miss Channing waved the older woman on. “Do go claim our seat down at the front. I just need to stand here a moment and adjust before I sit down.”

“Are you sure?” the housekeeper asked dubiously.

“Yes, quickly now. Before someone takes our row.” But as soon as the older woman headed down the aisle and settled her bum onto a pew, Miss Channing rounded on him, her brown eyes close to sparkling. She grabbed him by the arm and dragged him behind a large marble column, until they were hidden from the view of her somewhat useless chaperone. “All right, Westmore, what is our plan?”

And that was when it hit him. He was not entirely beneath her notice.

She had plotted this. Come to church to vex him.

And while irritation twitched through him, so, too, did admiration. Worse, it occurred to him that in spite of the worry that spiked through him, he was not averse to seeing her again.

“Damn it, Miss Channing,” he growled. “What are you doing here?”

“I should think it would be obvious.” She shrugged. “I am attending church.”

“But why?”

Coy brown eyes met his own. “To pray for your depraved soul, of course.”

“It seems you could pray for me just as well from the safety of your home.”

“It is a public service here, is it not? I should think my attendance would be expected. Mandatory, even, considering the tatters of my reputation.” Her lips quirked upward. “I’ve amends to make with God.” She waited a beat, and then added, “Not to mention Mr. Dickens.”

West choked on the laugh that wanted to escape him. He’d imagined her many times this week, wondering if she was regretting her refusal of his offer of marriage. In spite of what ought to have been his sense of relief, he remained worried for her, what their scandal might mean to her future. He’d imagined her sad. Worried. But he hadn’t imagined her . . .

Smiling. She quite caught him by surprise.

“You should be home,” he warned, shaking his head, “where you are safe.”

She rolled her eyes. “I am not convinced I am any safer at home, Mr. Westmore. There are villains, you see, just outside the flower garden. Perhaps you’ve seen them? Heaven knows I have, though it’s an image I’ve tried to scrub from my mind.”

This time, he couldn’t contain the bark of laughter that shot out of him, echoing against the high, arched ceiling. A few people in the pews across the way turned around to glare at them, but he ignored them. So she wanted to spar, did she? Well, she’d picked the wrong gentleman for that. He’d honed his debate skills with his sisters, each of whom could reduce grown men to tears with their verbal fortitude. She didn’t stand a chance.

“I’ll tell you what I’ve seen, Miss Channing,” he said, lowering his voice. “I’ve seen you faint dead away, and over something as small as a bit of flesh inadvertently exposed to the literary world. Infants have more courage, resisting their afternoon naps. Drunken goldfish could navigate these waters better than you.” His gaze drifted over the pretty pink curve of her lips, and in spite of himself, he had to admit her plain brown gown nicely offset the hue. “Admit it,” he said, more softly now. “You don’t have the fortitude for this.”

She lifted a hand to the rows of benches leading to the front of the cathedral. “For church?” she scoffed. “I hardly think the service will be that extraordinary.”

In spite of himself, West chuckled. He couldn’t help but approve of her grit. And damn it all, her eyes were definitely sparkling. This was a side of her he’d not seen before. “I think you’ve had ample time to adjust to the smell of the Thames now.” He gestured to the front of the church, where most people had taken their seats. “Your pew and your entirely too obedient chaperone are waiting.”

“Not just yet.” She bit her lip. “Have you . . . ah . . . looked for the traitors this week?”

West opened his mouth. Shut it again. Good Lord. The woman was trouble in a brown dress. And she really needed to lower her voice. He demonstrated the way forward, shifting his voice to more of guttural growl. “I’m considering a few possibilities.”

“Who are you considering?”

“Those who might have cause to target one of the people from your list.”

She gifted him with a full-blown smile, the first he had seen from her. He sucked in a breath as the force of that smile hit him like a runaway carriage. It transformed her face from something mouse-like to some something that had a hope of stirring his fantasies.

Bugger it all.

If she wore a smile—and nothing else—he could see how she might be beautiful.

“Then tell me, Mr. Westmore.” She stepped closer, until her skirts brushed indecently against his trousers. “Who are your primary suspects?”

“I really don’t think—”

She looped her arm through his and pulled him deeper into the vestibule, even farther out of sight of her gullible chaperone. “Stop dismissing me, Mr. Westmore. I am here now, and you are not doing this without me. Now, I’ve read a few mystery novels, and I know how this needs to be done.” She peered around a marble column, looked to the left, then to the right. “We should split up,” she told him, loosening her hold on his arm. “Cover more ground. Ask people questions regarding their whereabouts on the evening of June 1^st.”

West gaped at her. Was this even the same woman who had fainted in the library? “Good God, woman, you can’t believe that reading a mystery novel in any way prepares you to deal with tracking a real-life traitor.” The woman was going to get herself injured—or worse. This was why he’d pushed her away, why he’d insisted on doing this alone.

Did she really think you could just walk up to a duke and ask if he was plotting murder?

“And there is no way in hell we are splitting up,” he added. Now that she was here, she almost had to be a bona fide thorn in his side. He couldn’t risk letting her go off half-cocked today. Any hint of their knowledge and the man might bolt, go underground, and then they would have lost the opportunity.

She put her hands on her hips. “Well, if you don’t like my plan, Mr. Westmore,” she huffed, “perhaps you might be so good as to share yours?”

Worse than a drunken goldfish, was she?

It seemed like she wasn’t the only one with a vivid imagination.

But as she waited for his answer, his colorful observation gave her pause. He wasn’t that far off the mark—at least, not that far off her usual mark. Mary couldn’t help but wonder a little herself at her seeming lack of unease. Usually, she’d be hugging the walls in a place like this, avoiding eye contact, keeping her head down. But her usual reaction to strange situations seemed held at bay. Was it because she had spent days plotting this foray, stewing in her stuffy room?

Or was it because now that she was ruined, she no longer had anything to lose?

Whatever the reason, she couldn’t bring herself to second-guess her behavior. She was finally doing something, not sitting back letting life slide by, living vicariously through the pages of a book. She was going to turn her own page, for once.

“Well?” she said, growing impatient with his silence.

“If you must know, I was planning to stand here and listen for the voices we heard the other night.”

“That isn’t a plan.” Mary felt a bit annoyed that he’d put so little thought into it, when he’d all but promised her he would take care of the problem. She herself had lain awake for hours, turning over matters in her mind, scribbling thoughts down on paper. “Especially given the fact that we only heard the men speak in whispers that night. Relying on your memory to identify them is relying on little more than chance.”

“And yet, sometimes chance has a way of working out. Take our first meeting, for example.” His voice deepened. “If I hadn’t chanced to piss on Ashington’s rosebushes that morning, we wouldn’t be here now.”

In spite of her twitching irritation, Mary smothered the laugh that tried to bolt out of her at that. “I suspect, sir, your propensity for drink and boorish behavior means there was more than a mere chance that poor, pathetic rosebush would be your target that unfortunate morning.” Her gaze really shouldn’t be lingering on the smooth swoop of nose, the way his forehead wrinkled when he laughed. She needed to remember she was here for a serious reason.

But somehow, the shape of his lips quite scattered her wits. She felt out of her depth, but not on account of her usual shyness. No, she felt out of her depth here today because she was coming to feel at ease in his presence. She didn’t know quite what to make of it.

“But very well then,” she finally conceded, cocking an ear toward the rustling pews. “Let’s pretend for a moment that yours is a good idea.” She stood, listening. “There are an awful lot of voices to sort through.” She gestured toward the half-filled pews. “Wouldn’t it be better to sit down to listen?”

“I doubt an exchange of money this important will occur out in the open like that. More likely it will occur somewhere back here. That is why I chose this particular location, Miss Channing.”

“Oh.” That really made quite a lot of sense. In fact, she should have thought of it herself. She reached into her reticule and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “While we listen, have a look at this.”

He took up the paper. “What is this, Miss Channing?” he teased, his grin returning. “Have you written me a love letter?”

“Hardly.” She snorted. Honestly, did his ego know no bounds? “In case our pursuit of this duke comes to naught, I have compiled a list of potential villains I think we should investigate.”

“Another list?” The smile slid from his lips. “You have been busy these past few days.”

She shrugged. “A woman without prospects tends to have free time on her hands.”

He had the good grace to look chagrined. “I did offer you marriage.”

“And I refused, with good reason. Marrying you would be a nightmare.”

There was a moment’s pause. “Take it from someone who suffers nightmares, Miss Channing. You misuse the word. Either that or you sorely misunderstand the pleasures to be found in my bed.”

Her cheeks heated. Good gracious, the man appeared to just say whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Had he never had a moment’s discretion? “The list, Mr. Westmore.” She gestured to it, annoyed with herself for reacting to his bold taunts. “I did not compile it merely for my health.”

He looked down at the paper and unfolded it. “Number One: The Orsinians.” His eyes narrowed. “That is actually an excellent suspicion.”

“I thought it was important to consider the possibility, after that recent assassination business in Paris this past January.”

He cocked his head. “You know something of international politics?”

“I read the newspapers, of course. And we sometimes discuss politics over the dinner table, at my brother’s home.” Though oddly, she had been thinking about that home in Yorkshire less and less, thanks to the distraction she’d been tossed into here in London. “The Orsinians involved in the Paris plot this year were British citizens, so it could fit. And by my understanding, the business with Italian unification and the extremists is nowhere close to finished.”

Westmore nodded. “It is a good thought. We—” He stopped himself. Started again. “That is, I—could make some subtle inquiries. See if anyone has heard rumblings of further discord on that front.” He looked down at the list again. “Number Two: The Fenians.” His mouth quirked upward on one side. “Honestly, Miss Channing, the Irish?”

“They have a reputation for ruthlessness,” Mary argued, knowing this one was a bit far-fetched. “And they are gaining ground in their demands for independence.”

“Nonetheless, the Irish nationalists are poorly organized at present, and none of the people we overheard had any hint of an Irish brogue. More likely for it to be a British aristocrat who wants to pin it on the Fenians.”

“Exactly.” She nodded, glad to hear him thinking. “Which brings us to Number Three.”

He looked down again. She could hear the paper crinkling beneath the grip of his fingers. “The prime minister?” he asked, followed by a slightly dismissive laugh. “Come, now, Miss Channing. I thought he was on your list of possible targets.”

“I mean the former prime minister. Lord Palmerston.”

He made a strangled sound. For a moment, she was tempted to whump him on the back. Dislodge whatever was making his face turn pale like that. But no . . . whumping would involve touching him, and touching him seemed too . . . tempting.

Best to keep her whumps to herself.

“That is a very serious charge, Miss Channing,” he finally choked out. “One that could get us both in a good deal of trouble.”

“Lord Palmerston’s resignation was forced in the wake of the Orsini affair, so it seems he has every reason to hate those in power.” She plowed on, having been over this a dozen times in her head. “And inventing an enemy in the Irish could help him regain favor. And then, of course, there’s Number Four.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Looked down warily. “The Russians?” he asked. “Truly? Haven’t we reached a proper accord with them by now?”

“I know this one may seem less likely, given that the war has been over for some time. But it stands to reason there are some people who might still harbor ill will over the embarrassment of Crimea.”

“An embarrassment, is it?” Blue eyes lifted to meet her own. “Is that what you think of that business in Crimea, Miss Channing?”

She hesitated. She’d read of the terrible accounts from the field, the detailed coverage in the papers, the unconscionable deaths of good men due to illness and injuries, simply due to a lack of medical supplies and trained doctors. “I think the men who fought were very brave,” she said slowly, “but I think the men who sent our young men to that war did not always give the consequences due consideration.”

Westmore stood, still as stone, the rigid slant of his shoulders telling her very little about his mindset other than the fact that he, too, had an opinion about such things. And then he folded up the paper and shoved it in his trouser pocket. She stared at the small motion, irritation twitching through her. Did he not agree with her reasoning? She’d put a good deal of thought into that list. They were good ideas.

She felt it in her bones.

And then she felt something else in her bones, a prickle of awareness.

Up front, the service had started, the organ music going silent, which only made the noises around her seem more acute. She caught an urgent whisper, a rustle of silk.

“Westmore—” she began.

“I hear them,” he said tersely.

She clutched at his arm, and was relieved to feel his hand cover her own. A light squeeze, warning her to stay silent, but she didn’t need the reminder.

Together, they stepped around the column, eyes and ears straining toward the farthest edge of the vestibule. Mary could see a woman dressed in yellow silk, her hair tucked under a straw bonnet. She was speaking to a man who was too deep in the shadows to discern. The thought that it could be their duke made her pulse bound in her ears.

They inched closer, until gradually, the whispers became more distinct. “Why did he not come himself?” the woman asked, sounding almost angry. Mary gasped to recognize that the voice sounded the same as one of the women’s from the library.

“ ’E sent me instead.” It was one of the men’s voices from the library, the one with the harsher accent. Mary leaned forward, trying to hear.

“That wasn’t part of the plan.”

“Plans change, and you’re to change with them. ’E says for you to deliver the money promptly, and then wait for his word.”

“Oh he does, does he?” The woman sounded irritated. “Well, we must do as he says, mustn’t we? Deliver the money, kill the queen?”

A chill rippled down Mary’s spine. Oh, God. It wasn’t the prime minister, it was the queen. For the first time in her life, her wild imaginings had come true.

But being right had never felt so horribly wrong.

If the traitors succeeded in killing Queen Victoria, there would be political hell to pay. Alliances would be shattered. Fragile holds on peace dissolved. Worse, there were children involved—princes and princesses—who would be left without a mother. And Mary rather liked the queen, who proved, by her very rule, that women should not be discounted in this world of suffering male politics.

A basket was passed, the sort that might rest on the arm of any woman on market day. The woman in yellow turned. Moved. Head down, she hurried past them toward the open doors of the cathedral, the basket full of money looped over her arm.

“Stay here,” Westmore snarled. From his pocket, he pulled out a pistol.

Mary gasped, her heart thudding against her chest. The sight of that pistol was every bit as terrifying as the transaction they had just witnessed. “Westmore! You can’t shoot a woman!”

“I am not going after her. I am going after the man, given that our duke was too much of a coward to show up himself.” He glared down at her. “Stay right here and do not move a bloody inch, not even if the queen herself shows up, screaming at the door.”

Mary cast a wild glance toward the woman, who was just disappearing through the cathedral doors. The sight of the pistol in West’s hand made her stomach swirl, but so, too, did the thought of losing the woman who was such a significant clue. “But—”

“Your promise, Miss Channing.” But instead of waiting for an answer, he pressed a shocking, sudden kiss against her lips. And then he was off, sprinting toward the edge of the vestibule. She could do nothing but watch, her heart clawing its way up into her throat. She waited, every nerve stinging, terrified by the possibility of hearing a shot ring out, seeing him slump to the ground, blood spreading out around him.

But miraculously, no such sound reached her ears.

The sermon droned on, punctuated by the occasional, rattling snore from the congregation. The smell from the Thames outside swirled around her, just the same as before. And eventually Westmore returned, more slowly this time, his revolver close to his leg and pointing down toward the marble tile.

“Did you recognize him?” she demanded, trying not to look at his gun as he drew closer. But her eyes kept pulling toward it, fear skittering through her chest.

She decided that for once it was safer to stare at his sinfully shaped mouth.

“No.” Westmore didn’t even sound winded, though the pace he’d set in pursuit was impressive. “But I got a good look before he escaped. Dark hair, scar on his face. I would know him again if I saw him, but whoever he is, he’s gone.”

In spite of her resolve, Mary’s eyes drifted back down to follow the glint of steel sliding back into his pocket. Somehow, knowing Westmore came to St. Paul’s Cathedral armed made the situation seem more frightening, not less. Guns had never meant good things in her life.

“Was that in your trousers the entire time?” she asked weakly.

“Yes.” Bemusement eased the tension in his jaw. “If you continue to make a habit of consorting with me, you will find that I am always prepared.”

“Do you even know how to use it?” Though, he had very much looked as though he did.

“Miss Channing.” He leaned one shoulder against a marble column, almost casually, drat the man. “I’ll have you know I know how to use everything in my trousers.”

Her cheeks heated, as he must have known they would. She was beginning to have the sense that he said these things just to garner some reaction from her, some outward sign of discomfit. But now was not the time to ponder his purpose, and so she pushed those thoughts aside to deal with the notion at hand, which was more intriguing—and frightening—than what Mr. Westmore may or may not be hiding in his trousers.

“Did you hear what they said?” she whispered.

The corners of his mouth slid south. “I heard. You were correct, it seems. It’s the queen.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Not that having a target in mind is going to help anyone believe us, mind you. I need proof I can take before Scotland Yard. A piece of paper, a witness who can be trusted. Either that or someone in our custody, offering a confession.”

She glanced toward the edge of the vestibule, where the man had disappeared. Westmore might have had a very good chance of catching the suspect if he hadn’t been distracted by making sure she was safe. “I am sorry if I slowed you down.”

“Slow me down? What on earth are you talking about?”

“If you hadn’t paused to . . . er . . . argue with me, you might have been able to catch him. Now we have lost them both.”

He reached out a hand. “I didn’t pause to argue with you, Miss Channing.” He dragged a gloved finger across her lower lip, making something other than fear bloom inside her. “I paused to kiss you. Two very different things. So if we have lost him, the fault is mine.”

“Oh,” she breathed.

He stared down at her, as if working through a mathematical formula. “Besides, we may have lost our clue to our duke, but we have gained another. I recognized the woman.”

Surprise slid through her. “You did?”

“Her name is Vivian. She works at a nearby brothel.”

Mary’s ears burned with something that might have been envy. If anyone would recognize such a woman, she supposed, of course it would be Westmore. She ought to be glad he possessed such knowledge, if it helped them track a traitor.

And she was. She was.

However he’d acquired this knowledge, he was using it for the Crown.

“If we find this woman,” Mary said, “we might be able to halt the flow of money and extract the confession we need.”

“Precisely.” He offered her a grudging smile. “The only question is, are you going to follow me there, too?”