Lieutenant Stills stood in the shadow of the nearest mast, his hands clasped behind his back, as he watched Mama and Papa embrace tearfully. Charlie hugged herself as she waited for her turn. It had been years since she’d seen Papa. Years. She missed him. She blinked away tears.

Anthony crossed to stand next to her. He said nothing, so she remained silent. Around them, the crew hurried to turn the ship north and get underway. With the chaos of activity, it felt like Charlie stood in the eye of a storm.

Anthony brushed his hand over her shoulder, a warm reminder of his presence. “We did it.”

She wondered if they really had. They still weren’t safe in England, and the French navy might give chase.

Smiling, Mama and Papa parted. He turned to Charlie and beckoned her closer. She raced into his embrace. “You’ve grown,” he whispered as he hugged her.

“Perhaps you’ve shrunk,” she teased. Her words emerged a bit watery. She brushed her tears away. This was a happy moment, and tears had no place here. But she’d missed Papa so much.

Anthony cleared his throat, standing closer than expected. “Perhaps you ought to adjourn to the captain’s quarters.”

“Yes, of course.” Papa nodded.

As Mama showed him the way, Anthony stepped back to let Charlie follow. She hoisted her skirts so she wouldn’t trip over them on the rolling deck and squeezed into the captain’s quarters after her parents. Anthony, on her heels, shouted for Lieutenant Stills to remain on deck. “Let me know the moment you see a French flag!”

“Do you expect trouble, sir?”

“Be vigilant, just in case.”

Charlie’s stomach squeezed as if it were wringing out a wet rag. Her courage poured away from her. Seeing Marseille had been wonderful. She would have happily strolled along the streets for hours, admiring the vista and buildings. But the consequences of stepping foot in the city—the fear and threat of violence—that wasn’t adventure. That was war. She was ready to go home.

To her surprise, Anthony followed her into the captain’s quarters with Mama and Papa. The room was small, and even with her parents sitting on the bed—or, in this case, Papa standing beside it before Mama laid a hand on his arm and begged him to sit next to her—there was precious little room for Charlie and Anthony. He shut the door behind him. They stood shoulder to shoulder. The heat of his body sank into hers, simultaneously bringing her comfort and an increased awareness of him.

Anthony said, “Forgive the intrusion. I’ll leave you to your reunion in a moment, but if the information you have is of a sensitive nature to Britain, you must share it in case we are separated.”

Papa sat straighter, throwing back his shoulders. “Of course.” He looked between Charlie and Mama. “How much have you been told about Monsieur V?”

“He was the French spymaster in London,” Charlie volunteered. “Lucy captured him a couple months ago—”

“Lucy did what?”

Charlie bit her lip to keep from laughing at the shocked and appalled look on Anthony’s face. “Are you afraid your little sister is going to outstrip your daring deeds?”

“No.” His voice was weak. He looked a bit pale.

She took pity on him and patted his arm. “You needn’t worry. She and her husband have retired.”

“Retired from what?”

“Spying, of course.”

If anything, that made him look a bit gray. “She was a spy?”

“Briefly,” Charlie answered without hesitation.

Mama elaborated, “She was never formally trained, but she took it upon herself to locate and arrange the capture of Monsieur V, with the help of her husband. He was a spy for much longer but retired after that mission. Even so, the duke was far from happy to hear of her involvement.”

“I imagine so,” Anthony said weakly.

Papa seemed confused at the turn in the conversation. Charlie smiled and returned to answering his question.

“Monsieur V was killed during the arrest, though.”

“Not precisely,” Mama hedged. “He died during transport to Lord Strickland for questioning.”

“It amounts to the same thing,” she insisted. “He is dead.”

“Yes,” Papa said, warming to this new topic. “However, before he died, I believe he alluded to the existence of a plot he’d set into play. I received instructions in France to look into such a plot and see if I could uncover it.”

Charlie leaned forward. “And you did?”

Papa nodded. “A French spy, formerly posted in England, took refuge in Paris. With Monsieur V’s death, the spy network in place in London is beginning to crumble.”

Charlie grinned, assuming that was good news for Britain.

“I have a source in the French spy network in Paris, and I managed to learn the identity of this spy. It took a bit of work to cozy up to her, but I managed to convince her I was a friend and glean what she knew about Monsieur V. She left because she feared Lord Strickland knew of her true allegiance, and with no one to report to in London, it was no longer safe for her. Her part in Monsieur V’s plan was done. She hired the assassin.”

Charlie swallowed, wondering what the French plot to assassinate Lord Strickland meant for England. “When does this assassination take place?”

“Soon.” Papa rubbed a hand across his face and looked at Mama. “I can’t be more precise than that. She grew suspicious of me, and I had to leave Paris as soon as possible. They nearly caught me on the coast, so I took the first ship out and tried to go into hiding again, which is where you found me.” He sighed. “I guess I wasn’t careful enough.”

“Or we were lucky,” Anthony said, his voice soft. “I don’t know if the Portuguese captain would have disclosed the same information to the French as he did to me.”

Mama laid her hand on Papa’s sleeve. Wrinkles formed around her eyes, and her mouth was thin. “What can you tell us about the assassination? Do you know the location?”

Papa deflated. His shoulders slumped, and he looked haggard. “I don’t know where, precisely. Somewhere public, among friends, to prove their reach knows no bounds.”

Charlie turned to Anthony. “Lord Strickland's life is in danger. We must reach London as soon as possible and warn him.”

Papa frowned. “Strickland? He's not the one in danger.”

“Don’t be absurd. Of course he is. I have a missive—” Charlie reached for her bodice, only to recall that she’d delivered that paper to Anthony. She turned to him. “Do you have it with you?”

Whatever Anthony intended to answer, Papa cut him off. “Lord Strickland is the figurehead, the person shown to the public. The true Commander of Spies works anonymously from the shadows, for their own safety. Somehow, Monsieur V learned this person's true identity, and the French mean to eliminate them at all costs.”

Charlie bit her lip. “If Lord Strickland isn’t the target, who is?”

Papa glanced briefly at Anthony before he answered, his expression hard. “Lady Evelyn Graylocke.”