Bait.

Bloody bait?

He must have said that last aloud, because Claire clucked her tongue.

“There’s no call for swearing,” she chided.

Andrew clenched his jaw, clenched his fists—hell, even clenched his toes. Anything he could do to get control of his…

Christ, what was he feeling? An awful muddle of lust, sorrow, anger, regret, and a bone-deep fear for Claire’s safety, that’s what.

Control. That’s what he needed. Of this situation. Of Claire. There was no way her charade could continue.

When he trusted his voice not to betray him, he said, “That was Marston’s plan? To use you as bait?”

“Of course not,” she said.

He started to exhale in relief.

“It was mine.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “And Marston went along with this?” If the man weren’t already dead…

Claire, for once, didn’t answer his question with a question. In fact she didn’t answer him at all. Her eyes shifted to the side and her lips pressed together. The relief he’d almost felt a moment ago finally came. Marston hadn’t dangled her in front of the killer after all, apparently much to Claire’s frustration.

She took a breath and then her eyes met his again. “I sent for Uncle Jarvis immediately after Clarence died. He was one of Uncle Jarvis’s operatives, you see. Not secreted away at Abchurch, but in plain sight in the ballrooms and clubs.” A ghost of a smile haunted her lips. “His code name was The Prancer. No one suspected him of being more than a dandified prattler, but they didn’t know the real Clarence.”

Andrew nodded. He’d known Clarence since they were boys and knew very well he was far from a thoughtless dandy. But he never would have taken the man for a spy. Much must have changed in the past six years.

How strange that their paths would diverge as they had, and yet lead them to the same place. Andrew, too, had been an operative in plain sight, though he’d considered himself more of a reconnaissance officer. Much of his intelligence was gathered while in full military uniform as he carried out his regular duties, even when behind enemy lines. People often believed you were just what you portrayed yourself to be.

Which made Claire, in her disguise, the perfect operative in plain sight, too. Hell.

“When the shock wore off, it occurred to me that whoever killed my brother couldn’t know for certain he’d succeeded,” she went on. “The more days that passed without an announcement of Clarence’s passing, the killer would have to wonder how he’d survived—and what he knew about who’d stabbed him. It only made sense for me to pretend to be my brother because—”

“Because if Clarence was alive, it might force the killer’s hand. Push him into making a mistake,” he finished, though it cost him to admit that her logic had merit.

“Precisely.” Claire’s lips spread into a smile of satisfaction. “If it makes you feel better, it took me some time to convince Uncle Jarvis, too.”

Andrew nearly growled at her assumption that she’d convinced him. No, he was so far from convinced he may as well be across the ocean, fighting the damned Americans instead of the French.

“Eventually we decided to slip Clarence’s body into an old family crypt and put out that he was ill. After a few days, I emerged as my brother, and Uncle Jarvis installed me at Abchurch so that I could be useful while I ‘recovered.’”

Andrew shook his head reflexively, even as he asked, “Useful, how?”

Claire’s eyes flashed, in anticipation of victory he was certain, and she edged closer. “Apart from discomfiting the killer, I am fluent in several languages—much better than Clarence ever was.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that.” He should know. He’d been the one to teach her Latin, Greek, and Italian, after all. The only foreign language that was part of a typical English lady’s education was French, but Claire had a keen mind and she’d been desperate to learn anything anyone would teach her.

At first, it had amused him to indulge his friend’s sister when he’d accompanied Clarence home from Harrow during school holidays, but Claire had taken to it with an ease that left him both amazed and envious. Soon, she’d quite outstripped him in those languages and had moved on to teaching herself others.

“I’d translated things for Abchurch before,” Claire said. “Things Clarence uncovered or that Uncle Jarvis asked me to look at when their language experts came up empty. Turns out I have a gift for noticing odd nuances of phrasing, and plucking code from it.”

Her chin lifted when she said that. Just slightly. He didn’t think she was even aware of the gesture, but Claire was proud of her ability. And perhaps daring him to doubt or disparage her for it.

He never would. He may not believe women should be involved in such matters, but not because he didn’t think them capable. Claire was bloody brilliant, he well knew. But war was the business of men.

He reminded himself of his resolve not to argue with her—not, at least, until he knew everything she did. “That is a useful skill.”

She quirked a brow at his diplomacy, but let it pass. “Yes, but precious time was lost by the time they realized they needed my help, and then more in having to smuggle things out of Abchurch and across town to me in Bloomsbury and back.

“More than once, Uncle Jarvis’s operatives were unable to act on information I discovered because when they finally got it, they’d missed their opportunity. Now, with me at Abchurch, I am able to get to things and get them out again much more quickly.”

“Wait,” he said, remembering something his new aide-de-camp had said when he’d introduced Andrew to “Sir Clarence” earlier. “Greeves mentioned that we wouldn’t have won at Vitoria without Clarence’s help. But that battle was in June. You’ve only been at Abchurch since early November?”

Claire nodded. “Yes. But early this summer, Abchurch received several interceptions from the battlefields, missives between France and Madrid that the code breakers struggled with.”

The hairs on Andrew’s arms tingled. He knew precisely which missives she meant, as he’d been the one to intercept them.

“So Uncle Jarvis brought them to me. It took some doing, but I was able to pull out planned troop movements and tactics, which were then relayed back to Wellington.” Her voice rang with quiet pride.

It should. Hell, he was proud of her. He knew exactly how much that intel had meant.

“I was with Wellington when that information reached us,” he said. Vitoria had been the decisive battle in the Peninsular War, where the allies finally broke the French army under Bonaparte’s brother and which eventually led to France’s retreat from Spain.

But it had been a very close thing. And without the advanced knowledge they’d received from Abchurch…?

“Greeves was right,” Andrew said solemnly, seeing Claire as he’d never seen her before. “We couldn’t have won the battle without you.”

Claire’s eyes darted away, even as the tops of her cheeks pinked at his praise. Then she cleared her throat and looked back at him. “Well, as far as anyone was concerned, it was Clarence’s work that saved the day. Uncle Jarvis couldn’t very well tell people a woman was his secret weapon, could he?”

Hell.

Hell, hell, and hell again.

He was going to have to let Claire continue on as Clarence.

She was a secret weapon, not just in his current responsibility of discovering who killed Marston—and Clarence—but in the whole of the war effort.

He might not even be alive if it weren’t for her.

And what’s more, Claire was the only person at Abchurch he knew for certain didn’t kill Marston and her brother. Everyone else was suspect. He could use someone there he could trust.

But not as bait. Never as bait.

Andrew let out a gruff sigh and banged on the roof of the hackney, signaling the jarvey to take them on to Claire’s home.

“All right, Claire. We’ll continue your ruse. For now.”

A relieved smile broke across her face and her shoulders dropped as she seemed to relax. “Thank you, Andrew. You won’t regret this.”

He snorted. “I doubt that.”

They rode in silence the few minutes to Bloomsbury, both lost in their own thoughts. When the hackney rolled to a stop, Andrew let himself out, then turned to hold a hand out to Claire.

She glanced pointedly at it and pursed her lips.

“Oh, right!” He snatched his hand back and cleared his throat. “Sorry. I’ll have to get used to treating you as I would another man in public.” He stepped back and Claire hopped down.

Andrew paid the jarvey, and then followed Claire up the steps of the small-but-tidy brick townhouse.

“You needn’t have escorted me in,” she said as they reached the stoop. “This may not be Mayfair, but it’s safe enough.”

Andrew just nodded, taking a protective position behind and to the left of her. His eyes scanned the street, the bushes, and all the very dark corners.

The door opened.

“A bit late this evening, mi—” The butler’s eyes widened as he noticed Andrew in the shadows behind Claire. “—m-m-master,” the man corrected himself.

Well, that answered his question as to whether Claire’s staff knew what she’d been up to.

“It’s all right, Wallace,” Claire assured the man as they passed into a marbled foyer. “Lord Sedgewick is privy to my ruse,” she said, allowing the servant to remove her greatcoat.

Andrew just stood there for a moment, taking in the sight of her for the first time in a well-lit room. If he didn’t know better, he’d be damned to think she was anything but a young gentleman about town, albeit a fine-boned one.

It was eerie, how much she looked like Clarence. Her brother had been on the short side, and Claire was quite tall for a woman. He remembered joking once when he’d seen their childhood portraits hanging side by side at Barton Hall that if he just covered Claire’s braids with his thumbs, she’d be Clarence. No wonder she’d been able to pull off this ruse. Still, he might never get used to the vision of Claire in trousers.

He shook himself. “Indeed,” he said, turning to Wallace. “I need you to send a man to the Clarendon and fetch my things here.”

The older man’s eyes scrunched in question, but he nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

“What are you doing?” Claire asked, her voice rising a notch in surprise.

“I’m sending your man to my hotel—”

“I gathered that,” she snapped. “But why?”

He said nothing.

Her eyes rounded. “You can’t be thinking of staying here?”

“Oh, but I am.”

Claire sputtered, color flushing her cheeks. “But I’m an unmarried young lady!”

“Yes, you are,” he murmured. Christ, she was beautiful with her color high and her eyes flashing. Even with her hair practically shorn and her feminine curves well hidden, Claire took his breath away.

How had she not married? He hadn’t been the only man sniffing around her skirts during her first Season. If he’d have known she’d not be some peer’s wife by now… But none of that mattered anymore. Only keeping Claire safe did.

“However, your brother lives here as well, as far as anyone knows,” he pointed out, “and will serve as chaperone.”

Claire snapped her mouth shut. Her eyes narrowed on him as she opened it again, but he cut her off with a wave of his hand that ended with his finger pointed in her direction.

“You may not be concerned that there’s a killer after you,” he said, turning his finger around and jabbing it into his own chest with each successive word, “but I bloody well am.”

Ouch. That bloody well hurt. Andrew rubbed at the stinging spot before crossing his arms over his chest.

“I may have agreed to help you continue your charade, Claire, but I have no intention of leaving your side until this entire affair is over.”

They stared each other down for a moment, two allied generals on the same side of the war but with opposing battle plans—and an aging butler glancing between them. Andrew wasn’t certain, but he thought he spied a look of relieved approval flash over the old man’s face.

Then, with a rather feminine huff of disgust that was quite at odds with her attire, Claire turned on her booted heel and marched through the foyer and up the marble staircase.

Andrew relaxed his stance, bringing his arms around and clasping them behind his back as he watched her go. Even dressed in trousers and a man’s jacket, there was no mistaking the feminine sway of her hips as she ascended.

He closed his eyes, but depriving himself of the sight of her did little to lessen the tension thrumming through him that had been simmering from the moment he’d seen her again.

He never should have kissed her. He’d had the best of intentions, hoping to put the past behind them and renew their romance. But now that he knew her brother was gone? He couldn’t pursue Claire knowing that he would be going back to war and leaving her with no one to protect her while he was abroad.

Yet he had kissed her, and his body was not going to let him forget it. Staying under the same roof with Claire was a terrible idea, but he could think of no other way to keep her safe.

Question was, who was going to keep her safe from him?