Four excruciating balls, two pairs of ruined boots, five shattered brandy glasses and an irate Gentleman Jackson threatening to resign as his boxing trainer. In every way, a damned unimpressive list of achievements for the past week.

Frowning, William shifted again on one of the hideously uncomfortable high-backed chairs considered essential to Whitehall’s most secure room. He certainly was on a roll, although his increasingly volatile temper had not prompted any requests for dawn appointments. Yet.

But he could feel the walls closing in. His avoidance of Lady Samantha since his birthday dinner had been criticized by all and sundry. White had even summoned him to question his lack of progress. What was he supposed to say? I’m sorry, I can no longer interrogate this subject because I like her too much? I want to bed her so badly it is driving me mad?

Thank God today he could focus on a routine state affairs meeting. It truly didn’t matter what topics Liverpool, Castlereagh, the senior cabinet, and a few select peers—including Alexander—debated, anything would be a welcome respite from lusting after a tiny blushing blonde.

“Goddamned French. Damn all of them, every one, to hell.”

William’s gaze shot up at Castlereagh’s uncharacteristically snarling tone, and sighing, he conceded defeat to the continuation of a bloody awful April. “What have they done now? All our allies are adhering to the Seventh Coalition treaty, are they not? Napoleon can’t have any truly powerful friends in Europe.”

“He shouldn’t. But then he shouldn’t have escaped from Elba either, and he did. The Corsican devil is clever and efficient and won’t stop until he’s taken over the whole damned world.”

“So what exactly has he done?” William asked, unease prickling his neck at the possibilities the cunning little chess master might have engineered.

“He’s ordered a general mobilization. Tens of thousands of men,” Castlereagh replied, and his furious stare veered away to circle the table. “Also, a party of Wellington’s exploring officers who travelled to Paris to gather information, ran into trouble. There was a fierce skirmish. I’ve just received some rather garbled messages stating Colonel Lord Langley, who led the party, was injured. A few say seriously.”

At the mention of Alexander’s younger brother, a decorated soldier, brilliant leader, and one of the few people the taciturn Wellington had ever openly praised, William’s gaze flew to his friend.

Alexander smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m sure Robert is fine. Probably a minor flesh wound which has increased in severity as the news has travelled.”

William nodded, more for Alexander’s benefit than to express his agreement. While early, unconfirmed reports could be wrong, to have multiple messages say the same thing was troubling. Not to mention the impending disaster that could unfold if Napoleon rebuilt his Armée du Nord and began to march. Hell. Mobilizing the combined forces of Britain, Austria, Prussia, and Russia could take many months. And so many of His Majesty’s finest had been lost in the brutal and bloody Peninsula Wars, and the War of 1812 which had only ended in January in the New Orleans debacle.

The silence lengthened, only broken by the arrival of two clerks carrying some papers. Unfortunately for one of them, the unexpected and unnerving quiet in the room caused him to stumble and drop the documents he was holding.

William’s temper frayed, and he glared at the young man. “Not anticipating a career in intelligence, I trust.”

“I’m very sorry, my lord,” the clerk stammered, flushing scarlet as he dropped to his knees to gather the scattered reports. “It won’t happen again.”

Surprised looks bored holes in William’s head from all directions, and guilt and frustration only further sharpened his tone.

“One hopes not. It would certainly be unfortunate to be responsible for the deaths of hundreds of your countrymen because delivering documents was quite beyond your capabilities.”

“Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord,” the clerk choked out, pale as milk. After placing the now neat stack of papers in front of Liverpool, he practically sprinted from the room, his colleague close behind.

The meeting continued for another three excruciating hours, the sun well set by the time he and Alexander emerged.

Giving his neck a weary rub, William lifted his other hand to hail a hackney until Alexander’s voice halted him. “A drink is in order, along with some decent food. Brooks.”

“All right,” he replied, shrugging. One drink at the club wouldn’t hurt as he was probably only going to spend the evening with a bottle anyway. Twenty minutes later they were comfortably seated in a private room, complete with roaring fire, trays of rare roast beef, creamed potatoes, and crisp green beans, and glasses of excellent brandy.

Interrupting the companionable silence, Alexander cleared his throat and pinned him with a hard stare. “Your recently acquired temper is becoming the talk of London, but it’s only today I’ve witnessed it for myself, and I am appalled. Granted, clerks can be annoying, but the set down you gave that stripling was rather extreme, especially from someone who used to scatter parchment on an hourly basis. What the hell is the problem?”

William scowled. “The problem, as you so delicately phrased it, is coddling clerks helps no one. Intelligence relies on those reports—what if they had been mixed up? More lives could have been lost. Don’t you think there are enough English families in mourning?”

Alexander snorted derisively. “Try again.”

“And say what?” William retorted. “I’m behaving like a damned boor and it all started at bloody Almack’s?”

“Excuse me? Almack’s? What the devil were you doing there?”

“If you ever bothered to look at the piles of invitations people send, you’d have known Westleigh asked us all to go to support his cousin’s come out.”

“Why?” said Alexander, his expression easing to perplexed rather than irritated. “I cannot imagine anyone from the Forsyth family tree being horribly unattractive. Is she completely dim? Entirely without charm or personality?”

“No!” William snarled.

Christ. He sounded complete unhinged.

Pausing, he took a deep, calming breath and continued, “No. The lady in question is Lady Samantha Buchanan. The petite blonde you frightened the life out of at my birthday dinner, remember?”

“A more accurate description would be surprised.”

“I don’t believe young ladies forget to breathe when they are merely surprised, your grace.”

A faint hint of color appeared on Alexander’s cheeks. “Habit. Play the same role long enough, and it becomes your truth. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that. But the chit has my sympathies. Hard to believe she’s Claremont’s daughter. The man’s a disgrace both in manners and the company he keeps.”

“Exactly why we needed to go, a show of strength so to speak. Aunt Jane is sponsoring her,” said William, taking another sip of brandy.

“Good woman. It’s not easy when one’s family is...difficult. But more to the point, what happened at Almack’s that caused you to misplace all composure?”

The thousand guinea question. And of all the people in the world, Alexander was the one to tell. He might mock for a while, but kept secrets like an impenetrable vault.

“Lady Samantha happened. She has no town polish, two left feet, blushes at everything…”

Alexander’s jaw dropped, his face the portrait of incredulous amusement. “You like her. And not in a cordial acquaintance way, but the way Westleigh likes Caroline and Trentham likes Louisa.”

“Nonsense.”

His friend began to laugh. “No. Not nonsense at all, I’d wager. The mighty marquess undone by a petite young blonde who makes up in curves what she lacks in height. How extraordinary. What do Westleigh and the dowager have to say about your fledgling love?”

“They don’t bloody know,” William snapped, already regretting his candor.

“Hmmm. That answers my questions from your birthday dinner. Caroline made a rather valiant effort to distract the rest of us from your too-long absence, she is an admirably loyal friend to Lady Samantha, but it was obvious. I must say, while there are obvious pitfalls in the Claremonts, and awkward Forsyth House moments with Westleigh, I’m still struggling to understand why you’ve turned into the male equivalent of a harpy. What aren’t you telling me?”

William briefly closed his eyes, then pinned his closest friend with a look. “Very well. Since you asked, White suspects Claremont is a traitor and has ordered me to find out if Lady Samantha is involved or knows anything. Under the guise of courting her.”

Sucking in a harsh breath, Alexander held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. “In which case I take it all back, you’ve actually demonstrated remarkable restraint. What are you going to do?”

William glared at his empty brandy glass then, settling back in his chair, held it out for another refill. If there was an easy answer he wouldn’t be snarling at underlings or drowning his sorrows, but putting a plan into action. “What can I do, other than obey my instructions? If I don’t carry out this assignment someone else will, and Christ knows how they would complete it. Now hurry up and pour me a drink.”

After three further brandies Alexander took his leave, but William’s head remained disappointingly clear. Sleep also seemed a great distance away, so instead of going home he took a hackney to a smart brick building on the outskirts of Mayfair.

Ensconced in the opulent salon of Madame Lisette’s exclusive gentleman’s club, he tried desperately to be captivated by the scores of beautiful women. While they were all more than happy to keep him and his guineas company, the brunettes were ridiculously tall, the redheads unnaturally loud, and the blondes painfully thin.

As if sensing his irritation, Madame Lisette herself glided up and rested a light hand on his arm. “We have missed you here, my lord, and this evening you look like a man with a great many cares on his shoulders. Unburden yourself for a few hours. Who may have the honor of soothing you?”

Even the innocuous question annoyed him. Could he not just take a few moments to observe? Perhaps strike up a brief conversation? Immediately though, he sighed at his own thoughts and took a gulp of champagne to clear them. It was a seriously demented man who came to Madame Lisette’s and pondered who to talk to.

Finishing his drink, he bowed politely and reached into his pocket for some money.

“Forgive me, Lisette, it’s been a long day. Your ladies are delightful as always, but I believe I shall retire. Good evening.”

It seemed clearing his mind of Lady Samantha Buchanan would take something else entirely.

* * *

Lord Standish was still avoiding her.

Tears burned her eyes, but Samantha refused to let them fall, not in front of all the strangers at Esther Hartley’s musicale. She’d only agreed to come here because Esther’s father, Lord Anthony Hartley, was a longtime acquaintance of Lord Standish.

But the marquess hadn’t arrived. And she had no one but herself to blame after the disastrous birthday dinner. Wearing that horrid gown, behaving like a complete twit who couldn’t even manage exits and entries like a lady, somehow spoiling the moment when it seemed he was finally going to kiss her.

Instead, like the other attendees at this musicale, she was being subjected to aural purgatory. Esther was also twenty, but sweet-tempered, stunningly beautiful with big blue eyes and silken ebony hair, and surely the worst singer in England. Her low notes shook the furniture, high notes nearly shattered glass, and she was forever two beats behind the stoic string quartet. Lord Hartley continually applauded and encouraged his daughter, but everyone else wore frozen smiles as they gulped champagne and brandy to try and ease their suffering.

Next to Samantha, the adventurous and amusing redheaded Louisa Trentham, was staring at Esther in shocked fascination. “I thought George possessed the worst voice in England, but I take it back. He could never best this performance. I should have smuggled in some of dear Sir Humphrey Davy’s nitrous oxide. Might not block the sound, but at least everyone would be merry.”

“That sounds like a potential experiment, my dear,” said Lord Trentham with a wicked grin. “And you know how I enjoy assisting with those.”

Louisa sniffed disdainfully, but the sultry glance she shot her husband could have melted steel.

“Ugh. Newlyweds,” whispered Caroline, but her fond gaze was on Stephen, who stood on the other side of the Hartley drawing room talking to a small group of fellow shipping investors.

Samantha’s eyes burned again. Trapped in aural purgatory, and accompanied by friends all blissfully married. This might well be her worst night in London.

“Trentham, that was not a challenge. No need to summon every stray cat in the vicinity with your yowling,” said a deep voice behind her, and she tensed.

“Jealousy is a terrible thing, Standish,” said Lord Trentham. “Didn’t think you were going to make it. When Whitehall beckons…”

The marquess joined the semi-circle and inclined his head. “Indeed. But I wouldn’t miss this gathering. Esther invited me, and it is hard to refuse her, as you well know.”

Her stomach churning at the confirmation of his friendship with their hostess, Samantha stared at the floor. Those same poets who wrote the odes to lips and eyes made it seem like meeting someone special was a wonderful, heart-lifting experience. Clearly they had been inhaling the nitrous oxide Louisa had spoken of.

“Ah!” she gasped, as a hard elbow to the ribs made her jump.

“Lord Standish asked if you were enjoying the evening,” Caroline muttered. “You ignored him.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Well, my lord, it’s been, er, most enlightening—”

A tinkling laugh interrupted her.

“There you are, Lord Standish!” Esther Hartley said, smiling warmly as she joined the group. “Papa mentioned he hadn’t had a chance to talk to you this evening, so I offered to come and fetch you. His leg is playing up a little, so he is resting it.”

Samantha gritted her teeth as Esther rested her hand on his sleeve. The woman had been kind and friendly from the outset, yet Samantha had never wanted to overturn a full punch bowl on anyone more. And now Esther was guiding the willing marquess away.

“Well, well, little Samantha Buchanan. How are you, my dear?”

Turning, she managed a smile for Sir Francis Quinn, a good friend of her parents that she didn’t particularly like. But right now, a distraction was more welcome than marzipan at Christmas. “Very well thank you, Sir Francis.”

“I was just thinking you look a little parched. May I escort you to the refreshment table?”

Caroline frowned. “Perhaps Westleigh—”

“Some champagne would be delightful,” said Samantha loudly. The other musicale guests had the right of it. Drink to ease the pain.

After fetching two glasses of champagne, the baronet chatted away about the weather, his hounds, and some soiree her mother had attended, and she only had to nod from time to time as she savored the tart, fizzy beverage.

“I say, my dear. You are looking a little flushed if you don’t mind me saying. Claremont would have my hide if I didn’t look after you. Perhaps a few minutes of air on the balcony?”

Samantha hesitated. “My friends will be waiting.”

“Indeed, indeed. But young ladies make the best impression on young bucks with a peaches and cream complexion, like sweet Esther. Not raspberry.”

Oh God. Sir Francis was politely saying she looked like a washerwoman at the end of her day.

“Very well. Just a few minutes.”

It was cooler on the upper balcony overlooking the Hartley’s well-tended gardens, and the evening breeze felt wonderful on her cheeks.

“Aren’t you just a picture. As beautiful as your mother.”

“Thank you, Sir Francis,” she replied uneasily. He was standing too close now, and from his brandy-scented breath, not nearly as sober as she’d first thought.

“But far lusher,” the baronet added, his gaze settling on her breasts in a way that made her feel ill. “The best pillows for a man’s head.”

“I really must get back to my party. Will you excuse me?”

“What’s your hurry, gel?” he asked, grabbing her arm as she tried to make her way past him. “We’re just starting to get to know one another.”

“Please let go of me, Sir Francis.”

“What an unfriendly tone. Perhaps you aren’t aware, my pet, but I hold a great deal of authority in the city, and on the docks. If you were as obliging with favors as your mother, life would be very agreeable for your family,” he continued, taking hold of her other arm in a painfully tight grip and yanking her toward him.

Damnation, the baronet had her trapped. Her reticule dangled uselessly from her wrist, so she couldn’t reach her dagger, and her blasted gown was too tight to direct a knee into his private parts. How could she have been so foolish as to ignore her instincts about Sir Francis?

“Let. Her. Go.”

Almost dizzy with relief at hearing the frigidly cold voice behind them, Samantha waited to be released. Instead, Sir Francis held on and peered at the darkened private antechamber inside.

“Not your affair, sir. Between me and my lady here.”

“The lady quite distinctly asked you to unhand her. You have not. I suggest you do. Immediately.”

“Now see here,” Sir Francis spluttered. “Mind your own business or you’ll be sorry. It’s just a bit of sport, which the baggage is well used to!”

In a lightning-fast movement the vile man was wrenched away from her, catapulting inside the house where he crashed unceremoniously into a vase of blooms resting on a small side table. Shockingly, Lord Standish stood over him, his exquisite features twisted in a terrifying expression.

“Get up,” he snarled at the baronet, roughly jerking him to his feet before pulling back a fist and hitting him flush in the face. Sir Francis’ head lolled to one side, blood gushing from his nose, but that clearly wasn’t enough as the first bone-crunching blow was followed by a second.

Samantha rushed toward them. “Lord Standish, please! No more!”

Sir Francis made a gurgling sound of agreement. The marquess glared at him, murderous rage etched across his face, and landed a third.

Oh God. If she didn’t intervene, Lord Standish would kill the baronet. They might not have an audience now, but if anyone happened to walk past the antechamber door…

Taking a deep breath, she reached up and gripped his arm. “Lord Standish. William. Stop this at once.”

Somehow her wobbly but determined words and deliberate touch broke through his wrath. Blinking, he let Sir Francis’ inert body crumple to the floor, then slumped down against the table edge and closed his eyes.

Alarmed, she gripped him tighter. “William? Say something!”

“Just give me a moment,” he said hoarsely. “You are all right? He didn’t harm you?”

“I’m fine.”

“You shouldn’t have witnessed such violence. I went too far.”

“Don’t apologize. I know it’s wrong, but I’m glad you hit him. I just didn’t want you to hang for murder.”

“That would indeed be extremely disagreeable,” he replied, a half-smile on his lips, but he remained far too tense. Possibly because she was still touching him, stroking his arm as one would a fractious horse.

“I’m sorry...” she stammered, moving to pull away, but William’s hand came up and clamped her fingers to his arm. Then he stroked the top of her wrist and she shivered at the reminder of how good a hard, slightly calloused thumb felt dragging back and forth against her skin.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped. “Tell me right now.”

The low, rough words sent fresh waves of heat through her body, luring her to the edge of scandal and daring her to jump.

Licking dry lips, Samantha rolled her shoulders, attempting to ease the constriction of stays which were chafing her hardening nipples unbearably.

His eyes darkened, his expression turned forbidding, and she almost groaned in disappointment. He was going to walk away again.

Then a slow hand lifted to cup her cheek. “Samantha, tell me, damn it,” he bit out, yet there was a hint of pleading there, too.

Instead of wrenching away, slapping him, and fleeing like a proper young lady should, she turned her head and brushed her lips against his palm. “No.”

With a muffled groan, William guided her to the other side of the room away from Sir Francis. One arm slid around her waist, his other hand cupped her neck, and then his mouth claimed hers.

The sensation of his kiss was almost too much, like being swept up in a fierce whirlwind. His lips were hard and warm, his darting tongue tasted of brandy, and she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could only shut her eyes, cling to his jacket lapels, and abandon herself to the scorching reality of her wickedest fantasy.

The poets were right. Kissing was the sun, the moon, and the stars.

And yet she wanted more. Her quivering, throbbing body was desperate for more.

Whimpering, Samantha stepped closer and wound her arms around William’s neck. Her breasts flattened and rubbed against his broad chest, but instead of easing her swollen, jutting nipples, it only intensified the ache.

“William,” she begged. “Help me.”

* * *

This was heaven. And hell.

Samantha’s mouth was sweeter than he’d even thought possible. He could only imagine how her nipples would taste, those taut little peaks she was torturing him with as she pressed against his chest. Or her tight, soaked quim as he spread her thighs wide and buried his tongue inside her.

His cock jerked, straining to be free of his trousers. She was so close, he could tilt his hips and rub against her mound. Christ, he wanted to. To grind his erection against her clitoris, circling and circling and circling until she begged him to take her, to fill her so full, so completely, she would never want any other man.

William sucked in a ragged breath. He had officially lost his mind. This was wrong, so very wrong, and the time and place couldn’t be more improper. But his body refused to obey. It had heard her plea—William, help me—and would do anything to meet that need.

“So soft. So sweet,” he murmured, leaving the pleasure of her lips and allowing his mouth to drift down the side of her neck to the curve of her shoulder. A wholly primitive urge overcame him and he lightly bit the satiny skin, then soothed the sting with a flick of his tongue.

“Please,” Samantha said, as she quivered and stepped closer, nestling against his chest. “Please.”

“What do you want? Tell me where you want me to touch you.”

In reply, she brushed her taut nipples against him. His cock jerked again, protesting the barriers of fabric between it and paradise. But he wasn’t going to allow her to be coy. Not now. Not here.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he lied, nipping her shoulder a second time. “Say the words and I’ll give you what you want. I’ll make the ache go away.”

Samantha moaned. “Don’t make me wait.”

Hell. Such a hungry, needy sound. This woman, this beautiful blonde goddess, would be the death of him. “Then tell me, sweet Sam, and I’ll oblige.”

She shuddered. Then finally, finally, she leaned back and met his gaze. Her cheeks were ruby, but she reached down, took his hand, and placed it on her right breast. “Here. I ache…here.”

“Very good,” William praised, cupping the lush fullness, and thumbing her nipple through the fabric of her gown. Even though it was near-killing him to go slow, he would do nothing that she didn’t want, nothing that might frighten her.

Panting, she arched her back, and in reward, he delved that same thumb down the front of her bodice and stroked the swollen peak.

A low cry escaped her. “More.”

“You know the rules,” he said, a smile curving his lips.

“Harder.”

Obediently, he slid his forefinger inside her bodice to join his thumb, trapping her velvety nipple between them and lightly pinching. Then he moved his hand across and did the same to her other nipple. “Does that feel good?”

Samantha gasped. “So good, William. I need…I need to touch y—”

The sound of broken pottery scraping the polished wooden floor was like being doused with a bucket of icy water. His head jerked toward the sound, to see Sir Francis’s foot give another involuntary twitch as he made a groggy sound of pain.

Good God. He’d beaten a man unconscious, albeit a bastard friend of Claremont’s. Far worse, he’d seduced a virgin in a damned antechamber at Tony Hartley’s home. There were no two ways about it. He was dishonorable, a Whitehall failure, and a disgrace to the Hastings name.

Removing his hand from Samantha’s bodice, he deftly maneuvered around her and away from the side table. “I am very sorry. What I did was inexcusable.”

His heart clenched as the passion and warmth faded from her eyes to be replaced by a dull acceptance. “It’s fine.”

“It is not fine. You’re a lady. Once upon a time I was a gentleman. I don’t blame you if you wish to have Stephen or your father call me out.”

Samantha twisted away from him to smooth her gown, her shoulders rigid. “Do not worry, Lord Standish. Your secret…no, our secret…is safe. No one will ever know you kissed a lowly Buchanan.”

“Lady Samantha…”

“Please don’t say another word. I understand, my lord, I truly do.”

You understand nothing! I’m goddamned filth. Spying on you. Interrogating you. Using you. Finding out whether or not you have knowledge of or are involved in the activities of your father who may well be a bloody traitor.

“No. You don’t,” he bit out, running angry fingers through his hair. Thanks to his utter lack of control and weakness, he’d not only hurt her, he’d probably destroyed any chance of being able to complete his assignment. White would be furious and forced to assign a new operative to the task. That was, if Lady Samantha hadn’t already alerted her newly attentive father during one of their daily meals that others were interested in his activities.

Christ. Hell. Damnation. Fuck. The groaning scapegrace over in the corner had nothing on William Hastings when it came to bad behavior.

“Oh?” Lady Samantha snapped, her brown eyes flashing. “Exactly what is it that silly little me doesn’t understand, my lord?”

Good. Temper was far better than the hollow emptiness he’d seen in her eyes before. That stoic acceptance as a person braced themselves for yet another extended period of crushing loneliness, which he knew far too well.

“At age twenty, a great many things, my lady,” he said, forcing the words to be deliberately goading.

“I see,” she laughed, a horribly brittle sound that roiled his gut. “You want me to slap you. Will that make you feel better? A suitable punishment for your fall from grace?”

William stilled as the arrow found its mark. “Now you’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I?”

“Completely. And might I also suggest, Lady Samantha, that in future you avoid accompanying men like Sir Francis Quinn onto private balconies? Next time my fists might not be around to provide assistance.”

“Quite. Nor your lips to kiss me. Or your fingers to pinch my nipples, I daresay,” she replied softly.

He looked away and cleared his throat, anything to banish the memories of Lady Samantha in his arms, the feel of her satiny skin, and the taste of her mouth, from his mind. “We need to return to the musicale. Go to the powder room—it is three doors down from here—and pretend you have been attending to a torn hem. I’ll go now and find Tony Hartley, inform him of Sir Francis’s misfortune in being too intoxicated and tripping over furniture.”

“You have it all planned out. What skills of deception you possess, my lord.”

You have no idea.

“I am truly sorry, Lady Samantha. It won’t happen again.”

She lifted her chin. “Thank you for the clarification. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go and attend to that, er, troublesome hem.”

William clenched his fists as she swept past him like an empress, lest he pull her into his arms again. Once she was safely gone, he walked over to where Sir Francis still lay prone on the floor.

“Sir Francis.”

The baronet’s eyelids fluttered. Eventually one eye inched open, and when the man saw who was looming over him, he flinched. “Don’t…hit me…again.”

“That depends entirely on you, sir. If you go straight home, and never speak a word of this to anyone, you will be quite well. If, however, you feel compelled to speak of me, or worse, Lady Samantha, things will go very, very badly for you. Am I making myself clear?”

“Yes, my lord,” croaked Sir Francis. “I was an idiot. Too much brandy.”

“Indeed. In future, I suggest that you never again venture near Lady Samantha. You know she has friends who care a great deal about her wellbeing? Rest assured those friends would think nothing of eliminating any threat to her happiness.”

Sir Francis went parchment pale. “I believe I shall go on a voyage. Several interests in India and Ceylon that need checking on.”

“A sound idea. Good evening to you.”

And with that, William turned on his heel and left the antechamber.

He had a host to apologize to. Thank God Tony had worked at the Home Office for many years before his forced retirement thanks to a leg injury sustained in a successful raid on some French smugglers. He would accept an explanation short on facts and long on words unsaid. Actually, speaking with Tony would be the easiest part of his evening.

Speaking with White, and indeed, his next encounter with Lady Samantha Buchanan—those were different matters entirely.