Page 63 of Sir Durham’s Disarming Asset

Beneath Deal was another set of numbers that read: 1/12/12/1/14. Allan. If this were the name of a town on the coast like Deal, she had no idea. But she would ask Gus or Kane. Rafe would certainly know.

But she rushed on to the next line that read: 13/2/18/2. She stared at her description. Mere. La Mère!

This was the spy who had followed Rafe, Halsey, and Inès to Paris. The one who had sought to do away with Inès and with us all—and who died in the Seine!

This was more than she had imagined the book would yield.

She had to get up and pace to keep herself from bursting at her discovery.

Studying the sequence of that first line gave away his method. From that, it was child’s play.

Monsieur Vaillancourt was no genius. A master of manipulations and terror, especially to women, but no great creator of code.

Just to satisfy her sense of triumph, she quickly scanned the other pages. At the top of one was 2/1/-/8.

She grinned, deliciously happy. Even without the third letter that Vaillancourt had failed to insert—poor man—she knew the town. Bath.

Zeph’s triumph swept through her like a storm. Her first thought was to run to Rafe and tell him, but of course, ten o’clock at night was not a time that she could be running out to knock on a man’s door. Not after her rash visit to Cosette today.

She took a turn about her room, stoked the fire, and returned to her chair. She needed more.

She turned the page back to Deal.

She grinned.

Six lines listed here.

Some of the names were French euphemisms, like La Mère. Chat and Fleur. Names for females? One seemed more English and male, like Allan. Some had other numbers after them in long lines.

When the hall clock chimed two, Zeph took the red book to bed with her and tucked it under her mattress. In the morning, she would figure out a way to lock it away from prying eyes. Until she managed that, she would carry it with her.

And tomorrow, she would figure out whom to tell first. Rafe should be the one. But others would want the information, too. Gus. Kane. Scarlett.

The list went on: Carlisle, Halsey, O’Neill. They were all involved together.

They were spy catchers. Spies themselves. That she had learned from sitting there, listening to their stories.

And now?

She rubbed her arms and sank beneath her covers.

Now I am one too.

Chapter Seventeen

For days, Rafe saw no one, avoided work and his accounts, and went nowhere of any import. He received Carlisle and Halsey, O’Neill too. They reported on their hunt for Faucon. They had combed the southern coast, but could not find him. Rafe, his mind consumed with Faucon and the threat to Zeph, refused all invitations. But one night, driven by the need to put his eyes on Zephora, he went to a ball given by the Applebys.

What a mistake that was!

Zeph was there, escorted by Gus and Kane. As the orchestra struck up each new song, Zeph took the floor with a different man.

Rafe left early, unable and unwilling to admit to himself that he was a jealous monster who needed her all to himself.

He gave up on the world once more and each day, in solitude, walked along the Thames or rode in Hyde Park.

His butler, Simpson, asked after his health. He was fine, he told the man.

His cook, evidently hearing from the butler about Rafe’s state of mind, made his favorite meals.