Page 82 of Sir Durham’s Disarming Asset

“Indeed.” She picked up her glass and took a sip.

“Tell me what this is.”

“A list of English towns with the names of French spies in each location.”

He froze, his face going pale in the candlelight as he stared at her. “Vaillancourt’s?”

“Yes, it was his. I took it from his house the same way I took the other little book with all his debtors’ names.” She licked her bottom lip. “I had a lovely time stealing both of them.”

“But you did not take it to the Conciergerie. They would have…” He got to his feet, the book hanging from his fingers. “Cosette.”

She smiled, proud of her husband. “Of course.”

“How?”

“She came to visit me at Countess Nugent’s house just after gossip had spread about the other book I had taken—and given to the publishers on the Left Bank to record the information. I predicted,” she said with a nod, “Vaillancourt would realize it was I who had stolen that book, and I assumed that soon he would discover that this book was also missing.”

Rafe’s mouth dropped open for a second. But, in shock, he quickly snapped it shut.

“When Cosette came to call on me that day in Paris to bid me adieu, I thought her my best hope to bring the book to safety.”

“And if she and her father did not make it to England, then you—”

She shrugged. “I had done my best.”

He bent and took her in his arms. His lips to her temple, he said, “Who knows you possess it?”

“Only Cosette.”

“Are you certain? What of her father?”

“She says she has never told him about my book.”

“You believe her?”

Zeph gave a little shrug. “I do.”

He pulled back. “This was the reason you went to see her that day.”

“It was. She could not bring it to me to Gus’s house, and she could not give it to me with her father in attendance.”

Fear and sympathy lined his features. “They are all numbers.”

“Oh, but my darling husband,” she said, unable to contain her joy, “they are so much more.”

He scoffed, laughed, and then grew earnest with a glare of fear. “Of course. And with your expertise in numbers, you have decoded them.”

She widened her eyes and let her brows dance. “At the top of each page, the names of towns in England. From what I can tell,” she went on, “they are all towns along the southern coast of England.”

At length, he collected himself and asked, “And the numbers beneath each town?”

“Sets of numbers, actually. The names of French agents are first, to the left. I assume that is what they all are. You see, I have not decoded all of them yet. But because I see the name Faucon in one line—and on another page is the name La Mère—I assume all entries will be similar.”

“Dear God,” Rafe ground out.

“Names, such as Faucon, begin the line. And next to that, other names, such as Tauzain or Chaudry. Paul, by the way, seems to be his given name. Below that, often but not always, I think, are places where they can be found. As close to an address as one could hope.”

He stared at her, speechless.