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“I can’t imagine what service I could offer in those circumstances. It’s a three-week sail to St. Petersburg, and that under fair conditions.”

He would be away from Sophronia for months. She could wreak whatever havoc she wanted upon his household while he was gone. She would win their wager for certain, without Rowden to provide a check, and then she would no doubt press her mad point about finding someone for him to marry.

He would refuse whomever she picked. He knew that already.

“It’s information we need, old man,” Foster said. “You know you can charm your way into those drawing rooms and card parlors.” He cocked a brow in a knowing manner. “The beds of the important mistresses.”

Rowden’s smile was a baring of teeth. The last thing he wanted at this precise moment in time was an assignment to seduce a woman. He’d done it in his younger and wilder days, when he didn’t care whose body was beneath his hand, so long as it was warm and soft and feminine. That was no longer the case. He was growing selective in his old and surly age.

“You must have other agents who can find your information, who have a grasp of the language.”

“I think you underestimate your talents, my friend. Your uncle’s name can get you into the high places where Grenville can go, but men talk more freely around you. And your, shall we say, reputation lets you into the dodgier places our other agents wouldn’t know how to navigate without losing their purse or their head.”

Rowden watched as Sophronia somehow transferred herself from Keeling’s arm to his mother’s. Whatever the two women were discussing made the curve of Keeling’s mouth turn sardonic. Their absorption excluded him, exactly the opposite of what he had intended. Keeling turned abruptly to Lily, trying to effect an introduction, but Giles kept her arm tightly clasped to his side during their entire exchange.

Rowden could understand how Keeling felt. Cut out of the company. Left apart.

“You’ll have to ask someone else,” Rowden said. “I’m needed here.”

Foster turned his back to the group, facing the panorama. The view before them was of fishing boats on the sea. One man, alone in a small boat, was endeavoring to haul up a burdened net far too big for him. In attempting all, he was going to capsize his boat and lose not just his catch but his life.

“Needed how?” Foster asked. “Your partners can run the Albion in your absence. They have before. Your uncle doesn’t rely on you. You have no children, no wife. I didn’t gather that you think much of your mistress.” He paused. “As for Giles—he’s a grown man. He ought to be able to look after himself. Especially if you get him a wife.”

“I am about that business as we speak,” Rowden growled.

Every word Foster said sank like fangs into his flesh. He had nothing, and he was nothing. He’d been doing his damnedest to hide it from everyone, but even Foster, a casual acquaintance whose path only crossed Rowden’s when he wanted something, could see the emptiness of Rowden’s life.

No one needed him. He did not matter to anyone. He could fall in the Thames and be carried out to sea, and the only lament to be said over his loss would be Atwood and Pearse wondering how this would hurt their income.

A band of fire choked his throat, as if a collar of hot iron had been clapped around his neck. The detailed strokes of the painting before him blurred and ran.

A soft pressure on his hand, the press of a kid glove on his fingers, brought him out of the storm. He blinked and looked down into Sophronia’s face.

“Rowden,” she said softly. “I need you.”

He cleared his throat, certain he hadn’t heard her correctly. He gripped the railing, holding on until the room stopped swaying like a boat at sea. When he finally had his balance, he sought for his voice.

“I beg your pardon.”

Her hand still rested on his, the kid glove soft against his skin. She peered into his eyes as if she could read every emotion there. He tried, too late, to shutter his thoughts against her. She’d always been able to see into him. Once, it had been a convenient means to communicate. Now, he feared she could use that knowledge to destroy him.

Yet her hand was a life raft, not a stone on his chest. She was holding him above water, not pushing him down.

“We need you,” she repeated, “to settle something for us.”

Her face was so close that her breath wafted across his cheek. She smelled like wild thyme, a scent that burrowed into brain and made him feel the top of his head were lifting away. She was close enough that he could bend his head and press his mouth to hers.

His throat went dry.

He focused his eyes on her lips to decipher what she was saying. Something about banks and buildings.

“We are trying to recall the architect who is enlarging the Prince’s house in Brighthelmstone,” she said, with the patience of one speaking to a fever victim. “The only name I can think of is Soane, who is rebuilding the Bank of England, but Giles insists it is someone else.”

“Henry Holland.” Rowden stared into her face. “The same architect Prince George has working on Carlton House.”

Her lips curved in satisfaction. “I knew you would know.”

She held his gaze for a moment, and that smile worked its way inside him. A golden glow sank through his skin and seeped through his veins. The roaring emptiness that had swooped him up a moment ago set him down, gently, then ebbed away like the tide. His boots were secure on this floor. He was upright in this room. Sophronia held his hand, after a fashion, her fingers still splayed across his.