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“I work for him.”

She gasped and backed as far away from him as the narrow bench permitted. “From the moment we met you have attempted to charm me into giving up that book. The only motive for such a campaign of deception has to be your belief that the book contains information your employer wants.”

“In that we agree. It’s no accident that your father gave you a ‘guide’ with a sequence of initials in the margins of its pages. You and I both heard your uncle describe your father’s long habit of using family names to identify places on maps. And you and I both suspect that the painting of Nelson above the staircase in what was once your father’s house conceals a map that is the key to unraveling your father’s journey and identifying England’s friends in the East. Have I left anything out?”

“You admit it all. You are no protocol officer. You were sent to spy on me.”

“I was.”

If she expected remorse, she heard none. His voice was hard and flat. “Then you and I must have no further connection.”

His gaze searched her face. “Ah, you think the big red-haired man betrayed him.”

“You know his name?”

“Goldsworthy. I’ve worked for him for a year. He’s as loyal a man as there is, as secret as the grave, and an enemy to all of England’s enemies. Don’t mistake him for your father’s real enemies.”

She turned her face straight ahead. There was no more to say. She could not credit his assertion of the big man’s honesty.

She did not quarrel with him about seeing her to the door or speaking with the guard. As she opened her door, he caught her by the arm one more time and spoke in a low voice.

“Before you go, there is one last thing you must allow me to tell you.”

“Must I?” She kept her gaze on her hand on the doorknob. She would not look again at the handsome face so near her own.

“Yes, because it concerns another to whom you would not wish to be unjust.”

“Very well.” She waited.

“Miranda Kirby, a girl of seventeen, is not my mistress. She is not under my protection. She is a husband hunter, like yourself, and she will, in time, make sure of her man before she offers up her person to him.”

“And you have not led her to believe that you will offer her marriage some day?”

“Far from it. I have proclaimed my unworthiness as a husband many a time.”

* * * *

At the appointed hour of the morning when by some persons’ reckoning it was still night, Jane, a shivering Nell by her side, knocked on the chemist’s shop door. Along the street a few lights gleamed in windows from which came the noise of reveling, but there was no one to observe the two cloaked women.

The door opened, and they hurried inside. Miranda faced them, cloaked and gloved herself. A candle on the counter cast a dim glow over the dark shelves.

Jane nerved herself to deal with the girl. “Did you bring the book?”

Miranda shook her head.

“You agreed to meet me with the book,” Jane protested.

“First, you must promise to give up Lord Hazelwood.”

“He is not mine to keep or to give, but I will cut my connection with him directly. You know where the book is? Where he lodges?”

Miranda nodded. “I deserve him, you know. I am kind to him when no one else is. I keep him fine. Everyone thinks ill of him, but I know the truth of his…character.”

“Then we are agreed.” Jane stuck out her hand in the English way, and after a brief hesitation, the girl took it.

“Come then,” she invited. “Be quick, say nothing, and mind your steps on the path. It’s icy.”

They left Nell in the shop with a second candle. Jane gave Nell’s hand a squeeze, and told her not to worry.