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But why is she working now?

The question had nagged at him from the moment he’d heard she’d gone into trade. Lavinia was beautiful, a gentleman’s daughter, and a young widow. Surely she wouldn’t have had difficulties finding another husband, but instead she was the mistress of her own shop, making her way in the world. He couldn’t help but admire her for it.

The realization that there was something he liked about her had buzzed around in his head, persistent as a swarm of summer gnats, as he’d been trying to fall asleep the previous night. Night was, he knew from years of experience, a dangerous time to think of Lavinia. When they’d been engaged and he’d been at sea, that had been the time when he’d recalled the night of their engagement and every stolen moment they’d spent wrapped around each other. His blood would heat when he recalled the dig of her nails into his back as he sank into her, and the way her muscles clenched around his cock. In his memories, she’d been glorious and gorgeous and his.

The problem with such vivid recollections was that even when he’d returned to Eyemouth and learned of her betrayal, they hadn’t left him. For years those memories had plagued him, creeping into his thoughts in his unguarded moments, and now she was here in front of him. Now he was forced to be near her, when all he wanted to do was slam the door on this part of his life and settle into his quiet retirement. Instead she was so close that he could reach out and touch her—which he emphatically did not want to do, even if every glancing look at her lips reminded him of the way she used to sigh into their kisses and melt under him.

“Andrew,” Gillie said, shaking a box of buttons at him like a rattle.

With a scowl, he took it and dumped the contents into the open drawer.

“There’s no point in pretending that you’re a notions merchant who is restocking his wares if you don’t actually restock your wares,” she said.

She was right, not that he was going to admit it. Instead, he yanked open another drawer with such force that the buttons in it cascaded all over the wood floor.

“Damn,” he swore.

“I’m sure you have other skills, but playing at being a shopkeeper isn’t one of them,” said his liaison with a laugh.

“I’m not supposed to be working at all. I’d given up my ship, I’d traded in my sea clothes for shore clothes, and I was all set to retire, but Home interceded.”

Gillie’s eyes softened. “They have a nasty habit of doing that. Come along, I’ll help you clean up the buttons.”

They spread out, scouring the floor for rogue buttons.

“We’ll be finding them in corners for weeks,” said Gillie.

Three weeks, maximum. That had been the agreement he’d had with Home, and he had no intention of being here for any longer than it took to stop Wark.

“Can I ask you a question?” asked Gillie from her corner as she plucked up buttons that had come to rest against the baseboards.

Andrew grunted. He’d only known Gillie Gibson for a day, but he suspected that if she wanted the answer to a question, nothing would stop her until she got it.

“Did Home authorize you to pay Mrs. Parkem two thousand pounds?”

He hesitated. “No.”

Gillie tilted her head as though considering this. “I thought not. I have to fight with them for every sheet of writing paper and every lump of coal. Where will the money come from?”

“I’ll write to Rickman,” he said, even though he knew that in all likelihood that would be a lost cause. He could practically hear the ass pontificating about how an agent of Home should be able to recruit an asset with charm, brute force, or threat—not that Rickman had any experience in the field.

“And when Rickman says no?” Gillie prompted.

He flattened himself on the ground to reach for a button that had rolled under the shop’s counter. “I’ll pay it myself if I have to.”

“Two thousand?” The skepticism in Gillie’s voice was clear. “What sailor has two thousand pounds lying around?”

“I was very good at my work, never married, and never had children. The last two can be expensive pursuits,” he said.

“Will working with your former fiancée be a problem?” Gillie asked.

That was the trouble with spies. They collected information about everyone and then used it for their own advantage. Even their own colleagues weren’t safe.

“My past with Lavinia will not be an issue,” he bit out. “There are things at stake that are more important than our pride.”

Gillie nodded. “Good.”

“Anything else?” he asked.