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“Andrew—”

“Send a note to the shop asking for twelve horn buttons. That will be the signal that you need to see me immediately,” he said.

“No letters then.”

The letters. Of course she’d have to bring those up. She’d been faithful in her correspondence—he couldn’t fault her there—and in return he’d written her stacks of letters with pages about the adventures and boredoms at sea, how he missed her, and, most depressingly, how he loved her. How he thought he loved her, he immediately corrected himself. At every chance he could get, he posted them, knowing they’d eventually make their way back to her no matter how many ships and port towns they had to travel through. Just like him.

Only she hadn’t been waiting when he arrived.

“I can assure you,” he said, “my letter-writing days are behind me. On certain days, as necessary, you will receive a delivery. It will include a message on a piece of paper wrapped into a bolt of the same muslin you use for draping. It will be a book cipher. I assumed it would be too large a volume for your reticule, but I’ll have it sent along to the shop today.”

“And what can I expect on this paper?” she asked.

“The time we’ll meet the following day and any information you need to know about a change in location if I feel as though this spot is compromised.”

“It’s a set of benches in the middle of the busiest park in Edinburgh. When will it not be compromised?” she asked.

“You know, there was another way we could’ve met like this,” he snapped, something inside him breaking.

“What is that?” she asked.

“We could’ve pretended to be lovers.”

She blanched as soon as the words were out of his mouth, and he immediately regretted them. It had been a cheap shot, yet it had felt good to say. What sort of cad did that make him?

He should apologize, but the words were slow to come. He watched Lavinia raise her head and slice her gaze over to him.

“No one would believe that,” she said.

An insult for an insult. That was fair. He deserved the blow to his manly pride, and a blow it was. For years he’d held close the bitter truth that he had never been good enough for Lavinia Malcolm. A ferryman’s son and a gentleman’s daughter? It had been impossible, even if they’d refused to believe that.

“What I’m more concerned about,” she continued in a calm, cool voice, “is what people will believe.”

“What do you mean?”

“Shopkeepers have a certain reputation, and dressmakers even more so. I suppose there’s something sensual and decadent about the drape of silk against the skin and the richness of fabric that invites men’s imaginations. All of that effort that goes into clothing a woman somehow leaves us vulnerable and bare.

“And then there’s the matter of being a widow,” she continued. “A woman of experience isn’t every man’s desire, but it certainly appeals to a large enough swath of the population that it becomes inconvenient to live on one’s own. I need you to understand that’s what you’re asking me to walk into by encouraging Wark. Because just asking questions and seeing who comes and goes while fitting his mother at their home won’t be enough, will it? You’ll want me to become closer with him, and that means allowing the man to spend time with me.”

The low sickness in his stomach was back. He was thrusting a woman into a situation where she could potentially be ruined. It went against every instinct he had as a man, no matter his feelings about Lavinia and their shared past.

“I wouldn’t begrudge you if you’re having second thoughts.” He selfishly half hoped she’d nod and admit to cold feet. It would be easier not to see her. Easier not to have to worry about her or think that he’d sent her straight toward a man with such obvious designs on her.

“Is the two thousand pounds a promise?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll do the work.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why did two thousand pounds persuade you?”

Her back stiffened an almost imperceptible degree, but to a man who’d spent his boyhood with her as the center of the world she might as well have shouted her discomfort.

“It’s a great deal of money,” she said.

“Enough to risk your reputation?”

“Doesn’t every man have his price?” she asked.