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“I received a summons—”

Andrew stopped short, for while the admiral and Rickman were there, so was another man. One he’d never seen before.

“Captain, good of you to join us,” said Rickman, gesturing to an empty chair facing the three seated men.

Andrew lowered himself into the chair, unable to shake the feeling that he was a prisoner about to face the judges who would sentence him to hang.

“You haven’t met Sir Newton Fitzgerald,” Rickman continued. Andrew noticed it wasn’t a question.

“A pleasure to meet one of our finest intelligence officers,” said Sir Newton with a nod.

Andrew stared hard at the man with the rounded, ruddy face. Although Newton was sitting with Andrew’s direct superiors in the War Office and the Royal Navy’s intelligence branch, respectively, Andrew didn’t know who the man was.

“It’s all right, Captain,” said the admiral with a laugh. “You can speak freely in front of Sir Newton.”

“Who are you?” Andrew asked, the instincts that had kept him alive for years firing fast. He didn’t like manufactured surprises. They tended to come with unpleasant consequences.

“I report directly to Sir Newton,” said Rickman with a significant look.

Andrew’s shoulders tensed. He’d never learned the chain of command at Home. Civilian or military, none of the field agents did. Thus, if an agent was ever captured or compromised, it would be impossible to uncover the depths of the most secretive unit of the War Office’s intelligence branch.

“I’ve been watching your career with great interest for many years,” said Sir Newton, assessing Andrew from over the top of a pair of half-moon spectacles attached to his waistcoat by a silver chain. “Your work in Constantinople was appreciated.”

Andrew fought the urge to rub at the itchy new scar on his upper arm. It had been delivered to him by a sword-wielding Russian scout who would now be sporting a wicked scar of his own across his belly—if the man had survived the encounter and the plunge off the docks and into the Bosporus . . .

“Anything for Queen and country,” he said, biting down on the increasing bitterness he knew had begun to creep into his voice over the last few years.

The three men looked at each other.

“That’s why we called you here today,” said the admiral.

“We have a new mission for you,” said Rickman.

The oppressive weight of obligation pressed down on Andrew’s throat, but he threw up a hand to stop the men before his resolve softened. “No.”

“I beg your pardon?” Admiral Perry asked with a frown.

“I have the privilege of deciding when I retire. That was part of the agreement. Work for Home and I can leave whenever I choose. I choose now.”

“Your bloody agreement can go hang!” Rickman nearly roared, but a look from Sir Newton sent the man’s mouth snapping shut.

“Let’s be reasonable, Rickman. If the captain wishes to retire, that’s his choice,” said Sir Newton in the same easy tone a man might use to try to talk reason into two drunks intent on brawling in the street.

“I’m a civilian. Not a naval man,” Andrew said, crossing his arms.

“Quite right,” said Sir Newton, “but I believe this assignment will be of particular interest to you.”

Andrew’s eyes narrowed. “I doubt it, sir.”

Sir Newton reached over and plucked a dossier up from the desk behind which Rickman usually ruled. “Would you like to know what it is?”

Of course he would. He’d been on countless missions, but even he didn’t entirely understand how they all fit together. Every bit of information was another piece of the puzzle that was Home’s operations.

“If you read me in, will it be seen as an implicit agreement that I’ll take the mission?” he asked.

Sir Newton chuckled. “Spoken like a true skeptic.”

“Or a man who likes to know all of his options,” Andrew said.