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Andrew sighed and ran an assessing eye over the man. Palmer-Smythe was hardly old enough to have seen action, let alone to have done anything more than study military strategy, and in Andrew’s opinion, theory and strategy were no substitute for real experience.

“Sir, were you ever in battle?” he asked.

The Queen’s Guardsman drew his shoulders back, ready to be offended by whatever he believed the implications of the question to be. “I’ve served Her Majesty loyally for nearly a decade.”

That was a no then.

“While I was never in the Royal Navy, my work brought me into enough skirmishes to have shown me that battles are fought differently in different places,” Andrew explained. “You have to understand the context of your surroundings to know the merits of an ambush over a siege or a phalanx. You ask yourself whether the enemy will have cover and whether he can beat a retreat if the battle isn’t going the way he planned. You prepare for the fight you’ll face, not the one you hope will materialize.

“After giving it a great deal of thought, I believe Miss Gibson is right. She argued days ago that the prince’s ball is the one place that makes sense for this attack. The parade is out in the open, it will be heavily policed, and you can’t control for the variables that might thwart an attack. The prince’s ball is a closed space with easy exits, if this group knows what they’re doing. It will also be a controlled environment where they can endeavor to isolate the prince. It would require little effort to slip in and commit an act of violence against the crown if you had the right sort of invitation.”

Palmer-Smythe’s face grew red and he shot up out of his seat. “That you’re suggesting that a peer of the realm or another such gentleman would be behind something like that is ridiculous.”

“You have nothing to lose in believing us,” said Gillie, leaning over the low table as she looked up at Palmer-Smythe. “Cancel the visit.”

Palmer-Smythe burst out laughing. “There is no chance of that, young lady. The heir to the British throne won’t be seen cowering on the off chance something might happen.”

“Then cancel the ball,” Gillie argued.

“No,” said the man.

“Then at least tighten security, flood the ballroom with guards, allow us access to the prince, and with any luck we won’t have to do anything rash,” she said.

Palmer-Smythe look at her askance. “If you two manage to secure invitations, which I very much doubt, because they were printed weeks ago and no one will be giving them up, then you may attend just like any other subject. However, if you think I’ll be bullied by the War Office about how to secure the royal who is my responsibility, then you’re both suffering delusions. This meeting has been nothing more than a waste of my time.”

“But what if it isn’t?” said Andrew quickly.

Disgust curled Palmer-Smythe’s lips. “But it is.”

“Sir—”

The man cut Gillie off with a shake of his head, addressing himself only to Andrew in a way he clearly knew would get the Scotswoman’s back up. “You two are distracting me from the real work that needs to be done here.”

“And what would that be?” Andrew asked.

“Making sure this visit goes off without a hitch,” said Palmer-Smythe. Then he picked up a stack of papers on his desk and began to shuffle them into individual piles.

They’d been dismissed. Palmer-Smythe didn’t see the urgency of their meeting, and it made Andrew want to shake him, rattling the teeth in his head until the Queen’s Guardsman saw sense.

If the prince is assassinated . . .

Andrew refused to entertain that possibility. It wasn’t just the prince who would be put in danger if Wark and his coconspirators were successful. By neglecting to do anything, Palmer-Smythe, the Queen’s Guard, Gillie, and he were all responsible for putting everyone who attended that party in a week’s time in danger.

Slowly he rose, a headache rolling through his head with brutal consistency. When Gillie caught his gaze, he jerked his head in the direction of the door. If Palmer-Smythe refused to listen to reason, they’d have to find their own way of preventing Wark.

Out on the street, Gillie planted her hands on her hips and huffed out a sigh.

“I’d call that meeting an unqualified disaster,” she said.

“The man is an ass who can’t see anything past the shine of his ceremonial sword.”

She turned to him, dismay etched on her face. “What are we going to do?”

He caught Gillie’s elbow and steered her down the street. “How far does your Mrs. Sullivan’s influence reach?”

“It depends what it is you want done,” she said.

“An invitation. Two, if she can get them.”