Frowning, Alex bit a nail-never a good sign.

Inwardly Daniel sighed, and continued, his tone steady and reassuring, “Hamilton’s gone to ground and-given the weather-is unlikely to move north for a day or so. But when he does, we’ll know of it before he crosses the Thames. As for the other two… a rider just came in with news.”

As he’d known it would, the information captured Alex’s immediate attention.

Inwardly smiling, Daniel went on, “Monteith’s ship, the one he took from Lisbon, has failed to reach port. It’s believed to have been lost in a storm in the Channel.” Catching Alex’s pale eyes, Daniel smiled coldly. “I think we can assume that, one way or another, Monteith is feeding the fishes as we speak.”

Alex flashed a chilly smile in response, but didn’t cease pacing. “We’ve heard nothing more about Carstairs?”

“No, but that may be to the good. It gives us time to deal with the others without having yet another on the doorstep.”

Alex grimaced. “True.”

Daniel waited, quietly pointed, for some explanation of Alex’s continuing concern.

Alex waved. “It’s this notion of a puppetmaster. More than a notion-there is someone behind this, driving the entire scheme, and we don’t know who he is. That, my dear, is what’s worrying me. I hate not knowing who our opposition is.”

Halting, Alex met Daniel’s eyes. “As I said earlier, this puppetmaster is someone with real power.”

“You’re sure it’s not St. Ives?”

“Yes. If what Roderick says is true, it won’t be him. St. Ives is… a lieutenant, if you like. Which only underscores our puppetmaster’s standing. He commands at a very high level, and he’s somewhere around here.” Alex sat on the bed and frowned up at Daniel. “It’s worrisome, to say the least, that we now have someone of that caliber involved.”

Daniel left the fire. Halting before Alex, he wondered what the correct thing to say was.

Alex could be difficult. Against that, Alex was rarely wrong.

“Perhaps,” Daniel ventured, “either Delborough or Hamilton might lead us to this puppetmaster-after we relieve them of their scroll-holders, of course.”

“Of course.” Alex sighed and fell back across the bed. “I just wish I could feel more confident that Delborough is the one carrying Roderick’s letter. That way, once we seize it, we can depart this drab, dreary, and oh-so-damp place, and never need to tangle with the puppetmaster.”

“I thought”-Daniel leaned over Alex-“that you reveled in taking on challenges.”

Alex smiled up at him, pale eyes like winter ice. “Only when I’m sure of winning, my dear. Only then.”

Twelve

December 17, 1822

Paignton Hall, Devon

Linnet was late down to breakfast. When she reached the breakfast parlor, she discovered that the cause of her lateness had already broken his fast and gone out riding with Charles and Deverell.

“Of course,” Penny said, “while they carefully did not say so, they’re eager to see if they can find any cult people who might be watching this place.”

From her position at the head of the table, Phoebe smiled at Linnet. “Did you sleep well?”

The question might have been innocent, except for the twinkle in her hostess’s eye.

Luckily, the question was one Linnet could answer with perfect truthfulness. “Yes.” Sitting opposite Penny, she shook out her napkin, turned to thank the butler as he set a rack of fresh toast before her. Turning back to her newfound friends, she said, also perfectly truthfully, “I was so worn out, I slept like the dead.”

Penny chuckled. Phoebe grinned.

After completing the ritual of nibbling on toast and sipping tea-a ritual not that much different from Linnet’s habitual breakfast at Mon Coeur-Phoebe and Penny declared they would help her pack, and then she could help them pack for themselves and their children.

They and their children kept her engaged and amused for most of the day, yet despite her involvement, again and again Linnet found her mind drifting to other matters. Personal matters.

Hardly surprising. Her impossible man was determined to marry her.

She hadn’t consciously thought of what his intentions had been, not until yesterday when the specter of him wanting her as his mistress had risen out of the revelation of his being an earl’s son, yet, contrary to what she’d allowed him to think, unconsciously she’d assumed marriage had been his goal.

Regardless, she hadn’t spent time considering the prospect because she’d been so sure they would part when he left Guernsey to pursue his mission, and the consequent separation would see the connection, and his impulse to marry her, wither and die. But now he’d taken her with him, and she’d decided-felt compelled-to remain by his side, no immediate separation was likely, and far from withering and dying, what had grown between them was deepening and burgeoning and growing ever stronger.

Sitting polishing her knives and cutlass on the window seat in her room while Phoebe and Penny sorted through the clothes-mostly theirs-they felt she should take, Linnet grappled with that fact. With the direction Logan had reiterated that morning in forceful, undeniable, senses-scrambling fashion. He was fixed on marrying her, and wasn’t merely in earnest, but determined, dogged, and as stubborn as she.

Most ladies would be in alt, delirious with delight, yet… she was who she was, and she’d given up all thoughts of marriage, laid all hope of it aside years ago. She was, after all, the virgin queen in her domain; she’d seen no way of marrying while retaining both the responsibility and the ability to act that was her birthright.

And it was that-the difficulties that arose from being a virgin queen-that Logan was challenging. She suspected he knew it, too. It was a question of power and command, and the wielding of both was something he understood, something of which he had long and real experience.

He was, in effect, challenging her. To reassess, to rethink. To explore.

To take the risk.

What if she married him? Could a marriage between them work?

How could she know? How could she tell?

Yet the answer was vital, and not just to her. Her whole household, her wards, all who sailed for Trevission Ships, would be affected if things went wrong.

That was one great unknown. Another hurdle was, to her at least, utterly obvious. She might have been born a lady-indeed, she could correctly claim to be the Honorable Linnet Trevission-yet her life had never been that of a lady, certainly not the sort to marry the son of an earl…

Even as her mind stalled, Penny came over, Linnet’s leather breeches in her hands.

“I am still insanely jealous, but at least I’ll shortly have a pair of my own. I wasn’t sure if you roll them or fold them to pack.”

“Roll.” Linnet took them and showed her. “The fewer creases you put in them, the longer they’ll last.”

They chatted for some minutes about the care of fine leather, what to do, what to avoid, then Phoebe called.

“Linnet, come and decide what gown you’ll wear tomorrow.” Staring at the options laid upon the bed, Phoebe frowned. “I was wondering if there’s any way you might wear your cutlass, but disguise it.”

Even as they assessed the possibilities, Linnet’s reservation over not being the right sort of lady for Logan resonated in her head.

Finally, she sat on the bed and looked up at Phoebe and Penny. “Tell me-before you were wed, was there ever any time when you wondered if you were… I can’t think how to put this, but enough of a lady for him?”

Both Phoebe and Penny looked at her, then, sobering, sank down onto the counterpane.

“For me,” Penny said, “it wasn’t so much that. I’m the daughter of an earl, and I’ve known Charles all my life. We moved in the same social circles and our families were close. It wasn’t anything social that was my problem-it was more if I was woman enough to accept all of him, all the parts he’d kept hidden from us all, not just me, but his whole family. It was like trying to embrace a man where half of him remained permanently in shadow. I wondered, at the time, whether I could be strong enough to see him all, know him all, and yet continue to love him all-not just the laughing buccaneering adventurer that anyone with eyes can see, but the devoted and deadly spy beneath.” She paused, and an expression Linnet could only define as serene joy passed over her features as she smiled. “But I discovered I was strong enough, and I’m still reaping the rewards.”

“Hmm.” Phoebe tapped her chin. “I did wonder at the time if I was suitable-suitably suitable, I suppose you might say. I was already immersed in the agency, it took up most of my time, and I’d convinced myself that marriage was not for me.” She smiled, the expression as joyous as Penny’s. “Deverell convinced me otherwise, but I can see parallels with your situation.” Phoebe met Linnet’s eyes, understanding in hers. “The thing one needs to remember is, while we may not be the most conventional of ladies, they are, indubitably and indisputably, not conventional gentlemen.”

“That’s entirely correct.” Penny nodded sagely. “Our gentlemen are more. And as such, it’s been my observation that conventional ladies are not to their taste, and further, are highly unlikely to be able to handle them.” She gave a more decisive nod. “That’s my tale, and I intend to adhere to it. However”-she rose-“you might want to consider that not one of Royce’s ex-operatives, no more than Royce himself, has married a conventional lady.”

She paused, head tilted, then said, “Minerva is probably the most outwardly conventional, and Letitia and Clarice-you’ll meet them all at Elveden. Yet even those three… once you learn of their backgrounds, and if you give them a challenge, a problem, or heaven forbid threaten anyone they hold dear, then you’ll uncover something quite outside the realm of the conventional.”