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Mariah shifted uneasily. This was dangerous. “He was tall, but rather unexceptional looking. I hardly remember, in fact.” True enough, she supposed. “It was only his mocking manner and his challenge that I would not be able to discover his name! What a thoroughly infuriating man!”

Cassandra patted her hand. “They all are, dear, at one point or another. But it matters not. I daresay you’ll run into him again. London isn’t very large. It’s only a matter of time before you discover him.”

Mariah propped her chin on one hand. “I suppose.” So Harry had won this point; she hadn’t been able to learn his name on her own. “Wretched man,” she muttered.

He wasn’t worth this much aggravation. If he didn’t have the backbone to introduce himself, he wasn’t much of a gentleman at all. Let him find her again. She wouldn’t spend another minute thinking of him.

* * *

At ten minutes before eight in the morning, Harry arrived at his other employment, the far less thrilling—though also less dangerous—side of his job. Slipping in through the servants’ door, he winked at the scullery maid sweeping the floor but didn’t dare linger.

He hurried up three flights of back stairs, pushing his spectacles up on his nose. Unlike Wroth’s useless lenses, he actually needed these ones. While his vision was perfect at a distance, things closer than arm’s length, particularly small type, were a bit fuzzy. Today he would be spending the next several hours as Lord Crane’s private secretary, reading and writing extremely small writing, and so wore his own spectacles.

He walked down the corridor and tapped lightly at a door. Jasper, Crane’s valet, opened it. “Good morning, Mr. Towne.”

“Good morning, Jasper.” Harry stepped into the room as the valet left, then waited to be acknowledged by the slight figure sitting at a mahogany table, bent over a book with a magnifying lens in his hand. Who would have thought such a feeble old man would be one of the most important men in England, worth protecting at all costs?

For that was his charge—his, and Ian’s, and Angelique’s and Alec Brandon’s. Protect Lord Crane, the Earl of Doncaster, and the Marquis of Bethwell against any and all threats, even at the risk of their own lives. They had only been told a little about the assignment, but Harry read the newspapers. It wasn’t quite revolution in the air, but unrest was widespread.

At a rally the previous year featuring the Radical orator Henry Hunt, armed soldiers had ridden into a crowd filled with working men and women, killing several and wounding hundreds. It had done nothing to quell the discontent with the government in the wake of high food prices, falling wages, and a lack of parliamentary representation that might address the issues. There had actually been a plot to assassinate the members of the Cabinet, foiled with the help of government spies. Lord Liverpool, Stafford had told them in magnificent understatement, was concerned; hence, their placement with important men for protection.

Lord Crane had been identified as a likely target because his counsel was still invaluable to the Prime Minister. Crane had suffered an attack of palsy earlier in the year, leaving his hands unsteady. Stafford seized upon the opportunity to get one of his agents into Crane’s household, though Crane was notorious for disdaining secretaries and conducting most of his correspondence himself. Thus Harry—under the name Henry Towne—was sent to apply for the position, charged with ensuring Crane’s safety without letting him suspect he was doing it.

It certainly gave Harry an intimate view of the viscount. Thin, almost gaunt, with a face like a hawk, Crane was as renowned for his legal brilliance as for his fierce will and even fiercer temper. He was as likely to sit and lecture Harry for an hour on some obscure legal point as he was to upbraid him for not copying out a letter fast enough. Harry had quickly learned three things in his employ: not to be late, not to be meek, and never to make a mistake.

Now he stood at attention just inside the door, waiting. His muscles ached for a stretch, even a little easing of his posture, but he didn’t move. He knew this routine by now, and fidgeting was not permitted. The only thing he could do was flex his toes, which were still sore from last night. If only he could take off his shoes again and feel the cool night air on his feet...

That thought revived his spirits a great deal. By morning his indiscreet conversation with Lady Mariah had taken on a new character in his mind. No, she wouldn’t want him if she knew who he was—but she didn’t know, and he certainly couldn’t tell her. It was quite likely he would cross her path again, since he’d be following her father from now on. It was almost his duty to think of her, if only to brace himself against their next encounter. He swallowed a smirk, for working so hard to justify his own desires, and allowed himself a few pleasurable moments anticipating his next glimpse of her.

The silence in the room wore on. Crane made no sign he was aware of Harry’s presence, but Harry knew better than to think this was the case. He kept his eyes on the far wall and concentrated on his breathing, willing away the remnants of weariness and sleep and illicit interest in young ladies. He knew there was a long day ahead of him.

“You are late.” Crane pronounced each word as if it were a revelation.

Harry hadn’t been late since his third day, when he came in as the clock struck eight and Crane informed him it would cost him a day’s wages. “No, sir.”

“You are,” the viscount said firmly.

“No, sir,” repeated Harry in the same calm voice. The first week, he had been all deference, until he realized Crane actually wanted someone to disagree with him.

Crane pursed his lips as the clock began to chime the hour, then turned back to his work. “See that it doesn’t happen again,” he muttered.

“Yes, sir.” Harry moved to the small writing desk near the window.

“Take a letter.” His employer didn’t wait for him to seat himself or uncap his ink. “To John Rusk at Brimstow. Mind the peach trees particularly this season, as I hear there is a blight...”

Hurriedly taking his seat, Harry began making notes as fast as he could. Rusk was the head gardener at Crane’s country estate, Brimstow, and Harry had learned early that Rusk was Lord Crane’s most valued correspondent. Day after day Harry transcribed long letters to the gardener, filled with precisely detailed instructions for the care of the viscount’s extensive gardens. It shouldn’t have mattered much, but after a month of taking notes on the proper way to rake a rose bed and which shrubs to plant near which tree at Brimstow, he would have been happy never to see another tulip bulb or leaf ever again. It was rather cruel of Crane to keep him out so late at night, then try to bore him to sleep the next day, Harry thought with a dash of black humor as he filled page after page with notes on peach trees, which apparently required very particular care.

After Crane finished dictating the letter, he waved Harry off to copy it out. “Go to, Towne. That letter must go off today.”

Letters to Brimstow were always Crane’s highest priority. Harry took out several sheets of paper as a servant slipped into the room and brought him the post. There were four invitations—it seemed London hostesses weren’t put off by Crane’s abrupt manners—a letter from Brimstow, and a note from Lord Billington seeking Crane’s advice on some legal question. Harry detailed the post, hoping against hope that Billington’s letter—which couldn’t possibly be about fruit trees—would receive some notice, but the viscount merely grunted and took the gardener’s message, ignoring the rest.

“Good morning, Uncle!” Lord Crane’s nephew, Tobias, came in. A jovial, handsome fellow, Tobias had taken up residence in the house when the palsy struck Crane, but what good he did his uncle was beyond Harry. Tobias enjoyed society and exercise and gambling, all of which Crane despised. Harry was privately certain one of them would drive the other mad before the end of the Season, with his money going on Tobias driving Crane mad first. Crane liked being grim and dour, while Tobias was anything but, and the two clashed regularly.

Harry lowered his head over his work. Crane hunched in his deep leather chair, pointedly turning his shoulder to the younger man.

Tobias was undaunted. He rubbed his hands together. “It’s a fine day out. Would you care to take a ride in my new curricle?”

Harry supposed one should credit Tobias for persistence, but no one could call his efforts successful.