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Ian gave her a sour look. “Stafford doesn’t pay me enough to hide in Bethwell’s cupboard. I might see him tupping his wife and go blind from the sight.”

“No, you’d never see that,” replied Angelique. “He might chance to bend a maid over a chair, though. He likes the girl young, and the encounter quick.”

“Bloody lecher.” Ian put down his pen and shuffled through the pages. “This is all of them?”

“I’ll take them tonight.” Harry put out his hand. Usually Ian traipsed across town to deliver the reports, but since depriving himself of the illicit pleasure of visiting Mariah, Harry had become restive at nights. A walk would do him good, even if not to Doncaster House.

Ian tossed them across the table without protest. “More fool you. It’s a long walk.”

Harry shrugged, pulling on his coat. “I need the exercise.” He folded the sheaf into his pocket and grabbed a battered old cap from the assortment by the kitchen door. As he left, Ian was leaning back against the wall, arms folded behind his head, and saying to Angelique, “Now, if it were your cupboard I were to hide in, that would be a different story...” and Angelique was smiling at him in that cat-like way she had. Harry tugged on the cap and slammed the door behind him. And Brandon gave him a hard time for thinking with his cock.

The delivery point was a draper’s shop in Cheapside, with a narrow alley just wider than a man’s shoulders running between it and the neighboring chemist. All the shops were closed up for the night, the street quiet; no one was about to see what he did. Harry turned down the alley, pried away the loose shutter around the back of the draper’s, and deposited the reports through the slot hidden underneath, hearing them slide down a chute with a tinny hiss. He didn’t know who owned the shop, which looked neat and respectable enough, but Phipps would get the reports, probably within a few hours. He slid the shutter back into place and walked away, his duty done but his mind uneasy.

It was a long walk back to Fenton Lane, but Harry didn’t even proceed in that direction. Instead he just walked, deep in thought. Why did it matter what time Doncaster went to his club, so long as he returned home safely? Stafford’s new demands were complicating the once simple business, turning him and his companions into hapless clerks. If a madman were to attack, Harry thought darkly, he would have to stop and note the time before intervening to save his man’s life. It didn’t make sense, and one thing he had always believed in was Stafford’s ruthless sense.

So what was the truth? If the danger to Bethwell, Crane, and Doncaster had grown so markedly, why not take steps to put them on guard? Bethwell still went whoring and gambling in Whitechapel, where he might be gutted by an angry prostitute or her bull. Doncaster went about as publicly as ever, and even Crane rode out in his barouche on fine days to take the air. Shouldn’t they know the government had evidence of threats against them? Shouldn’t they be warned to take more care? And just what was the Home Office’s interest in hour-by-hour diaries of their actions?

Harry stopped and took a deep breath, realizing his mind was wandering down dangerous paths. There was a pub ahead; he could use a pint, to calm his head. He pushed open the door and slid onto a bench in the shadows, lifting one hand to beckon a serving girl. Within a few minutes he had a foaming mug of ale in front of him, and he hunched over it, brooding.

Stafford had to be lying to them about something. Harry wasn’t much surprised at this, as Stafford’s stock in trade was lies. And, Harry was compelled to admit, he had his own secrets, despite the pledge of absolute loyalty Stafford had required. They were made for each other, he thought with a spark of black humor: two liars lying to each other.

Still, it was his life on the line, not John Stafford’s, and that made all the difference. It made a man more cynical and suspicious, knowing that his employer would sacrifice him without hesitation to achieve his goals, and then discovering that the employer was lying to him about even the fundamentals. So he drank his ale and thought of all the things about his job and his instructions that didn’t make sense.

A shout roused him. One of the serving maids had been sitting in a customer’s lap—a sailor, by his dress—laughing and smiling with him. Now she was on her feet, her hands on her hips and her nose in the air. She turned her back and walked away from the sailor, the imprint of her hand still clear on his face. Behind her, the sailor’s companions shouted at her back, some laughing, but he was red-faced with drink and too unsteady to follow. The woman made a rude gesture to them before swinging around another table.

Harry’s gaze lingered on her absently. Had he been to this tavern before? It was far from Fenton Lane, close to the docks and more frequented by sailors and dockworkers from Wapping. He rarely came out this way, and tonight only because he needed exercise before going to bed. But something about that woman was familiar in a strange way, as if he’d not only seen her before but seen her often.

She stopped at another table, taking an order. He watched her as she nodded. Not a friendly one, he thought as she snapped at the customer when he leaned forward and leered at her bosom. Not that tavern wenches were known for their genteel manners in any event, but this one⁠—

She turned her head then and Harry’s idle rumination stopped cold. Oh, he did know this one.

The woman grabbed two empty mugs from a nearby table and forged through the clutter of tables and men. He watched her shove chairs and arms to the side as she passed, and saw her kick more than one foot out of her path. He didn’t move but his gaze never left her. She collected more empty mugs and gave a table a half-hearted swipe with the tail of her apron, all with a hard frown on her face. She might be voluptuous, but her expression could cow any man—except Harry, who had no interest in her figure.

She turned sideways to edge between two tables. A man at one of them called out drunkenly to her and she turned, to tell him off, no doubt. But then Harry seized her wrist and yanked, pulling her backward and off-balance into his lap despite the splash of ale that flew out of the mugs as she dropped them, wetting his trousers. Before she could react, he bent her arm behind her back and wrapped his free arm around her waist, holding her tight.

Her eyes shot daggers at him as she twisted. “Let me go, mate. I’m not looking for a tumble tonight,” she warned in a plain, coarse accent.

“Aw, that’s fine wiv me,” he replied in kind, holding her in place despite her struggles. “All’s I want’s some conversation, sweeting.”

The patrons around him shouted with laughter as Harry cast an exaggerated look down her bodice. She hissed in fury. Harry ignored it all, holding her tight as she fought. She smelled of ale and sweat, not French perfume, but he knew exactly where he’d seen her before.

“Such a pretty thing. Come on, just a kiss, love.” More raucous appreciation around them. Harry lowered his voice to a bare murmur as he pressed his mouth against her ear. “Come down in the world a bit, haven’t you, Madame de la Tource? Last I saw of you, you were tempting Gerald Wollaston into a bit of treason.”

Her reaction was slight, but definite. Had Harry not been holding her pinned against him, he might not have felt it. But for a split second she froze, her muscles tensing before she recovered and hurled a vile epithet at him. He grinned as the crowd roared again, but he kept his attention focused on her.

“Who’s ‘at? I don’t know what you mean.” She twisted in his grip to peer at his face.

“I think you do,” he muttered back. “Just a quick tickle, mum,” he said out loud. “I promise, you won’t mind a bit...”

Her gaze sparkled with pure malice. “Let me go, or you’ll not have much to tickle the maids with anymore.”

Harry dragged her back, grinning lewdly when she shoved against his chest and bucked to escape. “I’ll take my chances.” Then more quietly: “I want answers.”

“Answers,” she sneered just as softly. “Yours is not to ask, just to do.”

Phipps’s words exactly. Harry blinked, startled, and she took advantage of his surprise to get one hand loose and slap him hard across the face. “Take that for your damned answer,” she cried. “And that⁠—”

Harry caught her wrist as she swung again. “Tell me,” he demanded through his teeth. “What was your role?”