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“You saw it,” she hissed back. “Poor Polly must miss you dreadfully.”

Harry squeezed her wrist tighter. “Why? What were you after?”

She raised her eyebrows in scorn. “The same thing you were.” Her mouth curled with mockery as her voice dropped. “Didn’t think you were the only one he had on Wollaston, did you?”

“No,” he said evenly. “But I didn’t know about you. Why?”

Some of her animosity relented. She must know as well as he did what would happen if he stood up and named her a government agent. Just in the time he’d been nursing his ale this evening Harry had heard enough rebellious talk and inflammatory boasts to land half the patrons in Newgate with Sir Gerald.

She calmed a bit, draping one arm around his neck. “All right, let’s see the coin,” she said for the benefit of the audience. Then, under the racket of catcalls and laughter, she whispered. “They suspected him, so I set the trap and he fell into it. Your test was to turn the key. And you did it, aye? Good boy. I expect it’s worked out well for you. But if you call me out here and now, you’ll not be in line for such plum jobs again. So think carefully, right?”

This time Harry let her go when she elbowed him in the ribs and jerked free. Everyone around him shouted as she stormed off toward the back room, some with glee and some with disappointment. Harry ducked his head and waved one hand, nodding as a few fellows called out to him not to give up, that a half hour between Sal’s thighs was worth a few clouts to the head.

Little did they suspect a night between Sal’s thighs might lead to prison.

He shoved his ale away and tossed down a few coins to pay for it, then made his way out into the street, where his thoughts churned.

Gerald Wollaston’s seductive paramour had been one of Stafford’s spies. Harry had known there had been another spy in Madame de la Tource’s household, a footman who’d been unable to locate any proof of Wollaston’s guilt. That was why Harry had been sent to work next door, or so Phipps had told him. It had taken barely a fortnight to have all Madame’s maids swooning over him, giving him ample opportunity to slip into the house and have a look around. And lo, what did he discover but Wollaston passing stolen secrets to his mistress, which he promptly stole back and gave to Phipps.

Your test was to turn the key.

It had been his first job for Stafford and he’d thought it easy. Of course it was, since it was only a test. What would Phipps have done if he hadn’t produced the paper? No—Phipps had handed over his new assignment before he even looked at the evidence. He’d known, or not cared either way, if Harry completed the task.

Why?

He knew Wollaston had been arrested. He’d wondered why there was no similar report of Wollaston’s French mistress, but now it was all clear. The supposed Frenchwoman had been working for the same man as Harry, to the same end. And Harry had heard her, with his own ears, exhorting Wollaston to give her more information, more secrets—to commit more treason. Whether Wollaston had begun giving her information on his own or at her prompting, he couldn’t say, but it was indisputable that she had pressed him to continue doing so, even when Wollaston had reservations. That wasn’t spying; that was entrapment.

He walked faster, his boots slapping on the wet cobblestones and his hands in fists in his pockets. Harry’s whole mission there had been a lie—a test. To see if he could do it? To see if he would?

Wollaston’s fate had been sealed by Harry’s own testimony, given in Stafford’s office to the Home Secretary himself, that he had indeed heard Wollaston pass the information to his mistress, and that he had retrieved it from her bedroom moments later. Lord Sidmouth had been so grave, acknowledging his service to the crown with magnificent condescension. Did Sidmouth know, Harry wondered in growing fury, or was it just Stafford trying to please his master?

He stopped on the street corner, glaring into the dark London night. This overturned everything. If Stafford could lie to him about that, about treason, what wouldn’t he lie about? All Harry’s doubts about his job came flooding back, more dire and more ominous. Why had he been given this job, this soft, easy job following wealthy nobs around like some sort of guardian shadow? Why was he supposed to be invisible and silent, even if danger were to confront them? And why hadn’t he seen so much as a disgruntled street sweeper scowling at any of them?

It began to rain, a light drizzle that steamed off the cobbles like ghosts released from their graves. All the smells of a London street rose up around him in a mist, a putrefied miasma of rotted food and vomited ale and horse dung that turned his stomach almost as much as the realization that he was being used.

He turned on his heel and headed for Bow Street.

Chapter Eighteen

Phipps was at Bow Street, as he always seemed to be. He had told Harry and the others they were to come directly to him there if they ever had urgent need. For all Harry knew, he lived in his cramped, nondescript office at the rear of Bow Street.

At Harry’s entrance, Phipps surged to his feet, a curious eagerness filling his face. “Yes?” he barked. “What is it?”

“Madame de la Tource was working for you.” It wasn’t a question. “On Wollaston.”

The eagerness faded. “Ah.” Phipps came around his desk and closed the door. “That’s not your concern, Sinclair.”

Harry swore. “You coerced a man into treason!”

Phipps raised a finger in warning. “Mind your tongue. We don’t much like that word around here, coerce.”

With difficulty, Harry mastered his anger. He glared at Phipps, so infuriatingly calm. Phipps had the cold eyes and pale skin of a fish. Harry had no trouble believing he would entice victims into his snares. “I don’t like being told I’m doing one thing—a patriotic and noble thing—only to find I’m risking my neck trying to catch a randy clerk in a bit of betrayal.”

Phipps lifted his chin. “You know nothing about that⁠—”

“Nothing.” Harry jerked his head impatiently. “And who kept it that way?”

“It wasn’t necessary for you to know.” Phipps’s lip curled. “Really, Sinclair, you did your job. Perfectly competent. And it’s worked out well for you, hasn’t it?”