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Harry folded his arms. “Was that the point of it? To see how I did the job?”

Phipps hesitated. “We did have to be certain of you.”

Harry inhaled. “And now? Is this another test? To see if I can avoid getting caught impersonating a peer?”

“No,” snapped the other man.

“So this time I’m genuinely taking an enormous risk. Or is there something else you’ve not told us?”

Phipps smiled flatly, his eyes veiled and watchful. “Traitors come in all stripes and sizes. Never forget that. They’re here, there, everywhere, right under our noses.”

Harry flipped one hand in disgust. “You overstate the matter⁠—”

Phipps snorted. “Do I, indeed? You wouldn’t have much of a job then, would you? Now, I suggest you go back to it, or I shall find someone who will.” And he pulled open the door and stood, waiting with magnificent unconcern for Harry to leave.

It slowly sank into his brain, as he stalked away, what the real point of his assignment was. Sidmouth and Stafford were a suspicious lot, fearful of being caught unawares by rebellion and thus liable to see it everywhere. They sent the mounted yeomanry into a demonstration in Manchester and trampled women and children. They passed the Six Acts to contain and control dissent wherever it existed, or seemed to exist. They hired people like Madame de la Tource—and himself—to be something they weren’t and to report back on what they saw and heard. When someone like Sir Gerald Wollaston fell into their hands, they whisked him off to prison with nary a word or reason made public.

And now there were government agents living anonymously in the shadows of three English aristocrats, even in their homes. Three highly influential men, but not members of the government itself, who wouldn’t discover what Stafford was about. All widely respected, all consulted by cabinet secretaries and the king himself. All with far-reaching, intimate knowledge of political affairs. If the radicals Sidmouth so feared were to persuade one of them to sympathize with their cause...

He thought of the reams of reports he, Angelique, and Brandon filed on each of their marks. Every waking moment of their lives was scrupulously documented for Sidmouth’s files. They were to know everything about Crane, Doncaster, and Bethwell—everything. But most importantly of all, no one was to know they were watching, not even the men supposedly in danger of being attacked at any moment. And now he knew why.

They weren’t guarding Doncaster, Crane, and Bethwell.

They were watching them.

* * *

Three hours later, Harry sat down and watched a man sleep.

John Stafford was the sort of fellow you could see every day and yet never quite say what he looked like. He slept on his back, mouth slightly open, a red nightcap on his head. He could have been a clerk or a duke or a farmer. Harry gazed dispassionately down at his employer, so calm and secure in slumber, and considered one last time before he crossed the Rubicon, so to speak, and put his entire future at risk. He had done well at this job. He might never again have an opportunity like the one he had been offered upon completion of this assignment, and it would hurt—badly—to lose it.

But every man had his limit. He struck the flint.

Stafford awoke with the faintest of flinches. His eyes opened a mere slit, and for a moment he and Harry regarded each other in silence by the light of the single candle.

“How dare you,” Stafford finally whispered.

Harry gave a careless shrug. “Is it really so shocking?”

“This is my bloody home! My bedchamber!” Slowly, Stafford pushed himself up against his pillows, his expression fierce. “Explain yourself, Sinclair, if you wish to see tomorrow.”

“Now that you mention it, that’s why I’ve come,” Harry said conversationally. “Tomorrow, that is. Obviously, I’ve handed over much of my life to your direction, but some parts I like to keep a close eye on. Particularly my own neck.”

“Talk sense,” Stafford snapped.

Harry leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, his clasped hands hanging loosely between them. “You’ve been lying to me.” His employer’s eyebrow arched cynically and he added, “To all of us. I want to know why.”

“I am not in the habit of explaining myself.”

Harry smiled without humor. “Well, we all have some unsavory habits, don’t we.”

Stafford pursed his lips. It was at his instigation that Harry’s habits included breaking into houses in the middle of the night, unseen and unheard and almost always well-armed.

“I met a woman this evening,” Harry went on. “Fascinating creatures, women. There’s no more potent force on earth for muddling a man’s mind and making him do the damnedest things. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Get to the point, if you please.”

“Ah—yes.” Harry leaned back in his chair, draping one arm over the back. “As I said, I met a woman this evening. At first glance I thought she was a mere tavern wench, but it turns out she was once something else. Almost... nobility, if my memory serves. French. Expensive. Spoiled and arrogant and capable of twisting a weak-willed Treasury deputy around her little finger.” Stafford’s face didn’t change but Harry knew he had touched a nerve. “And what should I discover, but that she was also taking orders from you. How many agents did you have trying to catch Gerald Wollaston with his fingers in the Treasury till? Or was the entire thing a trial?”