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Angelique raised one eyebrow and crossed her arms. “You wish to leave my service?”

The cheeky Scot grinned. “Not that I mind driving you about town—especially not when you wear that blue gown that looks like you can barely breathe in it—but sleeping above the stable leaves something to be desired. Or am I to improve my sleeping quarters as part of my reward?” Angelique regarded him with a thoughtful smile, running one fingertip along her lips. Ian seemed to recognize it as encouragement, for he leaned toward her. “I stand ever ready at your service, ma’am.”

Harry got to his feet, annoyed at their flirting. He had heard Ian talk like that to every female on the street. “I’m off, then.” They bade him farewell distractedly, still making eyes at each other. Harry took up his hat and coat and left, his mind racing.

Was this truly over? Stafford was no fool, and if he believed he’d caught his quarry, odds were he had. Harry didn’t flatter himself that he knew more than, or even as much as, Stafford did about this whole affair. He supposed it was possible a cook could have been passing the treasonous information, gleaned in Bethwell’s house, that had so alarmed Lord Sidmouth. Lord knew it had been easy enough for him to get into rooms he had no right being in and search for information. There was no reason a determined revolutionary, willing to sacrifice himself to his cause, couldn’t have done the same thing.

But something didn’t seem right, although he couldn’t quite figure out what it was. Perhaps it just seemed too anti-climactic—a cook, of all people—or perhaps he had expected to be the person to unmask the villain and gain whatever glory was to be had. Perhaps he’d wished too much that the guilty party would be Tobias Crane because of the man’s interest in Mariah. Harry felt rather disgusted with himself for that possibility, and arrived at Crane’s house cross and late.

His tardiness was unnoticed, however. When he slipped into the room, braced for a reproof, Crane was sitting in his Bath chair wrapped in a shawl and looking ill and old. He barely acknowledged Harry’s entrance and was silent for a long while, sitting and staring out the window. Harry quietly went to his desk and set to work tidying the ever-present journals. Any respite from Crane’s temper ought to be a blessing, but somehow it only unsettled Harry’s mood even more. It was just one more thing that wasn’t normal, and therefore did not seem right.

“Towne,” said Crane after a while.

“Yes, sir?”

The viscount sighed. His color was not good, as if a shadow had fallen across his face and stayed there.

On impulse, Harry asked, “Are you well, my lord? Shall I ring for Jasper?”

“What?” Crane frowned at him, then touched his forehead. His blue-veined hand shook noticeably. “No, I’m well enough for an old man. Jasper cannot do anything to remedy that.” He sighed and sat a little straighter in his chair. “Take a letter.”

“Yes, sir.” Harry knew this routine. He took out a sheet of paper and uncapped his ink. Pen poised over the page, he looked up, and Crane nodded.

“To John Rusk. Syringa reticulata,” Crane began, his voice regaining something of its usual vitality. “Prune delicately along the branches where the blossoms have faded. I shall be bringing several cuttings when I return to Brimstow, and may remove some existing Syringa to make way for them. Note any which may be unhealthy or losing vigor, and burn all that are blighted.”

And so it went, for another three pages. Harry wrote dutifully, keeping in mind that he would not be doing this much longer. Although he’d be happy never to write another botanical letter again, he was reluctant to walk away from his post immediately. Crane would be leaving soon for his country estate, and he could stay until then. He could claim he had no wish to leave London. After working so hard at maintaining his disguise, it seemed wrong to give notice abruptly and just vanish, even though it didn’t matter what Crane thought of him now.

“And lastly,” Crane said, causing Harry to straighten in relief. “Lilium candidum.” He paused, pursing his lips. “Yes, Lilium candidum. Harvest all the foliage from the bed in the southern garden. Crop it close and low to the ground. Take care not to miss any, for it must all be cut. This must be done immediately, with great care. Oversee the work yourself.” Crane fell silent and the only sound was the faint scratching of Harry’s pen.

When he finished copying the letter, Harry looked up. Crane’s face was set in a brooding frown. The old man looked small and almost woebegone, huddled in his shawl, his fingers plucking at the fringe while he stared out the window. “No, it must be cut down,” he muttered to himself.

Harry brought the letter across the room and waited.

Crane shook himself. “Yes, yes. Give it here.”

Harry handed him the letter and Crane glanced over it before reaching for the pen.

“This must go off at once,” he said, handing back the signed letter.

“Yes, sir.” Harry folded the letter and sealed it. He went to give it back to Crane to frank, but his employer seemed not to notice him. Harry laid the letter quietly in front of him.

Crane looked at it and sighed. “One of the oldest, finest plantings in my garden,” he said wistfully. “So lovely.”

“Why cut it, then?” Harry ventured. Better than anyone, he knew how attached Crane was to his plants. This was the first time he’d ever given instructions to remove any.

Crane’s mouth quivered. “It will not grow with the Syringa reticulata I intend to plant there. And nothing must impede the Syringa.” He picked up the letter. “No, no, you needn’t send it,” he said when Harry reached for it, seeming to shrink as he spoke. “Ring for Jasper and he will take it. I am unwell, and have no more need of your services today. You may go.”

Surprised, Harry bowed and left.

Chapter Twenty-Four

He found Angelique at the Fenton Lane house already, looking herself for once. He stopped in the upstairs hall, leaning against the jamb of her open door. “Anxious to be done?”

“Mon Dieu, you cannot imagine.” She was packing, folding severe gray dresses with white lace around the collar into a trunk. “Are you not?”

“I am.” Harry peeled off his coat and took off his spectacles, tossing them aside, then rubbed the pinched bridge of his nose. “I plan to give notice next week.” His thoughts drifted toward Mariah. Perhaps in a week or so he would have cobbled together a plan to see her again, perhaps even openly and honestly. In the meantime, he thought he might go mad with nothing else to do. Working for Crane at least occupied the hours of the day.

She looked horrified. “Why? I could not wait. Fah! Even giving notice took too long.”