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Harry clenched his fists in frustration. “Stafford hasn’t been guarding these men, he’s been watching them—we’ve been watching them!” He gripped her arms. “He’s had a web of agents spying on them. We were never to interfere, were we? Never to give away our ‘protective’ presence, not even if we should have to save them from the jaws of death. Did you never wonder why Stafford insisted on that?”

“He never explains anything. Harry, you are imagining things⁠—”

“He admitted it!” Harry snapped. “As did Phipps. They suspected someone was feeding information to the radicals, someone who would know the inner workings of the government. Somehow—I don’t know how—they fastened on Bethwell, Doncaster, and Crane as the most likely. Think of all those reports we made on their every action. Stafford couldn’t work out which one had turned traitor, so he set us to gather the information for him while he and Phipps sit in Bow Street like two spiders surveying their web.”

“Why did you not tell me this sooner?” Angelique said furiously. “He admitted it?”

Harry cursed again. “I should have told you. Another agent gave me ideas. My last assignment wasn’t all I thought it was, either. I confronted Stafford and he didn’t deny a thing. And if you don’t believe me now, Crane could still pull it off. The letter I wrote for him this morning said it must be done immediately, cropping the lilies. And he wouldn’t let me send it as usual, but said Jasper would. He might well intend to harm the earl today!”

Angelique let out her breath in an angry hiss but still she didn’t move. “But how do you know?”

Harry took a controlled breath and forced himself to let go of her. “I don’t.”

For a long moment she stood there, her eyes boring into his. “If you are wrong...” she said slowly, at last.

Harry dismissed it with an impatient jerk of his head. “Then I’ll have made myself a great fool. What if I’m right?”

She pursed her lips and said nothing for a moment. “Very well. I shall go tell Stafford of your suspicions—for that is all you have presented. But why do not you come with me and explain for yourself?”

“I’m going to Doncaster House to put Brandon on alert.” Angelique had moved from the doorway enough for him to squeeze past her. “I’ll come to Bow Street directly after.”

“Harry,” she said in warning.

“Angelique, I must.” He took one step down the stairs.

She followed him. “You wish to go there because of her. Harry, think—you must be correct in this! Wait until Ian returns, he has taken the horses to the farrier⁠—”

Harry was already down the stairs, his hand on the door, straining toward it. He didn’t bother to deny anything. “If I go because of Mariah, do you think I could bear to wait until Ian returns?”

Angelique cursed at him in French. “What will you do?”

“Whatever I have to do. Now go—please.” He grabbed his coat hanging beside the door and was gone before she could say another word.

He struck out across town, pulling on the coat as he went. He walked as quickly as he could, and still felt like he was moving through waist-high water. He was sure he was right—it explained everything, except why—but none of that would matter if he failed to keep Mariah and her family safe.

The irony of it was brutal—all those times he had written out Crane’s letters, those endless horticultural missives, unwittingly sending off the directions to the radicals in his own hand, at Stafford’s instigation. It wouldn’t surprise him at all if there were a precisely detailed code in the plants and gardening instructions he copied out.

And he supposed he could still be wrong—he admitted cutting lilies was slim basis to accuse someone of attempting murder and insurrection—but would rather bear the consequences of this mistake than the other.

He traveled the familiar path to Doncaster House in short order, but this time went to the servants’ door. He had to put Brandon on guard first. Once he knew Mariah was safe, that Brandon was alerted to the possible danger, he could breathe easily enough to go to Stafford and persuade him to look at Crane. He knocked on the door and asked to speak to John Jameson, as Brandon was known at Doncaster House.

The maid who answered raised her eyebrows. “‘Ere now, like ‘e’s a fancy gentleman? And who’re you?”

Harry didn’t let his simmering impatience show. He pulled off his cap and bobbed his head politely at her. “I’m from Mr. Cooke’s office—Mr. Cooke being a solicitor, miss—and there’s an important message I’ve brung for Mr. Jameson.”

“Important, huh.” She cocked her head with a little smile that said quite plainly she thought he was making it up. Which he was.

He tried a different tack. He edged closer, glancing from side to side. “Thing is, miss,” he said in a low friendly voice, “he’s come into some funds, Mr. Jameson has. Great-uncle, it was, what passed on. So now, Mr. Cooke’s sent me to find Mr. Jameson, let him know his good fortune, see?”

“Funds, is it?” she whispered, stepping out of the doorway toward him. “‘Ow much funds?”

Harry leaned against the doorjamb, giving her a coaxing little smile, the same smile that had melted the reserve of chambermaids and millinery assistants in the past. “Can’t say, miss. Mr. Cooke didn’t tell me.” She arched a brow skeptically. Harry lowered his voice confidentially. “He and I had a falling out, so to speak. To tell the truth, I’m about to get the sack, if I make another mistake. So could you help me, fetch Mr. Jameson?”

She pursed her lips, her eyes flicking up and down over him. “Well, I would if I could. After all, t’ain’t every day a man comes into funds, is it? And o’ course you oughtn’t get the sack just ‘cause you can’t find the man. Still, if he ain’t here, he ain’t here, right?”

“When do you think he might be back?” She looked over her shoulder as someone called out behind her, and Harry added, in a burst of desperation, “I think it’s a great deal of money, miss.”

“He’s gone on the carriage,” she said in a rush. She stepped back into the house, her hand on the door. “To Carlton House, with his lordship. Can’t say when he’ll be back, they’ve only just gone.”