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“And any number of innocent people in the crowd,” he added, irked by Stafford’s single-minded focus on Doncaster. There had been women on the way to market, children running errands to earn a penny, ordinary, decent, hardworking Englishmen who never dreamed of revolution or murder in that street. Harry felt the weight of their souls, if Stafford did not.

“Er—yes.”

“How is Brandon?”

“He is injured, but not mortally,” Stafford said, resuming his normal distant tone. “Lord Doncaster credits him with saving his life. Brandon shall be well-rewarded, and he is better off receiving care at Doncaster House.”

“And what of us?”

“You have done all I asked of you, and more. I wish you well in recovering from your injuries.”

“And then?”

Stafford gave one of his humorless smiles. “We shall speak later. I’ve not forgotten your ambitions, Sinclair.” He got to his feet and bowed very briefly. “Good day.”

And that was that.

Harry spent a long time wondering what exactly had made Crane do it. In the course of his employment as secretary, he had come to respect the old man, even if he hadn’t admired him much. He racked his brain for any signs of madness he might have overlooked while in Crane’s employ, but even in hindsight could come up with nothing. It took two chance remarks from Mariah and Angelique to give him any clue to the true meaning in Crane’s communications, and he thought only a trained botanist could have known if Crane’s letters were sensible otherwise.

In fact, now that he thought back on it, it had been quite a leap of logic on his part, and if not for the weight of Crane’s directive—it must be done immediately—he might well have had time to talk himself out of it. It was unnerving to think that even a few minutes’ hesitation could have meant Mariah’s death.

And Brandon’s, who’d been in his post at the back of the coach before Harry yelled. He couldn’t forget that glimpse of Brandon, lying limp on the ground, unmoving and covered with blood.

And that was his fault. Brandon had shielded the earl because Harry had gone for Mariah instead. The instant he saw her standing next to the coach, he’d not thought of anything but protecting her. He knew, deep down, that he wouldn’t do it differently even if he had the chance, but it didn’t keep him from feeling that Brandon had suffered because Brandon had done exactly what his job required while Harry had not, and yet he was the one who had escaped serious injury.

He didn’t know what to do next. He couldn’t bear to sit idle, but there was nothing he could do for Brandon, and nothing he could do regarding Mariah. And he wouldn’t accept another assignment from Stafford, if one was even offered.

He had taken Stafford’s offer with the hope of gaining friends, even patrons, with political connections. That was his ambition. He wanted to matter, not for saving aristocrats like Doncaster but for helping people like the young prostitute in Whitechapel. Like the servants he spent most of his time around. Like the ordinary people in the street outside Carlton House, who’d been caught in the middle of unrest over unpopular government policies.

Those political hopes were just dreams without connections. While he didn’t expect to get public credit for stopping Crane’s schemes, he had hoped Stafford would recommend him to a few important people who might give him a leg up.

But he didn’t think any commendation from John Stafford of Bow Street, or even from Lord Sidmouth himself, would persuade the Earl of Doncaster to grant Harry his daughter’s hand in marriage.

And what was left to him then? To watch her make a brilliant marriage to someone else. Even if all his plans worked out as he had hoped, he would still be nothing but a backbench member of the House of Commons. It didn’t sound nearly as appealing as it once had, especially when he considered the probability that being in London for Parliament would bring him face-to-face with her, married to someone else and forever lost to him.

But perhaps... His heart lifted despite the long odds of this possibility. Perhaps she loved him as madly as he loved her. Even after she knew he was posing as Wroth, she told him to come to her. Could she give up her life of ease and elegance for him? His own mother had done that, following her heart to marry the man she loved even though it meant being disowned. She left a comfortable life to become the wife of a traveling actor. Could Mariah do the same?

If she ran off with him, her father’s wrath would surely ruin any chance he had at Parliament. To marry him, Mariah would have to give up the most glittering society in England—and what could he offer her in return? A small cottage, perhaps only rented rooms, while he took what employment he could find to support them. Harry wasn’t sure he could wreak such havoc on the life of the woman he loved.

So he lay on the sofa, veering between guilt and despair and reproach. Lisette returned to finish bandaging his arm and then left him alone in his gloom. He heaved himself upright with a sigh and rolled his sleeve down over the bandage. Perhaps he should go for a walk and try to clear his thoughts. It had been a while since he’d been able to come and go as he pleased, without looking for murderers and revolutionaries behind every lamppost.

There was a tap at the door, and Angelique came in, hands behind her back. “How are you feeling?”

Harry shrugged, pulling on his waistcoat. “Well enough.”

“Hmm.” She strolled into the room. “Not guilty?” Harry said nothing. “It was not your fault,” she said gently. “It could have been you, just as easily as Alec. Had you protected the earl, Alec would surely have thrown himself in front of the young lady.” Harry ignored her and reached for his coat. “The fact that you are in love with her would not have made any difference.”

He flinched.

“Are you still?” Angelique prodded. “I have waited and waited for you to speak of her and what you intend to do, but you say nothing.”

“What can I say?” He flung out his hands. “Do you think her father will give me permission to see her, let alone court her and marry her? Would any man want a spy for his son-in-law, even if the spy hadn’t been spying on him? It’s a different world she lives in, Angelique. I don’t know what to do.”

Angelique exhaled slowly, a faint smile creeping over her lips. “But you love her.”

He gave a short, sad laugh, propping his elbows on his knees and dropping his face into his hands. “Beyond reason. I’m considering impersonating Lord Wroth’s young nephew, just to be able to call on her once more.” To say good-bye, he thought in despair.

“So you would do anything for her, yes?”