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He had a large book open on the desk. When he beckoned to her with one hand, she hurried back to his side in relief. He leaned his head close to hers and murmured, “Say something.”

“What?” She had trouble speaking. His lips had almost brushed her skin, his words skimming her cheek like a lover’s murmur.

“Keep talking as if to him.” He jerked his head in Mr. Prenner’s direction. “The long silence will be suspicious if the clerk comes to the door.”

“Oh.” Cressida wet her lips. “Mr. Prenner,” she began in what she hoped was her normal tone, “it really is imperative that you tell me anything you know about my father. Not only have we been worried about his absence, but people in the government have begun asking questions. . . ” She was babbling, saying anything that crossed her mind while she watched the major’s finger skim down a column of names and payments. "Turner" leaped out at her, then again and again. The major didn’t say anything, just tapped his fingertip on the entries to call them to her attention. Cressida nodded each time he did so, noting the date and the sum beside the name. Mr. Prenner had paid Papa a good amount of money, at regular intervals. But there was no indication why. . . until the major turned another page to previous entries, dated more than two years ago. One line contained a single word: lithos.

Lithographs, Cressida mouthed. What lithographs?

The major, watching her intently, gave a slight shrug. He turned a few more pages, but no more entries with Papa’s name turned up. With a glance at the door, he closed the ledger and put it away, silently sliding the drawer closed. “Time to go."

Cressida nodded immediately. “Then good day to you, sir!” she cried to the unconscious Mr. Prenner. The major, already by the door, opened it for her and she rushed out, feeling as though every eye in the shop must be trained her way.

Perhaps it was. The clerk who had showed them in appeared in front of her with a smile that looked menacing to Cressida's nervous eyes. “Shall I show you out, madam?”

Her face was hot with color. Perspiration prickled inside her bodice, and she had to grip her hands together to hide their trembling. Her heart was racing even as her feet felt as if they were stuck in treacle. The major, hovering just at the edge of her vision, bowed his head slightly. She was supposed to say yes. “Yes, please. It’s very close in here, and I feel a little faint.” Her voice sounded hysterical, to her ears.

“Of course. This way.” The clerk swept out his arm and Cressida followed with alacrity. The major didn’t make a sound behind her. She understood, and appreciated, that they were drawing the man away from Mr. Prenner’s office, so he didn’t go inside at once and find Mr. Prenner knocked out cold, but when they stepped into the street and the door closed behind them, she sucked in a long, shaky breath and swore.

“That bloody buggering varlet!”

Chapter Fifteen

The major laughed.

Cressida didn’t care. She was more shaken than she cared to admit, and took refuge in fury. “Of all the insufferable—” She stopped and rounded on him. “Did you know?” she demanded. “Did you know he would be so—so awful?”

“No.” He was still smiling. “I did suspect.”

“Oh—oh!” She could hardly speak. “That rat! That conniving weasel!”

“Both at the same time?” He took her arm to propel her through the street. She let him, still seething.

“Yes! If I had a torch, I’d set his hateful little shop ablaze.”

“We could light it on our way out of town,” her companion said mildly.

“I shouldn’t have come,” she said suddenly. It galled her to admit that, but it was true. She hadn’t helped; she’d likely only got in the major’s way. Who knew what he might have discovered if she hadn’t been standing in his way, gaping like a simpleton? She had learned nothing helpful, and simply been terrified and infuriated. “I’m sorry I forced you to bring me.”

His brows went up. She braced herself to hear him agree, to say she should stay home and leave him to it. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said instead. “Of course you should have come. Sergeant Turner is your father, and you’ve been coping with his absence for four months. You must be wild with worry for him, as well as for your family’s security.”

Her throat closed up. This was the man she had doubted, the man she had been rude to, snapped at, even threatened with a pistol. Here was his moment to gloat, and instead he offered reassurance. “Thank you,” she murmured.

He nodded. “Although now we’re accomplices in assaulting Mr. Prenner, which I didn’t intend to expose you to.”

He was very calm about that assault. Cressida could only look at him in mingled shock and envy. She certainly would have liked to punch Mr. Prenner herself, if she’d had the nerve. “Will he send someone after us?”

“No,” he said, completely unconcerned.

“Why not?”

He gave her a wry look. “I believe Mr. Prenner has secrets he wishes to keep secret.”

Like Papa. She looked up to avoid his gaze, and her eyes fell on the distant hulk of Fleet Prison. Was he sure Papa wasn’t there? For the first time she worried her father might be in serious trouble.

He left her at the inn, saying he had some errands. Cressida went up to her room and stared out the window at the busy London scenery, thinking of the two men she had clearly misjudged.

Her mother died when Cressida was three years old. Papa had promptly deposited his two small daughters with his mother and joined the army. Granny told them stories every night of their brave, clever, loving papa, off defending England against the wicked French emperor, and the times he came home on furlough were joyous and exciting. Papa would come swaggering down the lane with his pack on one shoulder, gifts in his pockets, to find them waiting eagerly at the gate. She remembered his visits as happy chaos, with all their regular chores and routines cast aside.