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She fluttered her fingers. “A missing man. A favor for a politician. He has dozens of these little favors that need doing.”

So Alec had thought, once upon a time. “Do you recall our last assignment together?”

Her face grew still. “Too well. What of it?”

Alec hesitated. His theory about George Turner, still somewhat nebulous, was only that: a theory. He, of all people, balked at staining the name of an undeserving man—Cressida’s father. Saying it aloud seemed an irrevocable condemnation, even if he only said it to Angelique.

Who would almost certainly tell their employer.

He had worked four years now for Stafford and had no illusions about the man. Stafford was cagey and political and not always wholly honest, but Alec had always believed him to be operating with the national interest at heart. The last assignment, though, had made him wonder.

Not two months past Alec had been caught in a scheme that was not what Stafford told him. He’d been placed in an earl’s household posing as a footman, and been told that he, Angelique, Ian, and another agent were guarding the earl from potential assassination. It hadn’t been the complete truth, and it had nearly killed Alec.

Lying in a narrow footman’s bed, waiting for his wounds to heal, he had realized one basic truth: Stafford had lied to them all and sent them into a dangerous situation without being honest about the most likely source of the trouble.

And no doubt that was due to Stafford’s own employer, the Home Secretary, Lord Sidmouth. If Alec’s theory of Turner’s disappearance was anywhere near true, he had to tread very carefully. He’d taken this job to curry Sidmouth’s favor, after all. He’d better be sure before he told Angelique what he suspected.

He sighed. “We should talk later. What am I supposed to tell everyone about your sudden appearance—with Ian, no less?”

She watched him thoughtfully. “He is my husband. We are dear friends of yours from London, stopping by for a short visit on our way north.”

That should make for an entertaining evening. Not just Angelique, with her French accent and secretive manner, but Ian as well. Marianne might faint at the sight of him. “Your husband, eh? Are you being punished?”

Angelique laughed. “It is not so unbearable. I am able to keep him in line.”

There was no doubt of that. Alec shook his head. “I presume your. . . husband will be seeing to the carriage?”

She raised her eyes to the sky and made a soft noise of despair. “Of course. If there is a choice between a horse and a woman, Ian will choose the horse every time.”

He chuckled and escorted her into the house. The housekeeper seemed dumstruck by Angelique, staring at her with unveiled astonishment before hurrying off to prepare rooms. Alec retreated to the study to wait while they refreshed themselves—and to decide what to do.

An hour later the butler showed them in. “Done right well, Brandon," said Ian, looking around. “A far sight better than your last quarters."

Alec repressed his annoyance. "Thank you," he said evenly. He rang for tea, and bade his guests sit.

He walked to the fireplace. Someone had relocated Will Lucey's carved wooden horse to the mantel. Somehow it had become a lodestar to him, a relic of the friend he had lost. Will would have known how to have this conversation, while Alec didn't have the least idea. Not only would it draw him back into Stafford's web, it would force him to name things he was not sure of. Alec hated not being sure, especially in serious matters.

"So," said Angelique, taking charge. "You have learned nothing?” Angelique was the true leader here, not Ian. Ian, he suspected, was here because it pleased her more than because Stafford wanted Ian here.

Alec fiddled with the carved horse a moment before putting it aside. He took the seat opposite her, and she turned an expectant face toward him. She might smile and tease, but Angelique's mind was never far from work.

“There is something odd about this assignment,” he began. “I can hardly put my finger on what, precisely, is wrong, but there is something. And after the Doncaster affair, I find it hard to ignore the feeling.”

“What did he tell you?” As usual, she cut straight to the point.

“That a sergeant on half pay called George Turner had disappeared. His family was worried, and someone in the army asked Stafford to look into it. As you said, he often does favors for people in power. And it seemed a simple problem. Perhaps the missing man got involved in a pub brawl and met an ignominious end. Perhaps he got caught in the arms of a woman between London and here. Perhaps he ran off to escape debts. There are a hundred reasons a man can go missing.”

“Is this an explanation of why you have made no progress?”

He growled at her. “Turner went missing from my own home village. No chance of masquerading, in other words. And he was just an ordinary soldier, according to Stafford. Why send me to do this?”

Angelique shrugged. “You are good at it. He does not care for our private feelings or fears.”

He wondered if she knew his history, but didn’t want to ask. “The missing man’s family wasn’t expecting me. They got no reply to their letter asking for help. Another minor point, but again, if Colonel Pickering took the trouble to set Stafford on the case, why not write and inform the family?”

“Pickering,” Ian repeated, an arrested look creeping over his face. “Augustus Pickering?”

“Yes.” He leaned forward. “Why?”