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She smiled. “Indeed, there are! Some families have been here for centuries.”

“So I see.” Nate leaned forward and peered at the nearest marker. “Two hundred years, in this gentleman’s case.”

“I would be glad to walk with you and look. Perhaps along the fence.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” They strolled along, Nate studying each stone with a thoughtful frown. The graveyard was neatly tended, although time and weather had taken a toll. When they passed the flower-strewn grave, he hid his interest; there was no need to look closely at it. It was obviously old, perhaps as old as the two-centuries-old grave a few feet away. The carvings were weathered into near-oblivion, although he made out the surname Wilkins and a date in the 1600s in his quick glance at the stone. So Madame wasn’t mourning a close relative or friend. He wondered again why she’d come all the way out here, just to leave flowers on an ancient grave.

As they walked Mrs. Carswell chatted politely. He answered obligingly, again sticking closely to the truth. His great-grandparents had died over forty years ago, give or take, well before he was born. His mother had gone to America shortly before they died, and met his father there. No, he didn’t think his mother had ever come home to England. His grandparents were also dead, buried in Hertfordshire where his grandfather had been an attorney. He wasn’t quite sure where his great-grandparents were buried, and his mother had forgotten; the only thing she could recall was that they had lived near Richmond.

That last bit was false, unless one counted anywhere in England as “near Richmond,” but overall Nate felt fairly honest. And he said a silent apology to his keen-witted mother for implying, even to a stranger who would never know better, that she had grown forgetful in her old age.

“I’ve visited nearly a dozen graveyards between here and Richmond,” he said with an apologetic smile. “I shall know half the rectors in England before I return home, it seems.”

Mrs. Carswell smiled. “Such dedication! You must love your mother very much, to honor her wishes so.”

“Indeed, ma’am, I do.” By careful maneuvering he had managed to end where they had begun, right at the grave Madame Martand had visited. Nate glanced at it. “I would have liked to leave such a token, but it seems not to be. At least not today.”

She followed his gaze. “Yes. Perhaps you will have better luck in Ealing or Twickenham.”

“I hope I might.” He bowed again. “Thank you again for your courtesy and kindness, Mrs. Carswell.”

“Of course.” She smiled and bobbed a polite curtsey, but Nate felt her sharp eyes on his back all the way down the road. And he still had no idea why Madame Martand had come.

Chapter Five

Stafford kept his word on moving swiftly. By the time Nate returned to London, a message had arrived laying out a plan. Nate and Madame Martand were to be man and wife, newly arrived from America. A house had been let in their name and they were to take possession the next day. He and Madame Martand were to work out the details of their masquerade, but under the general guise of a wealthy couple come to acquire some London polish and sample the delights of town, conducting a little business on the side. It was Nate’s duty to figure out how to locate Jacob Dixon and run him to ground; Madame, Stafford wrote, would be as helpful as she could.

He read the letter twice, then sat thinking. Only when Prince growled at him did he realize he was tapping the letter on the table, and put it aside.

“How bad is it?” his friend asked with a sly grin. “Are we not to have the pretty French lady after all?”

Nate bared his teeth in an answering smile. “Not only are we to have her, she’s to be my wife.” Prince snorted in disgusted amusement. “Wait until you meet her. I shall have to sleep with one eye open and a pistol in my hand.”

“It is where your other hand will be that concerns me.” Prince laughed. “I suppose that will be for the general’s benefit as well, eh?”

Nate threw an empty powder horn at him. Prince caught it and gave him a severe look.

“The best thing it will do is get us off this ship,” Nate said. They had reached London several days ago, but he’d stayed aboard the Water Asp because he didn’t want to announce himself in any way. The Water Asp belonged to his father’s shipping company and was here on a routine trading run. Nate’s parents had sent him with their blessings to capture Ben Davies’s thieving secretary, but no one else save President Monroe knew he was here. Everyone had been told Nate was going out west, exploring the wilderness. His name wasn’t on the manifest, and he had routed every expense through the ship’s captain, who had been with Boudin Shipping for years and was sworn to secrecy.

Now he and Prince were snapping at each other from too much time in too close quarters. A house would allow them to spread out—although how he would explain Prince’s work was something Nate hadn’t figured out. There would be servants who were on Stafford’s coin and couldn’t be entirely trusted, much like his new, temporary, wife. Nate allowed himself a little smile at the thought of how that first meeting would go. He might as well find some enjoyment in this venture.

And then, of course, he had to set a trap to catch a thief.

* * *

She had already arrived by the time he reached the house in Varden Street the next morning. Nate paused on the threshold of the wide-open door, listening to the voices abovestairs. The house was furnished, but very simply, and sound echoed off the bare walls and floors. She was speaking French, with another woman—perhaps her maid, he thought, recalling the servant he’d seen when he followed her the other day. He glanced at Prince, coming up the steps behind him with a large crate of equipment in his arms, and unconsciously squared his shoulders before stepping into the house.

Maids were cleaning the dining room, sweeping briskly. Holland covers still shrouded the furniture in the drawing room while another maid cleaned the windows. By the time he reached the second floor, he could make out some of the conversation. His French, learned from the fur traders of Quebec, wasn’t on par with Madame’s, but he understood enough. He leaned against the doorway. “Bonjour.”

She looked up from folding stockings into a drawer. “Good morning,” she replied evenly.

Nate grinned. That hadn’t been what she was saying to her maid, who was indeed the sturdy-looking woman he’d seen the other day. Madame Martand had agreed to this plan, but apparently not with much enthusiasm. That would have to change, at least nominally, because failure was utterly unacceptable to him. “A very good morning it is, since it brings me the sight of you, dear wife.”

Her expression grew severe at the endearment. She nodded at the other woman. “My maid, Lisette, will help you unpack, if you have no man with you.”

Prince had tromped up the stairs behind him and chose that moment to peer into the room, no doubt wanting a look at the French lady. Nate had the pleasure, and chagrin, of seeing Madame’s eyes widen at the sight of him. They were going to have a very difficult time if she objected to Prince, and yet anything that discomposed her gave him some satisfaction.

“No need,” he said easily in reply to her remark. “I can unpack my trunk myself. Prince will see to the other things. He’ll need a workshop. The next floor up, do you think? It must be a bright room.”