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The carriage halted near the busy market in Covent Garden. She stepped down and tipped her driver generously, then walked the short distance to Bow Street. Near the Magistrates Court, she turned down an alley, walking to a plain door that looked like the entrance to the coal bin. She pulled a key from her reticule and put it in the lock, and the door opened on remarkably well-oiled hinges.

She locked the door behind her and went down the hall, her footsteps echoing off the blank walls. Stafford’s office was not back here, in this narrow passage with unmarked doors every few feet. Stafford’s deputy, Mr. Phipps, popped out of one of them as she walked past, on her way to the larger, brighter office upstairs.

“He’s been expecting you,” Phipps said, trotting at her heels.

“Has he?” she replied without looking at him. She didn’t care for Phipps, who never risked his own neck but fancied himself better than all the agents put together, and most especially better than she. Once he had scolded her for being seen breaking into the home of a suspected French spy, causing an uproar among the neighbors that alerted the man to their interest. Phipps had sneeringly suggested her sex was the reason she had been so careless. Angelique had simply smiled and offered to break into his home without being seen, promising that he would know she had been there by the knife she would leave in his throat. Ever since, Phipps had been like a dog growling at her from the shadows, always waiting for her to make another mistake. He hated her for not having done so, and she hated him for watching for it.

“All morning,” he informed her maliciously. “Now he’s tied up with a foreign visitor.”

“And yet I am here when he requested.” She climbed the stairs, and Phipps puffed his way up behind her.

“I’ll let him know you’re waiting.”

Angelique stopped in front of Stafford’s private office. She made no reply, just gave Phipps a pointed look. Although she wasn’t tall, her eyes were on a level with his as he stooped slightly to hold the stitch in his side. His pale gaze held hers a moment, then flickered down over her figure in palpable contempt.

What a pathetic little man he was. She knew he thought she was Stafford’s favorite agent only because she must be lifting her skirt for him. As if that were the only way a female could be useful. Angelique thought of the many impossible tasks she had completed for Stafford, several without Phipps’s knowledge, and wanted to laugh. For a man who thought she was incompetent, Phipps was remarkably chary of her.

She waited until he looked her in the face again. “If he wished to see me earlier or later, he should have said so in his note,” she said with acid politeness. “As it is, he will be glad to see me at all, since I do not sit downstairs and await his pleasure.” As you do.

Phipps’s mouth flattened sullenly. He knew she was right, and he hated her for that as well. Without another word he turned on his heel and walked away. She sniffed at his departing back, then rapped twice on the door. A voice called out at once to enter.

It was a large office, but furnished as plainly as a clerk’s might be. Bookcases lined two walls, and hard wooden chairs a third. Sunlight streamed through the two high windows onto the scuffed floor and cluttered desk, glittering on a small stack of coins and a thin stiletto dagger. There was something very English about Stafford’s utter disregard for any concealment of his activities.

At her entrance, he rose from his desk and bowed his head. She nodded back and waited. There was another man, also rising from his chair, but she only paid him enough attention to note his presence.

“Good morning,” said Stafford with a thin smile. “Thank you for coming.” He held out one hand. “May I introduce Mr. Nathaniel Avery. Mr. Avery, this is Madame Martand.”

“Good day.” She curtsied as the other man bowed. Again she barely glanced at him; he was hardly worthy of note, moderately tall and lanky with untidy brown hair, unexceptional features, and plain, serviceable clothing. She half expected him to excuse himself, or for Stafford to murmur a pardon and escort him out, but neither happened. He must be related to whatever Stafford wanted to present to her, then. Stafford gestured toward a chair, and she seated herself.

“I have an assignment of some diplomatic delicacy. Mr. Avery”—Stafford inclined his head politely at the other man—“is in England to find a man who has defrauded his government. You are to help him find this man, so that he may recover any funds remaining.”

She pursed her lips and said nothing. Stafford gave her a gleaming glance across the desk before turning to Avery. “Madame Martand is most capable.”

“No doubt, no doubt,” murmured Avery.

American, she guessed from his accent, and not pleased to be presented with a woman. She had certainly heard that dry, doubtful tone enough times to recognize it now. She didn’t move or change her expression, but instinctively her regard for Mr. Avery dropped the few levels it had achieved to begin with.

Stafford must have heard it, too, for he smiled in his chilly way. She knew he was savoring the joke. No one ever expected her to be any good at what she did. “Perhaps you would relate your information about Mr. Dixon’s actions for her benefit.”

Avery shifted on his chair. “Er … yes.” He cleared his throat. “Jacob Dixon served for several years as the deputy to the Collector of the Port of New York, responsible for collecting tariffs on goods arriving from abroad. Mr. Dixon had charge of the bookkeeping of the Port, and therefore of all the funds. Just a few months ago he abruptly gave notice and returned to his native England. Shortly after his departure, a sizable amount of money was discovered missing from the port accounts. An examination of the books left little doubt that Dixon is responsible for its disappearance. I’m here on behalf of my government to recover as much money as remains, and to take Mr. Dixon back to New York for trial.”

Angelique raised one eyebrow at Stafford. He met her gaze with a placid look, his eyes opaque and calm, just a clerk going about his business. She knew better. Chasing down a common embezzler? He wouldn’t send her on so ordinary an assignment. There must be something more to this, and her reluctance of that morning returned in full.

She glanced at the American. His expression was unhappy, his posture stiff. “You are certain this man is in London?”

He started, as if he hadn’t expected her to speak, and turned to her. He had shockingly green eyes, but answered with a hint of indignity. “We most certainly are.”

“Then why do you not simply apprehend him?” She widened her eyes innocently. “Send a pair of constables around to his lodging and arrest him, then retrieve your money.”

“It’s not that simple, Madame,” said Avery in the condescending tone she hated. “We are not just after a chest of coins.”

“Perhaps it’s not that simple, but that is, in essence, your object,” Stafford broke in. “Locate Mr. Dixon without betraying your true intent. He may well flee with his ill-gotten gains, or leave them so well hidden the funds may never be recovered. We hope to take him unawares. Seduce the information from him, if you will, before he suspects he has caught our attention.”

Angelique made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat. This sounded tedious—suspiciously so. The word “no” was poised on her tongue, ready to fall as soon as politely possible. The moment the American left, if not sooner.

“If Mr. Avery’s information is correct, Mr. Dixon may be looking to establish himself in English society using his stolen fortune. You and Mr. Avery will work together to find him. He alone knows what Mr. Dixon looks like, and he alone will know the particulars of the misappropriated funds.” He nodded politely at the American, although Angelique didn’t miss the wry twist of his mouth as he did so.

That was interesting; Stafford must have wanted to know more, and been rebuffed. Perhaps this Avery fellow wasn’t quite as simple as he appeared.