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She still wore a slightly dreamy smile when he left, shutting the door firmly behind him to keep the cold and rain out. Nate turned up his coat collar and raised the umbrella, turning his mind back to the problems at hand and away from the feel of her mouth against his.

Hopefully Wallace would have something useful to say, even if he didn’t want to say it in front of Nate, but Nate was glad to leave the house anyway. He needed to think, to stretch his legs as well as his mind, and he should check in with Prince as well as get Jacob Dixon’s baggage. Perhaps there would be something in Dixon’s belongings that would ease their current quandary, although Nate couldn’t think of what that might be. The most he hoped for now was a large stash of jewels hidden in the bottom of Dixon’s trunk. But sadly, recovering the stolen funds had become the least of his worries.

The manager of the Pulteney was very accommodating. Nate used his most polite smile and best English on the man, along with full payment of Dixon’s bill, and in no time at all he was being ushered up to Jacob Dixon’s—or Mr. Chartley’s, as he was known at the hotel—rooms, allegedly to pack everything and send it on to Mr. Chartley at his new home, as directed by the note Dixon had signed. Nate did indeed pack everything, after a thorough search. Aside from a plump purse, there was no sign of the jewels. He found only one letter from Davis Hurst. The others presumably had been burned, to judge from a postscript reminding Dixon to dispose of their correspondence. Nate smiled dourly at that hypocrisy, remembering the stack of letters from Dixon in Hurst’s locked cabinet. He put that letter in his pocket, and carried a small valise with diaries and ledgers with him, but dumped everything else into Dixon’s trunk. He hailed a carriage and had the porter load the trunk into it, then drove down to the docks.

Prince had just returned to the Water Asp, a small wooden box under one arm and a newspaper held over his head against the rain. He grinned when he saw Nate unloading the hackney. “Ah, the pretty lady has finally tired of you. I am not to be the only one sleeping on the ship.”

“I have Dixon’s baggage,” said Nate grimly, setting the valise atop the trunk. “And a delicate question.”

Prince raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. He helped Nate carry Dixon’s trunk on board, then sent a boy for some ale. “What is your trouble?”

Nate shrugged off his wet coat and dropped into the chair at the table where Prince’s equipment was spread once more. “Asking for Stafford’s help may have been a mistake.”

“The President told you to go through the proper channels,” Prince pointed out. “What else could you do? Not that I am surprised to hear this, you understand.”

“I know,” Nate said. “But Monroe didn’t know what sort of man we’d be dealing with.” He sighed. “Nor what sort of woman.”

Prince’s teeth gleamed in his dark face. “I knew it! Our pretty mademoiselle is behind it after all.”

“Our pretty mademoiselle is a dangerous woman,” Nate said. “But even she’s in danger because of this—more so than we are, to be honest.”

Prince sat back in his chair, arms folded over his chest. He was still grinning, but his eyes were serious and alert. “Are you going to explain yourself or not?”

Instead of answering, Nate reached out and fiddled with some of Prince’s experiments. There were vials of colored liquids, leather pouches tied with hemp cords, tall glass bottles of powders and crystals, and a mortar and pestle. He had never understood Prince’s fascination with brewing odd mixtures and searching out exotic plants and substances, but today he was deeply appreciative and grateful for his friend’s expertise.

He picked up one glass jar and Prince reached out to take it from him. “That is dangerous,” he said with a sharp look.

“I thought as much,” said Nate. “In fact, that’s why I’m here. Tell me about all your potions.”

* * *

Angelique didn’t wait for Lisette to bring Ian’s tea, with or without whiskey. “What did you learn?” she asked as soon as she had closed the drawing room door.

Ian grimaced. He was standing in front of the fireplace, warming his backside. “Nothing good. I asked right out, and got a freezing look for my trouble. All he would say was that you knew what needed doing, and I should remind you to get to it. He was quite keen to know if you were having troubles, and queried me for some time about how you were getting on.” Ian shrugged. “I brushed him off and said I knew nothing, just that you hadn’t found your man yet. Not even when I said I’d be glad to help, if only someone would tell me what we’re doing, did he pry open his lips.”

Angelique sighed and sank onto the sofa. “I did not expect otherwise, but it does not matter. Thank you, Ian.”

“Now Phipps… Phipps was a different story,” he went on in the same vein, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Phipps is no great admirer of yours, and when I let slip you were having difficulty in completing your mission… Well, the man’s not cut out to be other than a clerk, and God help Stafford if anyone else realizes that. Phipps also tried to pry out of me what you’d already done and what the trouble appeared to be, but I’d sooner swive an Irish whore with the pox than tell him anything. But while he was grumbling about sending a woman to do an important job⁠—”

“Over ale, I assume,” she muttered.

“It lubricates the throat,” Ian replied equably. “And the tongue. Especially the tongue. Phipps can drink a lot more than one might think, to look at him.”

“What did he say?”

“Ah, right. It’s not just Staff who’s anxiously awaiting the conclusion of this sorry business. Phipps indicated the old fox is being pricked and prodded to get this done, and by people other than Sidmouth—hence my invitation to the scene.” Ian gave a mocking bow. “How flattering it is that they send me in to succeed where you cannot, but without telling me a bloody thing about what’s supposed to be done.”

Angelique buried her face in her hands. She had feared as much; it must be Selwyn urging Stafford on. Or someone else, if Selwyn was innocent of Dixon’s charges—but who could that be? If only she knew. If only she could divine where Stafford himself stood. Once again she hoped Harry would discover something useful.

The sofa creaked as Ian came to sit beside her. “Now that I’ve played my part as a wide-eyed messenger boy, will you tell me what the problem is?”

For a long moment she said nothing, then gave in. She trusted Ian as much as she trusted Harry—Ian was still in the game, after all. And at this point, she needed his help too badly not to trust him. “I suspect I have been sent to do something terrible,” she said quietly. “Nate came to England to find a man named Jacob Dixon. His President instructed him to apply to the appropriate channels for help, and he did so, ending up in Stafford’s office. But after assuring Nate he would give all assistance possible, Stafford told me to help find the man, then to kill him—without Nate or anyone else discovering it, preferably.”

“Why?” Ian was frowning.

She lifted her hands. “I do not know. He would not tell me, even when I asked. But I agreed. Only after we apprehended Dixon⁠—”

“You’ve already got him?” Ian exclaimed. “Ah... Now I see…”