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“Limehouse docks,” he told the man, then stepped back into the carriage, taking one last assessing look at the neat little house.

Somehow he found himself looking forward to his next meeting with the mysterious Madame Martand.

* * *

“Has he gone?” Angelique kept her eyes on the back of the hall as she unbuttoned her pelisse. Lisette’s eyebrows shot up, but she moved quickly to the window, staying just behind the fluttering curtain.

“Oui, Madame. He got into the hackney and it is leaving.”

She let out her breath in a sigh of aggravation and yanked loose the ribbon of her bonnet. What a boorish man! So brash, so impolitic, so reckless! Had he even listened to a word Stafford said? Anyone might have seen him follow her—right to her own doorstep! She wrenched off the pelisse and handed it to Lisette with the bonnet, muttering slurs on the American’s head as she strode into her small library.

She hadn’t been eager to take on this commission before. Now she was so annoyed she was tempted to refuse immediately, and announce her retirement as well. How dare Stafford try to impose that imbecile upon her? The American had seemed stiff and condescending, which was bad enough. Then he followed her in broad day, forcing his company upon her and questioning her competence. For a moment she wondered how upset Stafford would be if she cut Mr. Avery’s throat as well as Dixon’s, because she wasn’t sure she could stand much more of his company.

Of course she could not do that. The American came from his President, and it would cause trouble for Lord Sidmouth if she harmed Avery. Lord Sidmouth, the Home Secretary, was Stafford’s master. Angelique knew very well that Stafford ran his little band of agents at Sidmouth’s pleasure, and for his purposes. Making trouble for His Lordship would cause immense trouble for Stafford, and therefore for her. She couldn’t kill Mr. Avery, no matter how tempting it might be.

Unless, of course, Stafford gave her leave to do so.

At least, she conceded, he looked the part of a brash American trying to bully his way into English society. From his drab, untailored clothing to his tousled hair and bold gaze, no one would ever mistake him for a proper gentleman. And his voice! It was a nice enough voice, rich and mellow with a hint of rasp, but it rang with the flat drawl of America—Boston, or perhaps New York. Angelique had an ear for languages and had quite a mental catalog of accents.

But even if he could play his superficial part well enough, she had grave fears he could handle the clandestine parts of it. How did he intend to persuade Jacob Dixon to hand over the stolen funds? Angelique wasn’t about to seduce the man just so Mr. Avery could get his money, no matter what Stafford suggested.

She shook her head in disgust. On one hand, Stafford was set on her carrying out this assignment, and his plan was much the same as he had given her over the years. On the other hand, she didn’t want the job. It sounded tedious and distasteful, potentially messy—disposing of bodies always was—and aggravating to boot, thanks to Mr. Avery. For a moment she stood tapping her fingers on the desk, staring blindly out the window at her small garden. Like the rest of the house, it was small but lovely, and all hers. A peaceful retreat from the danger and stress she faced when working.

More than ever she felt the pull of retirement, the longing to enjoy what she had while she still could. What to do? She even asked the question out loud, trying to squeeze a rational decision from the unhappy choices before her.

No answer came to her, of course. She had no one to talk things over with. The agents she had befriended best, the more decent men, were dropping off Stafford’s service left and right, done in by love and resurgent senses of honor. Most of Stafford’s people were rabble, common spies motivated by money or personal vendettas. She knew those agents had cost him some prosecutions, but he still used them. Perhaps that was why he wanted her in particular to do this. Perhaps his other agents would be too tempted to keep Dixon’s money after they killed him, whereas Stafford knew she could be counted on to do it properly.

Again she wondered why he didn’t want Ian involved. Ian Wallace was a big Scot, always ready for trouble and eager to meet it. He had some honor and decency as well, and wouldn’t forget who employed him. But he would stand out, she acknowledged. If Stafford was bent on doing this subtly, Ian would be the wrong choice. Still, he was one of the few agents left in Stafford’s employ she actually trusted, and it would have made her infinitely more comfortable to have him at hand. At least she knew what to expect from Ian.

She walked back into the hall. “Lisette,” she called, retrieving her pelisse from the hook behind the door. “I am going back out.”

“Oui, Madame.” Her maid appeared almost instantly, supremely helpful. “Will you take tea when you return?”

“Yes. In the garden.” She tied the bonnet ribbons under her chin and went out, setting off on foot this time.

His lodging was on the top floor of a tall, narrow building, not far from the bustle of Whitehall. The first floor was a boot maker, the second the boot maker’s lodging, and above them all lived Ian. She walked up the back stairs and rapped at the door. She had come here before, though rarely, and knew Ian had told people she was his sister—an amusing conceit, given how he flirted with her so outrageously whenever they worked together. Indeed, when he pulled open the door, he was nearly naked, wearing only knee breeches and dripping wet.

“A fine sight for a man’s eyes!” he said, his blue eyes lighting up. “And here I’m lathered up already.”

She laughed, stepping past him as he held the door. “That had more to do with the river than with me. You reek of dead fish.”

He shrugged, closing the door behind her. “Cold and uncaring, you are. Can you not see I’m developing a cough?” He cleared his throat twice, then forced a weak cough.

Angelique ignored him, removing her bonnet and gloves as she moved toward the tiny sitting room. A garish yellow sofa sat right behind the door, and she laid down her bonnet before seating herself. The only other furniture in the room was a musty old leather armchair with worn spots on every horizontal surface, and an octagonal table, minus one leg. Ian must have furnished the entire flat from the castoffs of some merchant household. “Why were you in the river?”

He followed her into the sitting room, now with a length of toweling in his hands. Unabashedly he draped the linen over his head, vigorously drying his hair. “I dropped something.” She arched a brow. He grinned. “Someone. ’Tis over. I can’t even remember what it was about, now that there’s a beautiful woman in my lodging.”

She rolled her eyes. “I have come for sage advice.”

“Sage advice? You break my heart. I hoped it would be more exciting.”

Angelique didn’t smile back, and Ian’s grin vanished. He tossed the towel aside, finally serious. “What is it, then?”

“I saw Stafford this morning. He sent for me about a new assignment.” There was nothing odd about that. She chose her next words carefully, though. “There is something curious about what he asks.” Again she hesitated, but Ian just raised his eyebrow and waited. “An American was in his office. He seeks a man who stole from the American government. Stafford agreed to help him find the thief so he can get the money back.”

“Is that all?” Ian flipped one hand dismissively. “Can’t take more than a week, if the fellow’s in London.”

“Perhaps,” she said sourly, “if the American can be persuaded to listen to me.”