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“Thank you, Anika,” she said.
The Pawars’ storeroom was one of Lavinia’s favorite places in the entire city. It was lined with neatly stacked bolts of colorful cloth along all four walls. Raw silk, georgette, taffeta, and chiffon along one long wall, and cottons, calico, and jute on the other. Every one of these bolts could be made into any number of garments, and something about the promise of transformation gave her comfort.
“This wasn’t what I had in mind, but it will do,” he said, looking around. “Even if you can hear a woman scream from the front shop.”
“I’m a widow and Anika’s husband goes on long trips back to India to purchase cloth directly from his suppliers. We look after one another,” she said. “Now, what is it that you want to tell me?”
When he’d walked through her door he’d pretended to be a genial fellow shopkeeper. Then he’d torn off that mask to show his raw anger. Now, another layer fell away and all she could see was the tiredness around his eyes and the tightness of his lips. He looked like a man who had had enough.
“I was sent to find you,” he finally said.
“I’m not very hard to find. Everyone in Eyemouth knows about my fall in fortune.”
He shook his head. “It wasn’t someone from Eyemouth. It was someone in the War Office.”
“The War Office? What in heaven’s name would they want with me?”
He pushed his hand through his hair. It did nothing to tame that one rebellious curl that had sprung loose in her shop. Years ago, it would’ve been the most natural thing in the world for her to brush it back into place, but not now. The easy, comfortable love they’d shared had rotted until there was nothing left.
“I need your promise that you won’t tell anyone what I say here,” he said.
She began to laugh. “A promise? Really?”
“Is that so strange?” he asked.
“I believe your very last words to me were, ‘I never would’ve thought that a promise would mean so little to you.’ Right after you accused me of being unfaithful. We can’t forget that.”
A muscle in his jaw flexed. “This is a serious matter, Lavinia. Promise.”
There was such weight to his voice that after a moment she nodded once, determined to give him only the barest satisfaction regarding her compliance.
It seemed to be enough to mollify him because he said, “I have reason to believe that someone has been bringing weapons into Edinburgh and stockpiling them.”
She paused, unsure of what to do with that bit of information. “Why is that any concern of yours?”
He drew in a breath, and the tiredness was back. “Because for the last twelve years I’ve been working for the War Office in a clandestine way.”
A long beat of silence stretched between them because Lavinia didn’t know what on earth a woman was meant to say to that.
Finally, she ventured to ask, “Are you a spy?”
“People who go around declaring that they’re spies have a tendency to find themselves dead,” he said.
She crinkled her nose. “Who tells others that they’re a spy?”
“Usually foolish men who are hoping it will make women more inclined to fall into bed with them,” he said.
Well, there was no chance of that happening with them, even if her body did pulse toward him when he spoke.
“If you’re not a spy, then what are you?” she asked.
“In this instance I’m a handler, and my assignment is to recruit you to help the War Office.”
All the air in her lungs rushed out as she slumped back against the wall of silk. “Why me?”
“My superiors believe that you’re the person best positioned to win the confidence of the man who owns the warehouse where those weapons were found,” he said.
“And who would that be?”
