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“Harold Wark.”
She blinked at him twice. “Mr. Wark?”
“Yes.”
“The rather jowly, unpleasant man who was just in my shop?”
“Yes,” he said, his tone clipped.
She burst out laughing. The very thought that Wark was dealing in anything more dastardly than merino was absurd. “The only person to whom Mr. Wark is a danger is me.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, his tone sharp.
“What you walked into, Andrew, is Wark’s monthly routine. He collects the rent and flirts outrageously. He hasn’t asked me to be his next mistress, but I’m sure he’s working his way up to it. The man is unscrupulous.”
“What?” he bit out.
“I’m a widow and a shopkeeper,” she said, leveling him with a look. “Men like Wark feel that gives them the right to make advances.”
“You weren’t always a shopkeeper.”
“I wasn’t always a widow either.”
For a moment, she thought she saw anger flash in his eyes. Good. He should know what it feels like to be here with him. But then the look was gone.
“Even more reason to help the War Office bring Wark down,” he said.
“And what exactly do you suspect him of?” she asked.
“My superiors have reason to believe that he might use the Prince of Wales’s visit as an opportunity to carry out an act of violence.”
“Why?”
A tiny, rueful smile touched his lips. “I asked myself the same thing before I read the dossier I was given on the train up from London. Wark has been ordering the movement of large amounts of money out of both his personal and company accounts. At the same time, an intelligence agent out of the field office here intercepted a letter sent from Wark’s house to a railway hotel on Princes Street. It was so blasé it seemed almost cryptic, and we’re certain it’s written in a cypher we haven’t cracked yet. There has also been an increase in the number of Wark’s associates coming and going from his house at all hours.”
“Have you ever considered that it could simply be that Mr. Wark is generous with his friends?” As much as she hated to defend Wark, the thought of him stockpiling weapons for nefarious means was absurd.
“That is the most benign scenario, and we hope it’s true. But we won’t know until you find out more,” he said.
“And how do you suggest I procure this information?”
Andrew’s ocean-blue eyes locked with hers. “Use your influence and maneuver closer to him.”
“You mean use sex to my advantage?” she shot back. Andrew jerked away. “Oh come now. We’re both adults. We should call it what it is.”
His face fell into a neutral expression of disinterest, and he shrugged. “If you must. Some of a more delicate demeanor might call them your feminine wiles.”
His nonchalance cracked something open in her, and she surged forward and jabbed him in the chest with her finger. “Andrew Colter, I don’t know what I would even do with a wile if I had it—feminine or otherwise. Do you think my days are filled with long, lazy hours where I sit on my divan and dream up ways to seduce my thronging court of gentleman callers?”
“What?”
Jab. “I don’t even know when I’d find the time.” Jab. “I have two seamstresses and a shopgirl working under me, and I still spend fourteen hours a day draping, cutting, and sewing dresses.” Jab. “And when my girls are done and they go home, I’m still here.” Jab. “That’s when I handle the account books and inventory and orders. I deal with suppliers who for ten years have asked me every single month when I’ll be bringing on a man to help me with the books. Or better yet”—jab—“why doesn’t Mrs. Parkem marry again! That will solve everything!” Jab. “So tell me”—jab—“when”—jab—“I could possibly”—jab—“find”—jab—“the”—jab—“time?”
Her voice was high-pitched and angry now, and it was a wonder that Anika didn’t come racing in. Yet it was still just her and Andrew standing in a glorified closet, all the air rushing out to be replaced by her roaring rage.
“We can make arrangements to help you,” he said.
“Are you going to jump in and learn how to whipstitch?”
