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“Only a suggestion that you try to secure an appointment to see Sir Reginald Palmer-Smythe. He’s a disagreeable man, but he’s been charged with ensuring the prince’s safety during the visit and has been in Edinburgh for the last month in anticipation.”

“It sounds as though you’re already well aware of him,” he said.

Gillie arched a brow. “Well aware, yes. Have clapped eyes on the man, no. I’ve been writing ever since the cache of weapons was found and the letter sent from Wark’s home was intercepted, but Palmer-Smythe won’t see me.”

“Why not?” he asked

“The Queen’s Guard doesn’t like the idea of the War Office instructing it on how to do its job. There are too many men beating their chests and reminding each other of how superior they are at keeping the British people safe.” She hesitated and then huffed out a frustrated breath. “And as Palmer-Smythe’s secretary reminds me, the gentleman has more important things to worry about than seeing a lady who is all aflutter because a royal is coming to the city.”

“Idiocy,” he said flatly.

“My thoughts exactly,” she said.

“I’ll write to him and see if I can get us an appointment. Both of us.”

“And in the meantime, we’ll have to hope you and Mrs. Parkem can get along well enough to work together,” said Gillie cheerfully.

“We can be reasonable,” he said.

“And instructing her to flirt with Wark?”

“Will not be an issue,” he said sharply.

Gillie shot him a look. “Somehow I’m less than optimistic.”

He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, trying to ease the muscles that were as taut as bowlines. He would do what he needed to in order to make this operation a success, but he wasn’t going to like it. He’d known that from the moment Sir Newton had described the plan to him, and it had only been confirmed Monday when he’d walked through Lavinia’s shop door to find Wark leaning over her counter, a lewd glint in the man’s watery eyes. Instinct had taken over, and he’d nearly gripped Wark by the collar and tossed him across the shop. It was only the flash of surprise and distrust in Lavinia’s eyes that had jolted him back to reality and made it possible for him to assume the easy, careless manner of an acquaintance rather than a former lover.

“Gillie, I’m going to give you a bit of advice about working with me. Don’t question how I do my job, and I won’t question how you do yours,” he said.

Gillie stared back, not at all intimidated by his glower. “That, I assure you, is a practice we can both agree on.”

Chapter Six

SHE WAS LATE.

Andrew sat on the benches at the King’s Stables Road end of Princes Street Gardens where he and Lavinia had agreed to meet on Wednesday morning, whacking his walking stick against his foot and wondering where the hell his asset was. It was, he’d discovered in the twenty-three hours since he’d seen her last, easier to think of her as an asset rather than a woman, let alone one he’d once wanted to marry.

What he absolutely under no circumstances would think of her as was the woman he’d once loved. That should be easy enough. Lavinia had done him a great favor in teaching him that love was the exclusive province of fools, and Captain Andrew Colter, skipper of the Endeavor, was no fool.

You’re not a skipper anymore. The thought slid through his mind, nagging at him, but he pushed it away. Retirement was what he wanted. A quiet life where he didn’t have to worry about shipping times, bribing harbormasters at far-flung ports of call, cargo spoiling in the hold, storms, or rough waters. In a few short weeks, his career for Home would be over and gone would be the days of risking his life to recruit assets, ferry messages, and—on the most brutal of occasions—commit the very acts that had probably already resigned him to hell in the afterlife.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. Soon he’d unpack his sea chest for the last time, but until then, he had to stay sharp.

But that would be a lot easier if his asset would actually show up.

Whack, whack, whack went his stick against the edge of his boot. Whack, whack—

“Andrew, I’m late. I apologize,” said Lavinia, rushing up the park’s fine gravel path, one hand holding a tiny confection of a hat on her head to keep it from blowing off.

She stopped in front of him, the hem of her skirt kicking out to give him a glimpse of a boot that showed the faint gray of worn leather even though, he imagined, it had been blackened many times. Unlike the past two times he’d seen her, when he suspected she’d dressed in styles meant more for ease of movement than for fashion, she was wearing the same kind of dress as her clients. Gone were the loose skirts she could kneel in as he imagined she pinned hems. Instead, she wore a purple creation with some sort of black ribbon on the edges that flowed over her legs like falling water, showing off the line of her hips. His eyes trailed up, skimming over the dip of her waist and—because he was only human—over the lush curves of her breasts.

No, no breasts. Assets don’t have breasts.

He tore his eyes away, rose stiffly from the bench, and walked a few steps away as though he’d suddenly become rather interested in a bird perched in one of the trees.

Lavinia followed, angling to get in front of him.

“I hate when people waste my time unnecessarily, so I really do apologize,” she said, clearly flustered.