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“I’ve anticipated you for two years,” he growled.

She took a step back, wanting the insurance of space between them. “What’s a few more days to a gentleman?”

The storminess left his face, and she could see at once that her message had been received. “I shall see to it an invitation is sent to you tomorrow,” he said with something approximating courtesy.

“You’re certain that your mother won’t mind a late addition to her table?” she asked.

He cocked a brow. “She’ll do what I say, and you’ll be good company for her. At present there are only gentlemen coming.”

Mrs. Wark would absolutely not agree about the quality of Lavinia’s company, but she smiled nonetheless.

“Then I will look forward to your invitation.”

Wark opened his mouth, but a sharp “Harold” cut him off before he could speak. Mrs. Wark loomed in the doorway, now dressed in a moss-green silk Lavinia had sewn for her four months ago, a fashion plate in her hand.

“Hello, Mother,” said Wark.

“I thought you said you had business to attend to,” said Mrs. Wark.

“Mrs. Parkem,” he said, bowing low over her hand before making his exit.

When they were alone, Mrs. Wark slapped the fashion plate down on a sideboard with a sharp crack. “My son can be rather familiar. It comes from his good, gregarious nature. I’ve seen many women try to take advantage of that before, but none of them have succeeded, because there is one thing in this world that he loves more than anything else. Me.”

“His devotion is to his credit,” Lavinia said.

His mother sighed, but there was no sign of weariness about her sharp eyes. “Several women have tried to catch his eye, even throwing themselves at him, but I’ve yet to meet a woman good enough. The ones who try can be so . . . pathetic.”

Lavinia’s fists clenched, cutting half-moons in her palms. I’m just as good as you, she wanted to shout. I’m a gentleman’s daughter, even though all you see is a dressmaker with calloused fingers and a deferential demeanor.

One day she would tell Mrs. Wark exactly what she thought of her. One day she’d see this snobbish, trumped-up woman with few graces and even less taste taken down several notches, and it would be deliciously satisfying.

Today, however, would not be that day. Instead, she said, “Your son has been a generous landlord and patron of my shop. I will always appreciate that.”

Mrs. Wark narrowed her eyes, but nodded. “The illustration with the kilting I would like on my next walking dress is on page fourteen. You can see yourself out, Mrs. Parkem.”

That suited Lavinia just fine. She needed to get away from here and think. This had all escalated faster than she’d expected, and she needed to talk to Andrew. She’d write to him using the cipher they’d agreed upon and leave a note at the drop point. He’d know what to do with the things she’d learned that day. He’d know what to do about everything.

Andrew sat with the volume of Anthony Trollope’s Can You Forgive Her? that served as his cipher with Lavinia open on his desk. He’d glowered at Gillie when she’d suggested the book for their code, but she’d simply smiled at him with such sweetness he’d decided she was either a maniacal genius sent by Home to subtly torment him into insanity or obliviousness. Given the skill she’d already shown for gathering and coordinating information, he was inclined to believe the former.

With a final scratch of his pen, he decoded the last word of the note Lavinia had left at the drop point that afternoon and sat back in disbelief as he read over the last paragraph.

I have secured an invitation to dine with the Warks next Tuesday evening. He claims his most trusted associates will be there. I will report what I learn.

Like hell she would. Dinner with Wark in the man’s home with the very men who might be embroiled in this plot? The idea was even less safe than her plan to confront the man that day during his mother’s fitting had been. Too many things could go wrong at the dinner. One misspoken word, one question too many, and suspicion would be firmly on her. Men of Wark’s ilk were ruthless. Even if Wark himself didn’t harm her, if any doubts about her intentions arose, the others might.

A frustrated growl threatened in the back of his throat. Why couldn’t the woman have followed his instructions and secured an invitation for a walk or maybe a ride through Holyrood Park? A gallery, the theater, the opera—anywhere public where he could’ve kept an eye on her would’ve done. He needed to make sure she was safe. She was, after all, his asset.

“Gillie!” he shouted.

A moment later, the young woman bustled in, still wearing the coat and hat she’d put on to run errands. “Your lordship called?”

He scowled and flipped the translated letter onto his desk. “Read this.”

She snatched up the paper and scanned it. A smile broke out of her face. “This is wonderful. Good on you, Mrs. Parkem. I thought she had the makings of a good spy.”

“This is not good. It’s the opposite of good.”

Gillie blinked. “She’s moving far faster than most assets I’ve ever worked with, and that’s fortunate, given that we have so little time. How is that not good?”