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She blinked up at him. “No. Why would he hurt me?”

He rubbed his forehead. “Why would I ever be worried that a man the War Office suspects might be a danger to the British people might harm you, a spy who went into his home under false pretenses? Why, indeed?”

Her expression softened, and a maddening urge to stand there and bask in her soft glow gripped him by the throat.

“You called me a spy,” she said.

“Lavinia—”

“You were worried about me,” she said, ignoring his warning tone.

“Since it’s past two o’clock, yes. I don’t know what kind of hours you keep, but normal people do not spent seven hours at a dinner party.”

“You were worried about me, and now you’re angry at yourself for worrying because—well, I’m not entirely certain why, but you are,” she said.

He leaned a shoulder against a wall and shook his head. There was no arguing with her. Not when she was right.

“Was it her?” Gillie called down from the top of the stairs.

“I’m coming up right now, Miss Gibson,” Lavinia called up the stairs. “I think I might have something of interest to you.”

She hesitated before beginning her ascent, reached for his hand, and squeezed it. “I’m fine, Andrew.”

She made her way up with hardly another look, leaving him at the bottom, struggling to catch his breath.

Chapter Twelve

LAVINIA NODDED TO Miss Gibson as she walked into Andrew’s office and dropped down into the most comfortable-looking chair in the room. Her headache had dulled to a light throb under the knot on her forehead, but she was exhausted from the emotional strain of lying and acting in stealth. Spycraft, it turned out, was tiring work.

“Would you care for a cup of tea, Mrs. Parkem?” Miss Gibson asked.

“I would actually,” said Lavinia, untying the strings holding her cloak together and letting it pool around her.

“Andrew, would you pour the tea?” asked Miss Gibson.

Lavinia thought he might object, but Andrew moved without complaint to the sideboard, where a pot was set with four mugs. After pouring it, he opened the window and retrieved a small tin of milk from the sill.

When Miss Gibson caught her watching, the young woman smiled. “Andrew has revealed himself to be rather enlightened about things like making his own tea. It’s for the best, really. I manage to burn or ruin every ingredient I touch no matter what the recipe.”

“There’s no point in waiting for a woman to cook, clean, or sew on a ship,” he said. “If you don’t learn how to do those things yourself, you won’t last a week. Here.”

He handed Lavinia her mug, and she noted with a tiny smile that it was the exact color she’d liked when they were children.

“That’s a rather impressive knot growing on your forehead, Mrs. Parkem,” said Miss Gibson as they all settled down. “Perhaps you’d like to share that story with us.”

As quickly but thoroughly as she could, Lavinia recited back the details of what had happened that evening. Miss Gibson took note of the names of the gentlemen present at the dinner while Andrew glowered at the mention of her fainting episode. When she reached the part of the story when she admitted that she’d snuck into Wark’s study, she thought he would hit the roof.

“You did what?” he nearly shouted, his knuckles white from where he’d gripped the arms of his chair.

“I had an opportunity and I took it,” she said.

“It takes skill to assess a situation and change one’s plan like that. Good job,” said Miss Gibson.

“She could’ve been caught,” he gritted out.

“But I wasn’t,” said Lavinia, reaching into her bodice. “And I have these.”

She pulled out the slips of paper. Miss Gibson’s eyes widened.