“No. Yourpartner. Your equal. I want to learn to do what you do. To cipher, to gather intelligence, to be a spy.”
Ambrose had almost said,Women aren’t spies, but he’d held his tongue. Firstly, that wasn’t true. He’d known of a handful of female agents over the years. One was the wife of Baron, the leader of the Royal Saboteurs, an elite group Ambrose hoped to join when he returned from the Continent. Secondly, he had the sudden thought that Maggie would make a very good spy. No one would suspect her.
She could eavesdrop without being noticed. She was very good at disappearing when she didn’t want to be seen. If he taught her some rudimentary codes, she could send missives for him, easing his own workload.
“Fine. I’ll teach you,” he’d said.
Her eyes had lit up with a brightness he had only seen in them a few times before. She’d kissed him so passionately that they hadn’t even made it to their bed before taking each other. He still blushed to think what the servants must have said of them.
Ambrose had reasoned if it made Maggie this happy for him to teach her a bit about being an agent for the Crown, what harm could there be?
How wrong he had been.
She made a sound now, and he watched as she lifted her head from her arms and blinked up at him. Her spectacles corrected her vision so she might see distances. He was standing close enough that she could see him clearly. “What are you doing up?” she asked.
“Contemplating my mistakes.”
“That could take all day.” She twisted and blinked at the sunlight. “It’s later than I wanted. You need more medicine.”
“Fine.” He moved toward the table to lift the spoon and vial. He could take it himself. He didn’t need to be fed. “Is there any food left?” he asked after he’d downed the medicine.
She shook her head and lifted her spectacles, polishing the glass on a corner of her skirt. “I need more coin. I only brought a few shillings with me. I can get more—”
“I have blunt. I’ll wash and change, and we’ll go together to break our fast. If you’re to assist me with the capture of the assassin, you’ll want to know where the attack occurred and the places he frequents.”
“You were serious, then? You will really allow me to help with this?”
“I said I would.”
“Yes, but then I figured you would change your mind because you would remember I am a woman and too delicate.”
“That was never my objection to you becoming an agent,” he said, going to the washbasin and pouring water from the ewer into it. At some point, Maggie had filled the ewer with fresh cold water. “I only wanted to protect you.”
“There’s such a thing as protection, but when that crosses over into imprisonment, it becomes more about your wants and less about my safety.”
Ambrose wanted to take issue with her use of the wordimprisonment, but they’d had this argument before. He didn’t want to start it again. What he did want was to win Maggie back. And it seemed the best way to go about that was to stop telling her he had changed and instead show her.
The problem was, Ambrose wasn’t quite sure hehadchanged.
***
MARGARET DID NOT BELIEVEfor a moment that Holyoake had changed. Yes, hesaidhe wanted her help capturing the assassin, but he had given her opportunities to help before. And then as soon as they were in the thick of it, he’d panicked about her becoming injured or killed or traumatized and pushed her aside or left her behind.
At first, Margaret was understanding. Her husband loved her. He wanted to keep her safe. He was afraid something would happen to her. She’d discussed this with him. She’d tried to explain that she wanted to do something more than host garden parties and sip tea with Society matrons. She was no good at social affairs. She might be a viscountess in title, but in the eyes of polite society, she was a nothing.
Margaret had never cared about being a nothing before. She lived a thousand lives through her books. But once she and Holyoake left for the Continent and she had a taste of his work, she couldn’t stop herself from wanting more. She wanted purpose. She wanted adventure. She wanted to do something meaningful.
Oh, very well. Truth be told, she wanted excitement.
She could understand why Holyoake was initially amused and then concerned. She hadn’t seemed the sort of woman who would want excitement. She’d always lived a quiet life. But perhaps that was because the only excitement ever available to her before was dancing at a ball or shopping in Bond Street. Those were tedious chores compared to the thrill of tracking another agent or intercepting a coded missive.
“Well, we’ll throw caution to the wind today,” Holyoake said now in response to her accusation about him imprisoning her. She raised her brows. She thought that comment would stir his anger, but he was hiding his emotions well. Or perhaps his feelings toward her had changed. Perhaps she had been away so long that he didn’t love her anymore and didn’t care if she was hurt or killed in the line of duty.
Perhaps he had taken a lover.
Margaret watched as he crossed the room and opened a trunk near the bed. He tossed several garments on the floor then chose a pair of trousers and a shirt. The discarded garments were tossed back in the trunk in a heap. It appeared some things hadn’t changed. She pushed aside the urge to open the trunk and fold the garments neatly. Instead, she watched as her husband gingerly removed his shirt.
She couldn’t blame him if he had taken a lover. After all, she’d abandoned him. She didn’t believe what he’d said yesterday—that he hadn’t known whether she was alive or dead. He was a talented agent. He’d known where she was and probably what she was doing. He hadn’t seemed to know she was a Royal Saboteur, but then the identity of those agents was highly guarded.
