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M elody stared out of the carriage window while doing her best not to think of Marsdale.

She and Lady Heathbrooke had landed in France that morning and were presently headed for Paris where they would stay for a few days before continuing on to Marseille.

In truth, Melody had no wish to visit the city where tens of thousands of people, including the royals, had been put to death less than three decades ago.

She shuddered on account of the terror they must have experienced.

The level of cruelty carried out by a country in such recent history said a great deal about the citizens currently living there.

To give them coin in exchange for lodgings and food, to purchase anything from them at all, made her bristle.

Had it been up to her, they would have spent as little time in France as possible. Instead, she now had to wonder how they would be treated. With Lady Heathbrooke’s fondness for silks and fine lace, there was a good chance they would be sneered at or worse.

A memory flickered in her mind’s eye. She saw Marsdale’s kind expression, his gentle smile.

Her heart ached with the sort of anguish that came from facing an unpleasant truth.

Whatever longing she felt for him was pointless.

No matter how much she wished it were otherwise, she would never be good enough for him.

The best she could hope for now was to somehow forget him altogether by turning her attention elsewhere.

* * *

The parlor door opened and Mary, one of the downstairs maids, entered bringing a tea tray.

Elks followed her into the room and faced Samantha, who reclined on the sofa.

Despite Adrian’s insistence that she stay in bed to rest, she’d refused the coddling as soon as Doctor Moore had informed her she had no major injuries. Just a torn muscle, he believed.

His only advice was for her to stay off her legs so her knee could recover, which was something she could do pretty much anywhere. So she’d selected the parlor, which felt less like a sickroom than the bedchamber.

The maid set the tray on a table that stood within Samantha’s reach and arranged the tea things for her.

Elks cleared his throat. “Mr. Harlowe has come to call. He’s asking if you’re available.”

Samantha tensed. She’d no wish to see Harlowe ever again after he’d ordered her brought back to Clearview to face him. There was no doubt in her mind that he meant to eliminate her because of the threat she posed as a renegade agent.

She mulled that over for a brief second before telling Elks, “Please hand me the pistol located in the top drawer of that cabinet.”

Elks arched a brow but complied. He offered her the wooden box housing the weapon and seemed to wait for her next command. She flipped the lid and proceeded to load the pistol. “Thank you, Elks. You may show Mr. Harlowe in.”

“Would you like for me to ensure you’re not left alone with him?”

“That won’t be necessary. He won’t do anything drastic.” Finished loading the pistol, she held it loosely in her lap. “This is merely a gentle reminder of who he’s dealing with and my current opinion of him.”

“Of course, Mrs. Croft.” Elks retreated a step. “I’ll show him in then.”

“Do stay within earshot once you’ve done so,” she said right before Elks left. “And if Murry’s around, please have him join you.”

If Elks was alarmed by this request, he refrained from saying so or offering any hint of it in his expression.

He merely nodded and went to fetch Dorian.

Samantha took advantage of the brief reprieve and allowed herself to indulge in the wonderful tea Mary had brought.

Warm and soothing, it encouraged her to relax in a way that would surely aid her recovery.

Unfortunately, Dorian arrived almost immediately since he had to cover only a couple of yards to get from the foyer to the parlor. He entered after Elks announced him and paused as soon as he stepped through the door.

Displeasure rimmed his eyes, affording him with a slightly harsh look. “You don’t look well.”

“Did you honestly hope I would?” She saw no point in pretending he actually cared about her.

Not one hint of emotion showed on his face to betray what he might be thinking. She wasn’t surprised. As a former spy who’d worked to ensure England’s defeat against Napoleon, Dorian knew how to prevent others from reading his mind. He’d taught her how to do the same.

“I’m disappointed in the lack of concern you’ve shown toward Hazel,” he said as he walked to a nearby chair and sat. Apparently he’d no intention of answering her question.

Samantha tightened her hold on the pistol, drawing Harlowe’s attention to the weapon if only for a brief second. Again he appeared unaffected, which only made her wonder what it might take for him to let his mask fall.

“I ensured her safe return to London,” Samantha said. “That alone shows more concern than most people would have offered a woman who meant to deliver them to their destruction.”

“You think that’s what I wanted?”

She had no doubt. “I am not to blame for the wound Hazel sustained. You’re the one who sent her into a dangerous situation that could have gotten her killed. She’s lucky the bastard who shot her had a poor aim, since I’m sure he wanted her dead.”

“She’d appreciate a visit from you.”

Samantha tilted her head. “As you can see, I’m in no position to visit anyone at the moment.”

“Later then.”

When hell freezes over . She kept her response simple, non-commital, and smiled.

He drummed his fingers lazily against the armrest, stilled the movement, and finally asked, “How much does Croft know?”

“Enough for him to blame you if anything were to happen to me.”

Those pale blue eyes of his narrowed. Finally a hint of emotion. Annoyance, she believed. “You’ve betrayed me in full then.”

“Only because you tossed me to the wolves. And because I realized something important.”

“And what would that be?”

“I was never more than a pawn to you.”

“That’s not true.”

“No?” She glared at him, half-tempted to blast a hole through his icy heart. “You encouraged me to sacrifice my innocence in order to get what you wanted.”

“Not what I wanted, Samantha, but what the country needed.”

She scoffed at that. “You don’t still believe that, do you?”

“You may have married the man, Samantha, but that doesn’t make him any less dangerous. And rather than help eliminate him as you should have, you’ve turned him into a hero.”

“Because thankfully you did one thing right when you raised me.”

“And what would that be?”

“You taught me to think for myself.”

His cheeks bulged as he tightened his jaw.

“You do realize I’m not the only one playing a part in all this, right?

If you expose the secrets you’ve been made privy to as an agent of the Crown, you will be arrested and charged with treason.

The pardon your husband recently helped you acquire won’t save you from that. ”

“Any more than your wealth will protect you or your precious Nightingale Project from causing public outrage. As I’m sure it shall once I’m done telling my story to the papers.”

“You’ll only be aiding your own downfall.”

“I’m starting to think it may be worth it.”

“And what about Hazel, Melody, Tara, and Holly? Or don’t you care how this may impact them?”

Of course she did. They had been just as misled by Harlowe as she. “Let’s consider ourselves at an impasse then. Rid yourself of any idea you may have of trying to kill me, and I shall refrain from sharing details about you or your project with anyone else.”

“Can you make the same guarantee regarding your husband?”

“Unlike you, he genuinely cares about me, so yes, I can.”

He stared at her, unblinking, as though trying to gauge the veracity of her statement. Eventually he stood. “Very well. But you should know that if this ever changes, I will take my vengeance twice over.”

Samantha forced her hand to keep from trembling, to hide the impact of his words as she kept the pistol on his departing form. There was no mistaking his meaning. If she failed to uphold her end of the bargain, Dorian wouldn’t come just for her.

He’d come for Adrian too.

* * *

Adrian retrieved the burnt piece of card he’d collected from Islington’s house and placed it on the counter. Having left Samantha at home to recuperate while he tried to make some progress with the case they were trying to solve, he’d gone to visit the companies where calling cards were produced.

Mr. Sullivan, the clerk who worked at Sparrow’s stationery shop on Bond Street, held a magnifying glass to the fragment in order to better study the card stock.

“This appears to be British Regal Cream, judging from the fiber consistency and thickness.” He pointed to the spot that seemed to provide this information and offered Adrian the magnifying glass so he could have a look too.

“I can reveal that we do indeed carry this exact type of card. In fact, it’s a popular choice not only for calling cards but also for invitations. ”

“Do you think you can trace the partial print?” The card had been torn before being tossed in the fire. Only the top parts of a few letters were visible.

Mr. Sullivan lit an oil lamp and held the card close to the light.

Hunched over, he examined it a while longer, then turned to a nearby shelving unit from which he retrieved a folder.

He flipped the folder open and leafed through a number of pages before selecting the one he sought, a collection of words printed both in upper and lower cases, which he set on the counter.

“Judging from the thinness of this letter’s line right here” – he indicated the spot on the calling card that had caught his interest – “I have no doubt the font used for this particular order was Baskerville. Not the most popular choice since Caslon is easier to read. Especially when the font is smaller in size.”