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L ucinda never lost her temper with her mother.

Not before Papa’s untimely death of an inflammation of the lungs almost a year earlier, and not since.

The more Mother insisted on something unacceptable, the more Lucinda kept her voice level and calm.

The more Mother ranted and stormed, the more Lucinda remained quiet and still.

When she’d learned, shortly after Papa died, that Mother had ordered all his books burned, Lucinda had simply had the footman box them up and take them to Lord Restive’s with a letter of explanation, and asked the gardener to burn some extra debris that day in case Mother suspected her order had been disobeyed.

Lucinda was perilously close to losing her temper tonight. She didn’t even try to catch the vinaigrette bottle when Mother flung it again.

She simply stood and walked out of the room into a huddle of servants listening behind the door. “Be careful,” she said. “There’s broken glass all over the floor.”

The servants scattered, only one maid creeping into the drawing room to clean up the mess.

Lucinda ran up the stairs to her bedchamber. She could not let this happen. Marry Restive? Never.

But how was she to stop Mother from making a huge fuss about absolutely nothing?

She wouldn’t allow Mother to trap Restive into marrying her.

That went without saying. But she couldn’t prevent her from calling on Restive, insisting that because Lucinda had been unchaperoned, he had compromised her.

She would bring Mr. and Mrs. Huber into it, and maybe even the vicar.

If only Papa were alive! He was a reasonable man.

He would never have allowed his wife to do anything so stupid.

Nor would Lucinda’s brother, Matthew, but he was in the army and had refused to sell out when Papa died, leaving control of the estate in his solicitor’s hands.

She didn’t blame him for not wanting to put up with Mother, who had always been difficult, but now that Papa was gone, she’d turned into a petty tyrant.

If only I could just leave home , Lucinda thought. Unfortunately, her portion wouldn’t be hers until she turned twenty-five. She had only a few more years to wait, but they stretched ahead like forever. If only she could go far away and earn her living somehow…

Wishing accomplished nothing. Action was required. When she calmed down a little, Lucinda realized what she must do—warn Restive, so he could leave, go to London perhaps, and make himself unavailable until Mother gave up.

That settled, she rang for Jane, the maid she shared with her mother and sister, ordered tea, and asked how her mother was doing.

“The usual, miss. You’re to remain in your room with naught but bread and water. Did Miss Susannah really elope?”

“Yes, with Mr. Ball,” Lucinda said.

“It’s a case of true love, isn’t it, miss?” Jane gave a dreamy sigh.

“I suppose it is,” Lucinda said. “At least I hope so, for she is stuck with him now.”

“Are you really going to marry Lord Restive, miss?”

“Of course not, Jane,” she said. “I don’t even like him.”

“But he’s a lord, and ever so rich and handsome.” Jane sighed again.

“He’s also rude and unkind,” Lucinda said, and changed the subject. “If you can sneak my dinner up without her knowing, do so. Otherwise, let me know and I’ll fetch it myself.”

The maid left, and Lucinda made a plan. She would rise at dawn, saddle her old pony, and ride the few miles to Lord Restive’s estate.

His servants would be awake by the time she arrived.

She would hand the book over to whomever opened the door, with a note to Lord Restive warning him of Mother’s intentions and suggesting that he make his escape while he yet could.

Jane soon slipped in with tea, a slice of pork pie, and a salad of early spring greens.

Lucinda cast about for something to read while she ate, and remembered Lord Restive’s book.

She removed it from the reticule and laughed, for it was Le médecin malgré lui , a play by Molière.

She couldn’t have picked up anything more unsuited to her mother’s taste.

Since the revolution and now the war with France, Mother was violently opposed to anything French.

She paged slowly through the book, remembering scenes she’d read years ago; it was a delightful farce. Evidently, Restive was partway through the play, for a folded slip of paper marked his place. She sipped tea and ate the last forkful of pie.

The bookmark fell out, and Lucinda bent to pick it up. It was a half-sheet of foolscap, folded in four, with writing on both sides. Some demon of curiosity—which made no sense, as she wasn’t the least bit interested in Lord Restive—prompted Lucinda to read it.

On one side were columns of figures, some in a childish hand and some a more mature one.

On the reverse were more figures, and squeezed beside them was a note from someone who signed herself his loving Marie.

After apologizing for wasting paper on little Davy’s sums (for she had run out of chalk for the slate), she hereby returned the play and recommended, for his edification and possible improvement, that he read at least as far as the introduction to Mary Wollstonecraft’s treatise, A Vindication of the Rights of Woman.

Lucinda burst into laughter. Good gracious—could this be a message from a mistress in France, with a child who might be his bastard? Good luck to her if she had hopes of reforming Restive. To him, women were nothing but playthings.

Below the message were several lines of writing that looked like words—long and short, with spaces between—but meaning nothing at all, or at least not in any of the several languages with which she was familiar. Gibberish.

No, not gibberish. This was a code .

“L ucinda, come down here immediately!”

“Just coming, Mother.” Lucinda threw a shawl over her shoulders and hurried down the stairs.

The impending scene would be unpleasant, but not more than the thoughts that whirled through her mind.

She reached the foot of the stairs just as Mother sailed past into the drawing room without deigning to look her way.

Mother had dressed for dinner, adorned herself with jewels, and, Lucinda knew from experience, plotted as she dined.

Lucinda groaned to herself. She much preferred dealing with the be-shawled, wronged-by-her-children version of her mother than the determined matron with a Grand Plan.

Mother waved Lucinda to a hard chair—her idea of punishment—whilst she settled herself on the sofa. She prepared and poured the tea, scolding all the while.

Lucinda let Mother’s plan for a huge society wedding wash over her head. Was the code the reason for Lord Restive’s consternation when she’d picked up the book? And why had he had a fugitive in his house?

Was Lord Restive a spy? Or worse, a traitor? It was a horrifying thought, one she could hardly credit. But if it were true, she must do something about it.

She recalled a day in London a year or two ago, chatting at a ball with a group of ladies, amongst them her friend Dorothea, formerly Miss Darsington, now Mrs. Cecil Hale.

Something Dorothea had said at the time reminded Lucinda that Dorothea’s father, Sir Frederick Darsington, worked at the Home Office.

Lucinda had never met him, but surely he knew how to deal with traitors and spies.

“Are you listening to me?” Mother demanded at last. “Did you hear a word that I said?”

“Yes, Mother, I heard it all,” Lucinda said absently.

“And have you nothing to say for yourself?”

Lucinda looked up from her untouched tea. “Such as what, Mother?”

“Surely that’s obvious ,” Mother said. “Doing without supper has made you see reason . You regret your outburst. You will obey me and marry Lord Restive.”

Lucinda shook her head. “No, Mother, I meant what I said. I shall not marry him.”

“Out!” Mother cried. “Get out ! No tea for you, and no breakfast either. Nothing but bread and water until you obey!” She tossed the contents of her cup, which fortunately was half empty, and then the cup itself.

Lucinda caught the cup, set it on the table, and walked slowly up the stairs. She had more important matters on her mind than Mother’s erratic behavior (which today, thanks to Susannah’s elopement, was worse than usual).

Lord Restive was arrogant, rude, and amoral, but surely he was no traitor.

But what if he were?

She thought back to Dorothea at the ball.

For some reason Restive’s elderly cousin, Lord Wellough, had come up in the conversation.

He had died suddenly, and when a matronly woman made a comment about him, a flicker of uneasiness crossed Dorothea’s face.

“Good riddance,” she murmured, and to Lucinda’s questioning look, she shrugged and said, “He was a horrid old lecher, and he gambled to excess. Poor Lord Restive.”

Which was true about Wellough, but why would Restive care about that? He was a lecher too, if a young, good-looking one. Had he been obliged to settle some of Wellough’s debts and therefore found himself in difficulties? And committed treason to recoup his finances?

It was a ghastly notion, and despite disdaining Restive, she found it almost impossible to believe. He was her brother’s friend. His family had dwelt nearby forever.

Now, the other fellow—the shabby, ruthless boy with the gun—could certainly be a spy.

She had to work out what the message said.

L ucinda knew quite a lot about codes. Her father, who had encoded and decoded secret messages for the army, had taught her a great deal, and she’d found it much more interesting than lessons in deportment.