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The snick of the tumblers falling into place and he eased the garden door open with the merest crack.

With a satisfied smile, he returned the kit to his waistcoat pocket.

The leather folder with the delicate tools was thin enough not to mar the slim lines of his suit.

It was important for a gentleman to appear impeccably dressed, even when breaking into a peer’s private study.

One of the few lessons he’d learned from his ne’re-do-well father.

Thorne listened for a moment before slipping into the room.

Patience was the most difficult skill he’d learned after accepting the position with the War Office.

The other skills he’d honed on the battlefields of Europe fighting the Corsican.

Compared to traipsing through battlefields littered with mud and good English soldiers, sneaking around the townhouses of London was relatively easy.

He prayed the rumors of Napoleon’s return were just that, rumors.

He’d seen enough of war and the destruction it could do.

His anger simmered. Too many lives lost for one man’s vanity.

But strong emotions would get a man caught. It was a luxury he could not afford.

Cautiously and quickly, he unlocked the desk, searching for the correspondence he’d been told the earl had received. It was imperative they discover what Napoleon and his supporters were planning.Britain could not withstand another war.

The note was easily located. Pushing a familiar copy of Johnathan Swift’s novel out of the way, he spread the message on the desk blotter.

The second skill he’d learned when dealing with military intelligence was to be thorough.

Every fold, mark and blemish could be a clue, a message, or logistics. Meticulously, he copied the message.

A door slammed.

A feminine giggle was followed by a muffled masculine voice.

His heart raced. He finished copying the message, sanded it dry, and carefully folded it to look like the original. He slid the letter inside his waistcoat’s hidden pocket and tucked the forgery back inside the desk. Quickly, he returned the desk to rights and locked it.

The study door opened. There was no time to run.

Pushing open the garden door, he had only seconds to glance around.

His discarded glass was where he’d left it.

Ignoring the bee that had discovered the boozy bouquet of the aged whiskey, he took a giant gulp just as Lady Matilda Hastings entered the room.

“Lord Blackwood? What are you doing in my father’s study?”

Thorne did his best to leer at the young woman gazing pointedly at her breasts. “Is that where I am, dear lady? I merely wished to get out of the sun.” He grinned. “Did you follow me?” He lurched towards her and waggled his eyebrows. “Did you seek an assignation with a notorious rogue?”

“You’re too late, dear boy. She’s already engaged.”

Thorne Blackwood glared at his father. “Duke,” he growled. “The lady seems rather young and a bit too innocent for you.”

The old man shrugged. Despite his debilitation, people still considered the duke quite the catch. “I’m turning over a new leaf.” He grinned. “Lady Matilda has reformed me.”

Thorne snorted. “Reformed the notorious rake? Has she cured your syphilis, too?”

With a squeak of protest, the lady rushed from the room.

The elder Blackwood glared at his son. “For a self-proclaimed rake, you sure have a moral high ground.”

“Because I draw the line at corrupting innocents?”

“But it is the innocents who are the hope of our salvation.”

Thorne rolled his eyes. “Speak for yourself, old man.”

“You and your brothers, always so judgmental. I’d hoped one of you might understand and sympathize with your sire.”

Thorne snarled, “The Blackwood men are not known for understanding and sympathy.” His father always brought out his surlier side.

The Duke of Briaridge spared one more glare for his son before returning to the house party.

Throne sighed with relief and quickly retreated. He needed to get the missive back to his superior for deciphering.