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Lady Beatrice Hartley stormed into Lord Vernon Quinn’s office, looking ready to go to war. “You didn’t tell him, did you?”

Nonplused, her uncle simply shook his head. “There was no need to tell him, my dear. He came to the right conclusion on his own. That you also work for the war office is a need to know, and he doesn’t need to know.”

“Because Thorne feels the need to protect me. He cannot do his job if he is worried about me. I need to tell him I can take care of myself.”

“He knows that, but he’s a man in love…”

“He’s pretending.”

“Is he?” He shrugged. “Have you deciphered the last missive I sent you?”

She shook her head. “I think I need something else, a master letter or book. Do you know what books were in the suspect’s study?”

Lord Vernon frowned, took several deep breaths and called his assistant.

“Send word to Thorne that I need to speak with him. Inform him to join my niece and I for lunch at L’Union and see that we have a private room.

Send around my carriage.” He turned to Birdie.

“Did you think to bring a maid with you?”

She blushed. “While I might skirt propriety in the country, even I know better than to thumb my nose at society’s idiotic rules while in town.”

“Good. We must keep up appearances.” He donned his coat and hat, pulled on his gloves, and took Birdie’s hand to lead her to the waiting carriage.

Neither spoke in the maid’s presence. Upon their arrival at L’Union, a waiter ushered them into a private room where Thorne joined them.

Birdie sent her maid to the kitchens with the other servants while the three talked over their meat pies.

“Birdie has a question for you, Thorne,” Vernon said without preamble.

Thorne turned to Birdie. “Is it concerning our betrothal?”

“Not exactly, but it may have some effect on it later.” She smiled. “When you retrieved this letter, do you remember any books being close by?” She pulled out a letter from her reticule.

Thorne stared at the letter, recognizing it immediately. He looked from Birdie to Lord Vernon. The man was eating his meat pie as if he had not a care in the world. “I should have known. Am I a dullard not to have guessed you were the expert decoder?” He frowned. “Blue Bird?”

She blushed and glanced around, but there was no one close by to overhear. “Why would you think a woman was involved in the war effort?”

Thorne looked to his supervisor and shrugged. “Why not? Especially when you are more capable than anyone else of my acquaintance and you are Lord Vernon’s niece.”

“Do you recall seeing a book near the letter?”

Thorne closed his eyes and replayed the mission, taking them through each step he took in retrieving the note. “I sat the letter on the blotter. I had to move a book out of my way…” He moved his hand over the dining table as if moving things on the desk. “Gulliver’s Travels.”

“Gulliver’s Travels?” Birdie echoed. “Oh dear, there have been dozens of printings. Without the correct version, we’ll never be able to decipher this letter.”

Vernon held up his hand. “The Earl is a collector. It would have to be a first edition.”

Birdie nodded. “My brother, John, has a first edition.”

“Would it be at his London house?” Thorne asked.

She nodded. “I believe so.”

They finished their meal, and Thorne joined them in the carriage. Lord Vernon allowed them to drop him at his office and they continued to her brother’s house.

Birdie nervously knocked on the door. She rarely visited her oldest brother.

He preferred to keep his private life private.

He would join the family for meals and holidays, but the rest of the time, he kept to himself.

She was not sure how he would respond to her arrival on his doorstep and with Thorne in tow.

She was more surprised when he answered the door in his shirtsleeves. “Birdie, Thorne.” He stepped back to allow them entrance. “To what do I owe this intrusion, uh, honor? Forgive me, I understand congratulations are in order, but who am I congratulating,” he growled.

Birdie ignored her brother’s surly attitude. “I need to borrow your copy of Gulliver’s Travels. The first edition copy you have.”

“What? No.”

She pulled the letter from her bag and tilted her head. “It’s imperative.”

“You’ve involved her in your mission?” John accused.

“No, he did not. I was already involved.” She brushed past him and into his study.

The two men followed.

“What do you mean, you were already involved?” John demanded.

“I just found out today,” Thorne replied.

“Vernon Quinn,” they both muttered.

“Shh, let me work,” Birdie hissed as she opened the book and began making notes in a small notebook she pulled from her bag.

“I’ll have the housekeeper fix some tea and see to your maid,” John said, stepping out of the study.

Thorne sprawled in a chair beside the hearth, dozing as he waited.

The sun was setting when he awoke. A pot of lukewarm tea sat beside him on a serving tray with an array of cakes and cookies. Thorne popped a lemon cookie in his mouth.

“I got it,” Birdie said and stretched.

John groaned. “I sent word to father you were here and having supper with me and that I would see you home. I sent Lord Vernon’s carriage back.”

Birdie yawned. “How late is it?” She glanced out the window in dismay. “I should get this information to Lord Vernon.”

“It can wait until morning.”

She shook her head. “I’m not sure it can. There’s already been a delay.”

“I’ll send word for him to join us,” John left the two of them alone in the study.

“You did it.” Grinning, Thorne pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

Blushing, she shook her head. “I just hope I’m not too late,” she whispered breathlessly, pulling out of his arms, shaken by her desire.

Thorne released her, but leaned close to read the decoded information. “I need to speak with my contact, see if he has any updates.” He squeezed her shoulder.

She met his eyes. “We need to mobilize our troops to Belgium.”

Thorne agreed.

Tears glistened in her eyes. “Robert…”

Thorne understood her concern. His own brother served with Wellington. No matter what the pencil pushers believed, he knew this would not be an easy battle. A man with nothing left to lose was a force to be reckoned with, and Napoleon only had two choices: win or die trying.