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She shrugged. “The cornice is surprisingly broad. It wasn’t ideal, but I wasn’t in danger of falling. In better circumstances, I believe I would have found the experience exhilarating.”

He laughed, incredulous. “I’m glad one of us enjoyed it. Seeing you standing there probably took twenty years off my life, but you’re the perfect heroine, as usual.” He tilted his head toward the door. “Come on.”

She stayed him with a hand to his forearm. “Don’t you want to know what I discovered in Carl Frederick’s room?”

He bit back the words, not really . That bloody letter was the furthest thing from his mind. But, as Diana clearly cared, he asked, “What did you find?”

“Nothing.”

She looked disappointed about it, so he said, “Ah. That’s too bad. Well, thank you for looking.”

“I was able to search the most obvious areas, but didn’t have time to dig through his trunks.” She tapped her lip, lost in thought. “Perhaps I can sneak back in this afternoon, once the housemaids have finished making up the rooms.”

Oh, hell, no . “That’s not necessary. You’ve already checked the most likely places. There’s only so much we can do.”

She waved a hand, still not meeting his eyes. “Yes, but if a good opportunity should present itself?—”

“Diana.” He touched her shoulder, and finally she looked at him. “We’re not doing that again.”

Her expression softened. “You really were scared.”

“I was fucking frantic . That was a thousand times worse than having bullets whizzing past my head in Germany. If anything were to happen to you…” His throat constricted, which was probably for the best, as he didn’t want to think that particular thought through to its conclusion.

She stepped forward, wrapping her arms around his waist. “I’m all right.”

He enfolded her in a hug, burying his face in her hair.

He knew it was likely that their marriage would prove to be a temporary arrangement, that she would arrange for an annulment as soon as they got back to London.

Seeing her standing on that ledge had brought home how much it was going to hurt to see her walk away.

He rubbed an eye with the heel of his hand. He’d known this was a fake marriage going in. He was probably an idiot for going through with it, regardless. This experience was going to leave his heart in shreds, but he had no one to blame but himself.

“Right,” he said gruffly. “Let’s make our escape.”

He started toward the door. He made it all of two steps before Diana stayed him with an iron hand around his upper arm.

He glanced over his shoulder, his mouth quirking into a smile. She was surprisingly strong for such a little thing. He found her staring intently at a letter lying open on the small table along the wall.

He was about to ask her what was wrong when she looked up at him, her eyes filled with wonder and disbelief. “Harrington, this is it!”

He quirked his head to the side. “What do you mean, this is it?”

“This is the letter!” she hissed, releasing his arm to pick it up. “From the King of Sweden!”

“ What ? In the bedchamber of…” His gaze swept the humble room, trying to ascertain to which servant it might belong.

“The cook,” Diana supplied. “Listen to this!”

She read the letter, translating from the Swedish:

Dear Carl Frederick,

I was grieved to hear that you wrote to your Uncle Johann, requesting a copy of his recipe for semla. I thought it was a matter of universal agreement that I have the best recipe for fettisdagsbulle in the family ? —

“What?” Harrington hissed. None of this made sense. They had been sent to this house party to recover secrets of diplomatic significance. Not for some recipe for… “What the devil is a fettisdagsbulle ?”

Diana waved her arm, excited. “It is a traditional Swedish dessert, a sweet roll soaked in milk. It’s eaten on Shrove Tuesday, which is the literal meaning of fettisdagsbulle —'Shrove Tuesday bun.’”

He gaped at her. “Do you mean to tell me that we’ve been scouring the house for a recipe for Swedish sweet rolls?”

She gave a humorless laugh. “That is precisely what I’m telling you. The king continues…”

Johann’s chef uses cream for the filling, which, I am sure you will agree, is inferior in every way to the almond paste I have instructed my chef to employ.

I will forgive your negligence on this one occasion, assuming that the only reason you wrote to your uncle was because you did not wish to bother me.

But I must insist that you use this recipe for your future Shrove Tuesday observances.

Semla

4 cups flour

2 tsp yeast

⒈／⒉ cup warm milk…

Diana trailed off. “The rest is just the recipe.” She pointed to the letter. “As you can see, it’s written in a different hand. He probably handed it off to the royal cook.”

Harrington ran a hand over his face. “And you’re sure this letter is from King Gustav?”

“Reasonably sure. It’s signed Gustav IV Adolf.” She flipped the letter over, indicating a burgundy wax seal. “And look at this—the bull and the griffin.”

“Wonderful,” Harrington said in a clipped voice. “So Carl Frederick’s comment about ‘state secrets’ was nothing more than a jest.”

Diana cringed in sympathy. “I believe you are correct.”

He sighed. “I suppose there’s no point in making a copy.”

Diana pulled out the chair carefully so as not to make a sound. “Let’s do it, just in case. It seems unlikely that there is anything of use here. But it won’t take long to copy out, and that way the Foreign Office can satisfy themselves as to whether there’s any underlying code.”

“Good thinking.” Harrington strode back to the door. “I’ll keep watch.”

Diana pulled the pencil and paper she had brought for that purpose from her pocket and began copying out the letter. Harrington stood guard, his thoughts flying. Their entire mission had been for a fucking pastry recipe. Which meant Diana had married him for nothing .

He’d thought he was doing something important for once in his life. He should’ve known better. When had anything he’d ever tried to do gone right? He should’ve known it would be a complete fucking waste.

Of course, Diana could annul the marriage.

He wouldn’t try to stop her. But what if word got around?

Her brother would never turn her out, but the world would regard her as ruined.

He felt ill, thinking that society might scorn her, and twice as ill at the prospect of her resenting him for her misfortune.

“Done!” Diana whispered from across the room. She rose from the chair and quickly restored the table to its original appearance, positioning the letter as she’d found it.

Shaking himself, Harrington pressed his ear against the door. “It’s clear,” he whispered. “Let’s make a dash for it.”

They slipped from the room and scurried down the back stairs, encountering no one on their way to their rooms. Once inside, Diana brushed a quick kiss across Harrington’s lips. “I should go and join the other ladies before they remark upon my absence. I’ll see you at luncheon.”

She hurried out again, leaving Harrington alone with his thoughts.