The spy sat on the sofa in Lady Faine’s drawing room and completely mangled the embroidery she was attempting to sew on the white linen handkerchief.

Outside the long drawing room windows, the late spring sunlight was almost garish as it drowned out the colors of the rose garden. Insects created lazy patterns as they flew among the bushes, and only occasionally did they hear the chirping of birds.

Miss Lena Penrose floundered at her embroidery, but she was rescued by Lady Faine, sitting across from her.

“My dear Miss Penrose,” Lady Faine said with a bright smile, “I perceive that you have made a mistake in your embroidery. Would you like me to fix it for you?”

“I would be ever so grateful if you would.” Lena was so grateful she practically flung the mess of embroidery silks at her hostess, only then noticing that she had two needles strung on two different colors of silk.

Lady Faine looked down at the handkerchief and hesitated. Then she plucked her shiny scissors from her work basket and began ruthlessly cutting threads until it looked like a colorful bird’s nest.

Lena felt rather sorry for the handkerchief.

— From Lady Wynwood’s Spies, Volume 7: Spinster

Excerpt

The prologue of this book occurs near the beginning of Lady Wynwood’s Spies, Volume 3: Aggressor, right after Brigitte and her gang set foot on English soil.

Then, chapter one of this book occurs right around the start of the events of Lady Wynwood’s Spies, Volume 6: Martyr.

And if that’s not confusing enough, the events near the end of this book overlap with the events of Lady Wynwood’s Spies, Volume 8: Traitor.

Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.

Isaiah 41:10

A man’s heart deviseth his way:
but the LORD directeth his steps.
Proverbs 16:9

There are many devices in a man’s heart;
nevertheless the counsel of the LORD, that shall stand.
Proverbs 19:21

Prologue

Portsmouth, England

Maxham was bored.

It didn’t help that he hated Portsmouth and the surrounding area. The wind bit sharply, and the air smelled too strongly of fish.

At the moment, he was simply waiting. He’d ridden several hours, only to discover the information he sought in less than an hour. He’d had an unexpected side errand, but that had been quickly taken care of, despite the fact it was broad daylight.

His horse was too tired for him to return to London immediately, so he headed into Portsmouth to look into booking a seat on the mail coach.

The next one would leave soon, but it was very full and he’d be cramped inside. He’d become more sensitive to smells the longer he took Ward’s potion (he refused to call it by the ridiculous name Ward had given to it), and being wedged into a coach with so many strange odors would curdle his stomach. So he decided to wait until his horse recovered.

He hadn’t been back to Portsmouth or the surrounding areas in more than two years, but he’d come because of a rumor that had reached him only yesterday through the various webs of communication that he maintained. So he’d hied himself to the little fishing village, questioned his sources, and discovered it was true. 

He’d never met Brigitte Despréaux, but her reputation was rather infamous, and a tiny, buxom woman with straight, fine, ice-blonde hair had been spotted in the small village, having just disembarked from a smuggler’s boat with four male lackeys. Certainly, it was not necessarily her, but Maxham had reason to expect the emperor to send someone to England eventually, so he’d had his sources keep their eyes open and report to him about anyone from France who might be just a tad more unusual than most.

Since Brigitte answered only to the emperor, she could be on these shores for any number of reasons. But Maxham’s source had overheard a snatch of conversation, complaints about “the botanist’s sensitive stomach” from the Channel crossing.

That told him exactly why she was here. Napoleon had sent her to steal from Maxham’s group.

Ward was going to be livid, but Maxham couldn’t really blame the emperor. After all, why not try to recreate the potion himself rather than paying someone else?

Unfortunately, before Maxham left London, he hadn’t bothered to leave a note for Jack, since at the time, he hadn’t known if it had truly been Brigitte who had been sighted, nor had he known anything about her purpose. However, he hoped to return to London tonight to warn his compatriot to guard his greenhouses.

He had judged that the news was not so urgent that he would need to endure the discomfort of the mail coach—after all, Jack had taken great pains to hide the location of his London greenhouse, and even if Maxham arrived at Jack’s new place of business at this very moment, there was little chance he’d speak to Jack in person. He was rarely there in the mornings, and he was notorious for showing up whenever he felt like it. Even if Maxham left a message, it could be days before he read it.

Also, as insurance, Maxham had sought out the smugglers who had brought her and her crew to these shores, and killed them.

He had nothing against them—they were merely making a living, after all—but it would inconvenience Brigitte to find that her ride back to France was no longer available. Maxham felt it his duty to inconvenience her, seeing as she was here to steal from them.

So, stuck in Portsmouth, he headed into an inn and arranged to stable his horse. Strangely, the interior of the building looked familiar to him, as did the portly innkeeper.

Even more unusual, the innkeeper recognized him. With a wide smile, he said, “Welcome. Back again, sir?”

So he had been here before. He remembered vague snatches of conversation, so to test his theory, he asked, “How is your red-haired daughter?”

The innkeeper chuckled. “Thank ye for asking, sir. Married last year, she was, and a babe on the way already.”

It was early for lunch, but Maxham requested a meal and a pint of ale, and he settled in a table near the window, his back to the wall so that he had a full view of the common room, which was only half-full. He tried peering out the window, but the glass panes were wavy and not very clean. There was little traffic on the road that ran outside the inn.

Portsmouth was a busier town than the small fishing village he’d left, and he preferred the bustle of people and vehicles. But it was probably fortunate that the small village had made strangers stand out, especially as it was known a smuggler’s boat would arrive with the tides high and the new moon out. So Brigitte and her men had been easily noticed.

Unfortunately, Maxham would have been noticed this morning, also, even though he only spoke to his source—the owner of a tavern in the small fishing village—for barely fifteen minutes. He was more accustomed to fading into the background. It had made him unwontedly self-conscious when the innkeeper had recognized him, which was itself odd since most people’s eyes slid right over him.

For many years he had wished he wasn’t invisible. Now he found himself becoming nervous if he was noticed like any other person.

Like the innkeeper had been, the taproom was familiar to him. The fireplace had one brick that was a paler white color than the rest, and the room had a faint smell of cinnamon from the innkeeper’s wife’s spice cakes, which were popular.

Maxham sipped his pint and stared out the window. He recognized the dressmaker’s shop across the street from two years ago, when he’d been searching for Mifflin’s wife.

They had tracked her through several towns and finally lost her in this one. Maxham didn’t know if she even entered Portsmouth. He remembered kicking the stones at the base of the dressmaker’s building, feeling the frustration buzz through him like bees under his skin.

She had only been an hour ahead of them by the time they reached the village before Portsmouth. Their close proximity had perhaps made them arrogant, and looking back, Maxham thought they might have mistaken the direction she traveled.

In recognizing the dressmaker’s shop, his mind drifted back through the unsuccessful chase. He recalled the different villages they’d passed through, the steps they’d taken, the information they’d found about Mifflin’s wife at each stop.

And then they’d reached Portsmouth, and there had been nothing.

But time had mellowed his frustration, or perhaps it was also the ale and the relaxing luncheon. His thoughts drifted to what they might have done differently, and then it occurred to him that perhaps he was starting from the wrong end.

He signaled the innkeeper and requested paper and pen, then he proceeded to write a letter to Jack, telling him about Brigitte but also asking for the name of the village where they had first seen Mifflin’s wife, at the start of the chase. If he was lucky, Jack would receive his letter quickly, although it often irritated Maxham how difficult it could be to contact him.

Even as he penned the message, he could imagine Jack’s inevitable annoyance, because finding the answer would be tedious. But he knew Jack would do it.

He gave the innkeeper the message and some coin and asked for an express rider to carry it with all speed to London.

Even though the trail was two years old, he might still find something. Maxham didn’t like having loose ends.

Chapter One

Five weeks later

Wittenden, England

The spy sat on the sofa in Lady Faine’s drawing room and mangled the embroidery she was attempting to sew on the white linen handkerchief.

Outside the long drawing-room windows, the late spring sunlight was almost garish as it drowned out the colors of the rose garden. Insects created lazy patterns as they flew among the bushes, and only occasionally did they hear the chirping of birds.

Miss Lena Penrose floundered at her embroidery, but she was rescued by Lady Faine, sitting across from her.

“My dear Miss Penrose,” Lady Faine said with a bright smile, “I perceive that you have made a mistake in your embroidery. Would you like me to fix it for you?”

“I would be ever so grateful if you would.” Lena was so grateful she practically flung the mess of embroidery silks at her hostess, only then noticing that she had two needles strung on two different colors of silk.

Lady Faine looked down at the handkerchief and hesitated. Then she plucked her shiny scissors from her work-basket and began ruthlessly cutting threads until it looked like a colorful bird’s nest.

Lena felt rather sorry for the handkerchief.

It was strange to be sitting here in this domestic scenario. When she had first heard the details of her mission a few days ago, she had assumed this would be like other assignments—infiltrating a household under the guise of a servant, or posing as a curious stranger in a small village and encouraging people to share tidbits of gossip with her.

She had not expected to be asked to pose as … not quite as herself, but as the version of herself she had adopted for the past several years. And that made her far more nervous than she expected.

It was not simply that she felt a trifle more exposed than normal, answering to “Miss Penrose” just as she did in the safety of the Neybridges’ home in London rather than to a false name for her assignment. No, her unease was sitting on the sofa next to her.

Miss Melinda Neybridge, to whom Lena served as a companion, expertly tied off a thread on her own embroidery, which was far neater and prettier than Lena’s. “I must thank you again, my lady, for allowing us to quite invade your household for several weeks.”

“Think nothing of it, my dear,” Lady Faine said as she continued snipping silks. “You know that we are always pleased to have you and your father and Miss Penrose to stay with us at any time, but you arrived so suddenly. If you had written a few weeks earlier to warn us, I could have invited some other young people, perhaps even the daughters of some of my close friends, to join us for a house party to entertain you.”

“That is not necessary, my lady,” Melinda said. “My father’s business came up very suddenly. We are ever so grateful that when he realized he would need to stay near Wittenden, he was able to take the opportunity to write to your husband to ask him if we may stay with you, thereby combining his business with a long overdue visit.”

That was the story they had fabricated while they were still in London. Melinda’s father, Mr. Wilfred Neybridge, had received an urgent mission from his superiors at the Ramparts, a secret branch of the Alien Office. A treasonous group had sent a young prostitute into the area of Wittenden, accompanied by an older woman as a companion. She was likely posing as a young lady of quality.

Lena, as one of the few gently-bred female agents in the Ramparts, had been sent along with her superior, Mr. Neybridge, to uncover her identity.

Ever since Lena had begun work for the Ramparts, she had only worked with other agents, usually her supervisor, Mr. Neybridge. Melinda had always been aware of her father’s and companion’s clandestine work, but she had never traveled with them or been exposed to any danger. Mr. Neybridge had taken great pains to protect her from his work.

But now, Melinda’s presence was necessary in order for Mr. Neybridge and Lena to accomplish the task that had been assigned to them. While they would have fabricated any sort of reason to enter the area, the Neybridges were family friends with the Faines, who lived in Wittenden. They could not visit without Melinda, and so she had come along.

Lena hoped she would be able to protect her if things grew dangerous—but they’d been assured that this was a simple mission to gather information. In all likelihood, Melinda would not come to harm.

And while she didn’t like involving Melinda in this business, she was still grateful for her presence at the moment. Melinda’s long-standing relationship with their hostess was sure to induce her to unbend enough to gossip about any new faces in the neighborhood.

“It has been much too long since we last saw you,” Lady Faine said.

“Why, the last time I came, there was only Rebecca to play with,” Melinda said.

“Is that so? Then that means that you have not been to Wittenden since before Robina was born. That is disgraceful. I am very glad to have several weeks with you now. Miss Penrose, you and Mr. Neybridge did not join Melinda on her last visit,” Lady Faine remarked.

The last time, Melinda had been sent to stay with the Faines because Lena and Mr. Neybridge had traveled to Portugal to deliver secret orders to Major-General Wellesley.

“It was my fault, I fear, my lady,” Melinda said. “I gave Lena a holiday so that she may visit her family.”

Lena’s hands lay unseen in the folds of her gown pooled at her lap, so no one saw her tighten them briefly. The word family had quite a different meaning to her than it did to other people. Feelings most intense, most painful.

“You have been Melinda’s companion for many years, have you not?”

“Twelve years, my lady,” Lena said. Without the torturous embroidery, her hands were growing fidgety. If she were at home with Melinda, she could practice her lock-picking skills, but Lady Faine would likely be scandalized if she did that.

“In fact, it is nearly Lena’s birthday,” Melinda said. She gave Lena a smile, but there was an excitement behind it that hinted at something more in her words.

“Truly?” Lady Faine studied Lena’s face. “I declare, you look to be nearly Melinda’s age.”

Lena laughed merrily. “That is very kind of you, my lady. I am not ashamed to admit that I am nearly twenty-nine years old.”

Lady Faine paused in picking at Lena’s embroidery. “How extraordinary. Such a youthful face you have.” She gave a sigh. “I am quite glad the two of you are here to play with the girls. It has been quite tiring for me, at my age.”

The Faines had married late and also had children late. Lady Faine was the same age as Mr. Neybridge.

“Nonsense, my lady,” Lena said. “You are as hale as I remember.”

Lady Faine smiled. “All the same, I am quite glad that the Salloways are hosting a house party at the moment with several young people. It shall make the neighborhood more lively for the two of you.”

Lena was rather touched that Lady Faine included her. Most disregarded a mere companion, which suited Lena since her job as an agent was aided if she was not easily seen.

“The Salloways?” Lena asked, helping herself to another lemon biscuit from the tea tray. “Are they neighbors of yours, my lady?”

“Sir Huxley Salloway, baronet.” Lady Faine’s eyes crossed slightly as she frowned at a mound of silks that looked like a woman’s towering headdress. “He inherited Morley Lodge two or three years ago when old Sir Nesbit died.”

“I seem to recall that Sir Nesbit kept to himself,” Lena said, but too late she saw Melinda give a subtle warning shake of her head.

“A recluse and terrible grump, my dear.” Lady Faine gave a particularly sharp snip! of her scissors. “He never socialized. He even turned Sir Gilbert away when he went to complain about flooding in the east fields. Wouldn’t even deign to see him.”

Lady Faine looked to be whipping herself into a mound of irritation, so Lena quickly asked, “And Sir Huxley …?”

“Oh, Sir Huxley has been a wonderful neighbor. He is unmarried, but he assumed guardianship of his niece when his sister and her husband died. Since he has no sons, the title will go to his cousin, Mr. David Salloway. He has invited Mr. Salloway and his family along with other young gentlemen and ladies for a house party for the next several weeks.”

“It is a trifle early, as the Season in London has not yet ended,” Melinda said.

“But it is winding down,” Lady Faine said. “Miss Salloway, Sir Huxley’s ward, was presented this year, but she returned home early from the Season. Although that may have been to prepare for the party.”

“Will it be very large?” Lena asked.

“They have not yet all arrived, but it is rumored to be five young ladies and five young gentlemen,” Lady Faine said. “Goodness knows, the Salloways have the room for it, in their ancestral pile. Sir Huxley had to spend vast amounts of money to repair the castle when he inherited the title from Sir Nesbit.”

Although the Salloways would not knowingly invite anyone who was not good ton, it was entirely possible that the prostitute, Miss Dinorah Seiles, inveigled her way into a particular party and met the Salloways, coaxing an invitation to the house party. Supposedly Dinorah was able to pose as a woman much younger than her age—she had ordered dresses suitable for a girl making her debut and had even sacked her lady’s maid, probably in order to hire one more genteel. She had easily managed to pose as a gentlewoman and attend various ton parties.

“That sounds like quite a merry group,” Lena said. “Are there many other young people in the neighborhood who could join them?”

“The squire’s daughters have married and moved away, and the Jarnells’ three daughters are only one or two years out of the schoolroom—they will surely seem like veritable babes to you.”

Lena did all she could to suppress a smile while Melinda exerted the same amount of effort not to grimace. Employer and companion were both considered to be “on the shelf,” and while neither felt a strong desire to marry at the moment, Melinda had had her share of Mr. Neybridge’s relatives nagging her about her “advanced age.”

Lady Faine continued, “And of course Mrs. Aldred will be pushing her son on every eligible young woman. She was speaking quite avidly about him when I told her that you were coming, Melinda.”

Melinda had a long-suffering expression, and Lena knew she was attempting to keep herself from groaning out loud. From what she had told Lena about her last visit with Lady Faine, she had had quite enough of Mr. Denley Aldred, thank you very much.

She apparently knew Lena was hiding her snickering, because she said in an overly sweet voice, “Perhaps Mrs. Adred’s son will find Lena to his taste rather than myself.”

Lady Faine caught Lena’s horrified look and chuckled softly. “Fear not, Mrs. Aldred will cast her net wide over all the new young ladies.” She suddenly stopped work on Lena’s handkerchief and blinked rapidly as she thought. “In fact, I believe I heard about one of the houses being to let recently …”

“Oh?” Lena asked. “Has someone else moved to Wittenden?”

But at that moment, the sound of a carriage approaching the house could be heard through the open drawing room windows. Lena peered out, but the view only showed the garden and the barest edge of the front driveway, not enough to view the vehicle.

“I wonder who could be visiting,” Lady Faine said, putting away Lena’s mangled embroidery. “I have not yet spoken to any of our neighbors about your visit.” Her wide smile brimmed with mischief and a hint of superiority. “At our gathering this evening, I intended to surprise our guests with your presence. Ooh, Mrs. Jarnell will be gnashing her teeth behind a close-lipped smile, because she had been hoping her girls would be the only ones in the neighborhood aiming to catch the attention of the young men at the house party.”

“I would think the young ladies at the house party would be aiming to catch the attention of the young men,“ Melinda said.

“Yes, but she believes her daughters to be far superior in beauty and taste to any strays Miss Salloway picked up in London.”

“She might well find herself dismayed by the beauty and taste of the supposed ‘strays,’” Lena said.

“Oh, I am counting upon it, my dear,” Lady Faine said with an arch smile.

From the deep voice they heard from the entrance hall downstairs, the visitor was a man, but they couldn’t discern his words as he spoke to the butler.

Lena could have wished for better timing of the new visitor. Simply thirty minutes later, and she would have had the information from Lady Faine about possible new neighbors who could be Dinorah Seiles in disguise.

“Oh dear,” Lady Faine said. “Sir Gilbert is out in his fields at the moment with Wilfrid.”

“Perhaps he will return later,” Lena said, hopeful of that outcome. Although knowing her luck, yet another carriage would drive up as soon as she asked Lady Faine about her new neighbors.

Curiously, light footsteps indicated the butler approaching just before he scratched on the door and entered. “My lady, Mr. Thornwell has arrived. He has said that he is a new neighbor.”

Lena and Melinda looked at each other, both of them with eyebrows raised. Yet another new resident in Wittenden?

“Sir Gilbert is not here,” Lady Faine said.

“When I informed him of that fact, he indicated he wished to greet the lady of the household and that he is an acquaintance of the Neybridges.”

Lena kept a polite but curious expression on her face, but her entire body grew rigid with tension. She had been a companion to Melinda for twelve years now, and she knew a great deal more about the Neybridge family and acquaintance than a typical servant. She had met all the same relatives that Melinda visited over the years, and since he was entrusting her with his daughter’s safety, Mr. Neybridge had told her about any relatives she had not yet seen.

And since he was her superior officer within the Ramparts, he had pointed out agents with whom he had worked, and even agents he didn’t know personally but whom he cautioned her to stay away from. As a result, she knew a fair number of the members of the Ramparts, more than a typical agent.

She had never met a Mr. Thornwell. And none of their acquaintance should know the Neybridges were in Wittenden.

Perhaps this was an agent going by another name, sent with a message for Mr. Neybridge. But if so, why hadn’t he gone by one of a dozen secret keywords given to Lena and Mr. Neybridge so that they would recognize any Ramparts agents sent with messages for them?

Unless …

Within the department walls, most of the agents went by false names to protect the Ramparts should any be captured, but Lena happened to know the true identities of a few of them. The actual surname of one agent, Mr. Clay, was Thornwell.

Lena rather disliked him but had been forced to work with him on several occasions. However, because of the clandestine nature of the Ramparts department, Lena and Mr. Clay treated each other as strangers if they met in public. He had certainly not been formally introduced to Melinda.

And if this was not the Mr. Clay—or rather, the Mr. Thornwell she knew, then this man claiming to know the Neybridges was lying.

Melinda looked confused and glanced at Lena with raised eyebrows. To Lady Faine, she said, “I am afraid I am not acquainted with him.”

“Perhaps he is known to Mr. Neybridge,” Lena said. “We should greet him, if you would not mind, my lady.”

Melinda turned to Lena with eyebrows raised. “Oh yes,” she said in a flat voice, “I so enjoy meeting complete strangers in the absence of my father.”

Lena turned to her with a too-wide smile and an aggressive twitch of her eyebrow. “If he is indeed an acquaintance of Mr. Neybridge, would it not be better to see his face so that we may tell your father all about him later?”

“You mustn’t be so distrusting, my dear Melinda. I’m certain he is a perfectly nice man.” Lady Faine nodded to the butler, who withdrew.

“And you have your companion to protect you with her life,” Lena added. Her smile was sweet, but she gave Melinda a sharp look.

The young woman’s smile faltered, but she heard the unspoken command. In the face of any danger, she was to heed Lena’s instructions and escape. Hopefully, it would not come to that.

Soon, they heard the heavy footsteps as the man followed the servant to the first floor drawing room.

“Mr. Thornwell, my lady,” the butler announced.

The man who entered the living room was tall. He had dark hair with gold highlights, and he was smiling, but the smile somehow did not reach his green eyes, which were hard like emeralds. He had a rugged face, which might have been handsome if his eyes had been warmer. Strangely, he looked to be forcing himself to be charming. Despite his fine dark blue coat and embroidered waistcoat, which indicated him to be a modest but wealthy gentleman of the ton, the man would have looked more in place on a battlefield.

“My lady, thank you for receiving me.” He bowed. “I apologize for this improper introduction. I am Mr. Thornwell. My sister and I are moving into the area for a few weeks.”

The ladies had risen to their feet as he entered, and Lena had to concentrate to keep her hands softly folded in front of her. Her heartbeat raced in her chest.

This was not Mr. Clay. She had been an agent for the Ramparts for almost eight years, and despite most of the other agents, she had never seen this man before.

He was a stranger. Who had somehow known that the Neybridges were here, in Wittenden.

Lady Wynwood’s Spies, Volume 7: Spinster/ Camille Elliot. — 1st ed.

Copyright © 2024 Camy Tang