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The paper there was very small. She had folded it twice before breakfast.

It contained no military secrets, no troop strengths, and nothing which might place soldiers in danger. She had always been careful of that.

It contained instead the latest figures she had quietly gathered from Blackthorn’s tenants and neighbouring villages: the price of flour, the number of families requesting parish relief, the names of two mill owners withholding wages, and the account of a labourer arrested after a reform meeting despite three witnesses insisting he had never entered the room.

The paper held only facts. Yet facts, she had discovered, could become dangerous depending upon who possessed them.

She had promised herself that no man in London would decide what the north required whilst knowing nothing of the people who lived there.

The information would leave Blackthorn tomorrow.

Major Baines must never discover how.

Judith continued towards the kitchens, her steps composed and her expression perfectly serene.

For the first time since his arrival, however, she suspected that keeping a secret from Major Baines might prove considerably more difficult than managing Blackthorn Hall.

CHAPTER 3

She was certainly taking his measure.

Baines chuckled softly after the door closed behind Miss Judith Finch, and Sir Lionel looked up from his papers with the expression of a man who had discovered something amusing and intended to enjoy it at another’s expense.

“Sir?” Baines asked.

“Nothing of importance, Major.”

“That, sir, if I might be so bold, was not a nothing sort of look.”

Sir Lionel reached for his neglected toast, discovered that Judith had removed it, and frowned at the injustice. “I merely wondered how long it would take.”

“How long what would take?”

“For Judith to decide whether or not she approves of you.”

Baines settled back into his chair. “I had not realized my continued existence depended upon her approval.”

“It does while you remain beneath this roof.”

“Then I am in greater danger than Renforth suggested.”

Sir Lionel laughed. “You need not worry. She dislikes nearly everyone at first.”

“That is remarkably comforting.”

“She improves as time goes on.”

“Or they do, perchance?”

Sir Lionel gave him a shrewd look. “That depends upon the person.”

Baines glanced towards the closed door. Miss Judith Finch was certainly an interesting complication.

He had expected efficiency. Renforth had prepared him for that much. He had imagined a severe woman with an affection for keys, lists, household economy, and correcting other people’s errors. In that regard, Miss Finch had not disappointed him.

What Renforth had neglected to mention was that she possessed eyes capable of making a man forget every unkind opinion he had ever held regarding efficient women. Baines disliked omissions in intelligence reports; he disliked them especially when they were grey-eyed.

He corrected himself immediately, because accuracy mattered. Her eyes were a curious mixture of grey and green, the colour shifting according to the light and the degree of her displeasure, and they were altogether too keen for his comfort. A man could conceal a great deal from a woman who wished to be charmed. Miss Finch did not appear to wish it in the least. She looked directly, listened closely, and seemed to regard every sentence he offered as evidence for a verdict she had not yet determined.