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He had been quite content to leave their acquaintance undisturbed until her unexpected appearance at Blackthorn earlier that spring. He had known she was a widow, of course, and that her period of mourning had concluded, but knowing such things from a distance was rather different from finding himself confronted with the lady in person.

She had changed very little. Her wit remained as sharp as ever, her opinions as firmly held, and her determination to challenge him upon nearly every subject as infuriating as he remembered.

What he had not anticipated was how easily she could unsettle him after so many years. He had thought himself long since cured of that particular weakness.

There were matters between them that neither had chosen to address during her visit, although he had occasionally suspected she was merely waiting for an opportunity to force the conversation.

He had been careful not to provide one.

Unfortunately, Caroline had never been a woman easily discouraged by another person’s reluctance.

Renforth glanced towards Patience, who was now conversing with Francesca and Judith. The three ladies appeared to be enjoying themselves immensely, and when Patience caught his eye, her smile was altogether too knowing for his comfort. He sighed. Between the machinations of his officers and the matrimonial ambitions of their wives, he was beginning to think a return to London could not come soon enough—provided, of course, that Lady Beckenham had no intention of following him there.

A summons arrived shortly after the wedding breakfast.

A messenger, bearing the unmistakable appearance of a man who had travelled in considerable haste, was shown into the library, where Renforth received him with an increasing sense of foreboding. The letter he was handed bore a familiar seal. He broke it and read the contents twice.

By the time he returned to the drawing room, his expression had altered sufficiently for Stuart to abandon the story he had been telling.

“Trouble?” the Major asked.

“London.”

That single word was enough to command the attention of every officer present. Renforth glanced towards the ladies, then lowered his voice.

“Queen Caroline has returned to England, and His Majesty is determined to prevent her from assuming the position she believes is rightfully hers. The matter has become rather more complicated than anyone anticipated.”

“Hardly surprising,” Chum observed. “The King has never been particularly fond of his consort.”

“An understatement of considerable proportions,” Manners remarked.

“His Majesty has requested that certain discreet enquiries be made,” Renforth continued. “He wishes to know who is advising the Queen, the extent of her support, and what her intentions may be. There are also certain matters concerning her conduct abroad that the government is anxious to investigate.”

“Have they turned to us?” Fielding asked.

“Apparently, someone believes we possess the necessary discretion to conduct such enquiries without attracting undue attention.”

Stuart raised an eyebrow.

Manners folded his arms. “I thought the Milan Commission was undertaking the investigation.”

“Unfortunately, their involvement is rather too conspicuous. His Majesty requires information that can be obtained without appearing to have been gathered at his direction.”

“And what, precisely, are we expected to discover?” Stuart asked.

“That remains to be determined. For the present, we are to return to London and receive further instructions.”

“When?”

“Immediately.”

A brief silence followed.

Then Baines appeared beside them, his bride upon his arm. “Is something amiss?”

Renforth considered the young couple. Their wedding day had scarcely begun, and already the demands of duty threatened to intrude upon their happiness.

He folded the letter. “Nothing that need concern you, Baines. You are on leave.”