The duke nodded.

Eric closed his eyes. It was all there, just below the surface. "I remember everything."

There was a long silence. "Is Bailey dead?" A part of him wondered why he expected Denning would know the answer, given that the aristocrat wasn't a military man.

"No. But it was a bad one. You and Mr. Bailey and a handful of others are the only survivors from your company."

"I can't move my arm," he said, trying to twist enough to see the source of his pain.

"The surgeon said that might happen. He hopes the effect is temporary."

"Surgeon?"

The visitor stared at him with pitiless eyes. "He had to amputate your hand."

"But I can feel it."

The duke shrugged. "Nevertheless, it is no longer there."

Writhing to try to see, Eric gasped when a bolt of excruciating pain shot through his arm.

"You have been heavily dosed with laudanum. I imagine you've quite the headache."

His head did hurt, but it was nothing compared to the pain in his arm, which was both searing and constant. "I want to see my arm."

"That would serve no purpose."

"I want to see my arm," said Eric again.

After staring at him for a moment, the duke said, "Very well." He helped Eric to a seated position and unwrapped the bandage that obscured the limb. Though Eric had steeled himself, the sight of his mangled flesh, of the still-bloody stump, shocked him to his core. He could feel the distinct sensation of wiggling his fingers through the pain.

And yet there was nothing.

He turned his face to the wall. After a long moment, he asked the obvious question. "Why are you here?"

"I want to know what your plans are."

Eric's laugh sounded bitter to his own ears. "My plans? You sound as if you're asking which ball I'll attend this evening."

"I have my reasons for asking."

The old man had an air of authority about him and, for some reason, Eric trusted him. "I suppose I plan to will this"-he nodded toward his arm-"back into service as much as possible. Then I plan to go out and get as foxed as possible."

"Will you go home?"

"To Clareford Manor? No. My brother is the head of the family-such as it is-now. Clareford is no longer my home."

The duke nodded. "I thought as much. Without the army, you think you have nothing."

Of all the arrogant, presumptive things to say. He didn't bother trying to conceal the hatred that must be visible on his face. And yet what the duke said was true.

"That's why I'm here," Denning said softly.

"You don't know anything about me. If you don't drop the riddling and tell me directly what you're doing here, you can just sod off." As an afterthought, he added a sneering, "Your Grace."

"I run an intelligence operation that seeks to defeat Napoleon." The duke paused, letting that sink in before adding, "And I want you to join me."

Eric remained silent. He should have been surprised by this revelation, but he found he was not. He thought back to a promise made a few weeks ago. "End this war," the captain had said.

"Now it's time for you to speak, my friend."

"Who gives you the authority?"

"I was asked by Wellesley himself." Eric sucked in a breath. "Indeed," said Denning. "We were acquainted before the trouble began. You will appreciate that I had no choice."

"You run a spy ring, is what you're saying."

Denning bowed his head. "If you like. I prefer to think of it as a small group of gentleman-though some of them aren't gentleman-leveraging their power in service of a greater goal."

"Why me?"

"I need help. I'm too old and sick to keep this up indefinitely. I need a man I can trust. Someone with nothing to lose. A man so committed to the cause that he will sacrifice everything."

"And you think I am that man."

"Aren't you?

"Yes."

Chapter Ten.

Emily rose before the sun, and her mind settled on the thought that filled it anew every morning: Maybe today will be the day.

Padding over to her desk, she sat with a thud. She'd been unable to sleep last night. When her mind hadn't been reliving Lord Blackstone's astonishing proposal, it had been fantasizing that he'd made her a real one, motivated by true feeling rather than by some misplaced sense of responsibility. She'd spent some time thinking back to her conversation with Gillian Smythe. Lord Blackstone was not kind. Though she saw flashes of wry humor in him, she couldn't call him funny. He wasn't conventionally handsome, so he didn't meet Gillian's criteria, either. And yet...

When she'd pulled her mind back from that fruitless avenue, it had rushed ahead to think about what she might wear when she next saw him, at the Hollingberry ball.

"Arrg!" Her thoughts spun out of control, running off in useless directions. She had things to do today! Important things! In her few moments of productive thought last night, she'd made some decisions about how she was going to move forward with Mr. Manning, because clearly she was getting nowhere as it was. A change of strategy was called for. It was time to start going after what she needed. Even if it meant stretching the boundaries of the law.

She got out a sheet of foolscap. A list was just what she needed to refocus herself on her mission.

1. Break into Mr. Manning's study. Find incontrovertible evidence of slaving.

2. Continue to visit St. Dunstan's to wait for Billy. Try to do so without upsetting Sally.

3. Write speech for Friday.

4. Write next column.

5. Prepare a bedchamber for Angela.

6. Tell Lord Blackstone about slaving.

Intensely focused on her list, Emily jumped a little when Molly entered bearing a tray. The maid left the usual assortment of newspapers and opened the curtains before leaving her mistress to her morning meal. Emily went back to her list. Yes, number six. She'd decided to give Lord Blackstone the benefit of the doubt and assume he did not know that Mr. Manning was a slaver. One had to give people the opportunity to do the right thing, didn't one, before one judged them too harshly? This number six she would accomplish at the Hollingberry ball, assuming she could steal a moment alone with him. It wasn't going to be like at Clareford Manor, where it had been laughably easy to sneak about. Her cheeks heated at the memories that came rushing in.

Enough! She was making a list to get away from these kinds of thoughts. She tapped her quill on the desk. Was she forgetting anything? Well, why not?

7. See if Madame Marceau can finish the blue gown by Thursday.

Satisfied, she folded the list into a small square and placed it in her reticule.

Would Lord Blackstone like the blue dress? Catharine had noted, as she made her case for the daring dress, that it shimmered like a sunlit ocean.

She caught herself before she could do any more woolgathering. It didn't matter whether Lord Blackstone liked the dress. Taking another sheet of parchment out of the desk, she set about making a second list, just to remind herself what was important.

"You're here," Blackstone said, as Bailey appeared at his table at Brooks's, stopping himself from adding, "finally."

"A problem at the site detained me."

A twinge of guilt ate at Blackstone. Bailey was preparing to open a hotel-his most ambitious venture yet. He sometimes forgot that his friend had a whole life outside of spying. And he always forgot to ask about it. He resolved to do better. "Not an intractable problem, I hope."

"I'll sort it out, never mind. You said you had news. I do, too. But you first."

Blackstone sighed. He did have news, big news. Though it wasn't about the mission, it was going to change everything from here on out.

Bailey must have sensed a change in the air, for he silently waved off the approaching waiter. "Tell me."

"Denning is dead."

Bailey emitted a low whistle of disbelief. "The king is dead," he whispered. "Long live the king."

"You mean me?"

"Of course. Who else?"

Anyone else! Blackstone wanted to shout. He was a foot soldier, not a puppeteer. And no matter what Bailey or anyone else said, he had promises to keep. It would be awfully hard to do so once he was ensconced behind a desk at Whitehall.

"How did you find out?" Bailey asked.

"I was summoned early this morning."

"He wasn't well. I suppose this shouldn't be a surprise. And yet it is, isn't it?" When Blackstone didn't answer, Bailey fixed him with an assessing stare. "You don't want to be in charge, do you?"

Blackstone sipped his brandy and stared at the fire. "It doesn't matter what I want."

"It does, though. You just never allow it to matter. There's a difference. Some men live their entire lives governed by what they want."

They weren't going down this road. Just because he'd resolved to be a better friend didn't mean they needed to examine the contents of his soul together. "I've been given leave to finish the mission before I have to take over. You said you had news. So let's have it." He'd spoken in his "Lieutenant Woodley" voice, the sharp one that brooked no opposition.

After a slight pause, Bailey sighed. "We spent the night at a hell. He plays deep. Very deep."

"He can afford to, I suppose."

"A boat is due late next week-probably Thursday. He'll be there to meet it. He doesn't generally do so, but plans to for this first one. He wants you to be there, too."

"Do we know what's in the boat? Or, to put a finer point on it, who?"

"I probed a bit. I asked about the size of the crew, how many men we could expect. He was vague, assuring me they wouldn't need to take refuge in the house-neither the men nor he. He has local arrangements, apparently. You just have to be at the house in case they run into any trouble. Then, suddenly, he'll be a houseguest and the boat will be a pleasure craft gone astray."

"A pleasure craft full of what I imagine will be hardened sailors."

"That's why you're such a catch for him. A peer can say anything to a magistrate and not be questioned."

Blackstone nodded. It sounded like it was all well in hand.

"Shall we leave tomorrow?" Bailey asked. "We may as well get there as soon as we can, keep our eye on local happenings."

"I can't."

The younger man raised his eyebrows. "You've got a previous engagement?"

I don't have an engagement, that's precisely the problem. "The Hollingberry ball," he said in a withering tone designed to forestall further questioning.

"Will Manning be there?"

"Not to my knowledge." He cleared his throat. "Anyway, there's no hurry. We've more than a week till the boat is due. If Manning isn't staying at the house, there will be nothing to do. And I despise rusticating."

Bailey just continued to regard him, eyebrows raised. "Is this about Emily Mirren?"

Blackstone ignored him. "Anything from Mr. Talbot that could be of use? Did he wager as profligately as his father-in-law?"

"He wasn't there," said Bailey, capitulating to the change of subject. "I gather that he's out of the city on business."

"I wonder if he's back in Bristol." Blackstone thought of Miss Mirren's columns. "Some would argue that slaving is a more severe moral offense than smuggling."

"Once we plug up the pipeline and charge him with treason, he won't be able to run slaves, will he? Two wins for the price of one. He stops smuggling and slaving."

"Don't forget Le Cafard. He's the win-he's the whole point."