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Goldsworthy met Lynley’s announcement of Malikov’s death with a shake of his great mangy russet locks, like a lion disturbed over a fresh kill. He pushed up from the huge desk faster than Lynley imagined a man of his size could move, and strode to pull the bell.

“He had a visitor, you say?”

“One Isaiah Peach. This morning. Hardly a subtle message.”

“And you arrived when?”

“This afternoon around one.”

“Did you see the body? What happened?”

“I suspect poison. My guess is that Peach distracted Malikov, while one of the guards brought him doctored beer.”

There was a knock on the door, and at Goldsworthy’s answer, Nate Wilde entered.

“Wilde, lad. Need you to go at once to find your old Bow Street friend Will Jones. A suspicious death at the prison needs to be investigated. Get Jones on the scene quick as you can, before the governor tries to cover everything up.”

“Yes, sir,” Wilde answered. He took off at a run.

Goldsworthy frowned down at his enormous desk. “They’ll say it’s jail fever.”

“If you don’t mind my saying so, sir, the Foreign Office appears to leak like a sieve.”

“I do mind your saying so, lad, damn ye, but you’re right. That’s why we need you to find out who’s taking papers.”

Goldsworthy had revealed Malikov’s false name and his location only because the Foreign Office had so far failed to find the remaining members of the Russian spy ring.

“Malikov managed to write a message in the spilled beer. The word Zov. Mean anything, sir?”

“Zovsky, another suspected Russian agent. He generally operates out of Paris.”

“You don’t think Zovsky was Peach?”

“I doubt it. Zovsky’s too cagey. They all are, blast them. He’d hire someone. This fellow Peach would not know the plan or the target. He’d just play his part and collect some coin.” Goldsworthy crossed from his desk to study one of the maps of London on the office wall.

Lynley stood beside the big man. “If Peach is from London, he’ll have a corner or a public house where he can be found.”

Goldsworthy tapped the map with a thick finger in three spots around the prison. “Exactly so, lad. And Wilde will likely find him soon enough with a little help from our friend Jones, unless Peach has taken himself out of London, which he might do when he hears what happened.”

He turned to Lynley. “I don’t want you to tip your hand, now, lad. It’s best that the other side thinks of you only as a young fool in love. Back to the ballrooms and drawing rooms you go.”

Lynley nodded. He had no problem with that. A ballroom or a park in full view of the fashionable half of London was exactly where he wanted Emily Radstock to be. Well, almost where he wanted her to be.

* * * *

The morning after their prison adventure Emily received two messages, one from Lynley, and one from her mother.

My dear Emily, her mother wrote.

Nurse and I do our best to keep your grandmother comfortable. She sits in the sun most mornings, takes some nourishment, and derives great comfort from the signs of spring outside her window, the first bluebells and the blackthorn in blossom. I’m sorry, my dear girl, that I must be away from you at this time. I realize that you must be longing for a mother’s advice and counsel as you face the many decisions on which your happy day depends. I am glad to hear that Roz will host a party in your honor. Very proper. Is it true that your ring is the size of an acorn?

Your affectionate mother.

Lynley’s note said he would see her after she made the morning calls they’d planned. Emily did not know which note bothered her more. She wrote to her mother immediately, and contemplated sending Lynley a message directed to Roz’s sofa, the only place she knew to look for him.

Clearly, Lynley had taken the information they’d gained together back to his spy colleagues, and just as clearly, he did not want her to have a direct encounter with England’s enemies. He saw their roles as separate and not at all equal. Nevertheless, in the end she set out to pay the morning calls as they’d agreed.

She stood in Lady Ravenhurst’s entry hall, studying two dozen cards on the silver salver. Earlier callers had filled her ladyship’s drawing room, and the lady herself had circulated gaily among them. Still, as Emily drew on her gloves, she kept thinking that Lady Ravenhurst had been keenly disappointed in her company. Though she had turned eagerly to the door as each new guest was announced, at each arrival her face had betrayed a fleeting disappointment. She had plainly anticipated a visitor who never came. Emily gave the cards one more quick look, and turned to the footman at the door. Her carriage would be waiting.