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Her father’s passion was building projects, and his guiding principle in life was to keep her mother happy. If that meant Egyptian furnishings in the drawing room or charitable contributions to various ladies’ organizations, he provided. He rarely took note of his children’s doings, except when his wife’s happiness might be disturbed, or when one of Emily’s letters reached the Times.

“When?” Papa looked skeptical.

“This morning.”

“He’s a better choice than your first attempt at it, I’ll give you that.”

She had to agree. Her first love had flattered her and flirted shamelessly while secretly pursuing a different heiress. She had been completely taken in. “You gave him your consent then?”

“I did. You’ll not get out of it that way.”

“I just got in, Papa.” Emily held out her ring for him to admire.

He glanced at it. “You waited for your mother to be away.”

Emily shrugged. “I could hardly help Grandmother’s being ill.”

“Well, this Lynley fellow appears to know his mind. He’s off to put an announcement in the papers.”

“I’ll send an express to Mama directly.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“Did he not tell you? At Roz’s house. He likes horses, you know.”

“Whatever you’ve done to your hair, your mother would not like it.” The parent who rarely paid attention to her appeared uncomfortably penetrating at the moment.

“Yes, Papa.”

“I suppose your mother will want to give a party.” He was losing interest, turning another domestic matter over to the women in his life.

“Time enough to worry about parties when Mama returns.”

* * * *

On his return to the club, Lynley received an order, transmitted by Wilde, to report to the spies’ tailor, Kirby. He supposed that at some future time he would dislike orders, but for now he was enjoying the workings of the spy club.

Wilde handed him the stack of newspapers he’d requested, and tucking the papers under his arm, Lynley made his way out through the kitchen and across the little yard separating the club from the chemist’s shop that housed the tailor’s fitting room. Spying and tailoring both depended for their success on attention to detail, and Kirby, whose shop dealt in soaps, lotions, and powders as a cover, was a master at the trade.

In between measurings and fittings for suitable black evening wear, Lynley lounged on a rug-padded bench and worked his way through the pile of newspapers, looking for letters from his betrothed. He had just found a letter signed E. Radstock when he became aware of a shadow cast over the page. He glanced up to find Goldsworthy looming over him.

“Well, lad, have you got your cover settled? Are you ready to make a start?”

With a greatcoat over his massive bulk, Goldsworthy blocked the light from the back room’s high window. Lynley folded the page of the Times, and endeavoring to maintain an offhand air, jammed it into a pocket. He looked up at his new commander. “I’ll be taking Lady Emily to the Ravenhursts’ tonight. Anything more I should know?”

Goldsworthy gave him little space, but Lynley managed to stand. He had stood for every scold of his life, never permitting either his diminutive aunt or his willowy uncle to stand over him. He liked meeting an opponent eye to eye, and Goldsworthy was an opponent of sorts, always testing one’s mettle.

“Lord Candover’s daughter has agreed to the match?”

“She has.”

“Excellent. There’s no better cover than playing the besotted swain to some chit for the Season. Had Blackstone do it. Worked a charm. Now then...” Goldsworthy turned to the cutting table and slapped down a rolled-up paper. “The sooner you can smoke this fellow out, the better.”

Kirby gave a polite cough. “If we could finish Sir Ajax’s coat first, Mr. G.”

“Of course, of course.” The big man waved a hand for Kirby to continue, and Kirby motioned Lynley to try on a black evening coat with long tails.

By fellow, Goldsworthy meant the person who was holding on to a group of letters between the ruler of Persia and his son Prince Mirza, translated into English by Willock, the English chargé d’affaires who kept his own extensive network of spies in the Persian court. In Russian hands those letters could ensnare England in a foreign war.