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  She gave a shy nod and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

  Her uniform's cap was still on, but even so he could tell the poor girl either didn't bathe often enough or had been cursed with greasy hair. Since no stench met his nose, he assumed genetics were to blame.

  "It's a fine night, isn't it?"

  "Jus' lovely, sir. Jus' lovely."

  "I'm Oswald." He witnessed her blush in the dim light cast by the nearby window. Her tangible reluctance suited Owen just fine. He wasn't sure he'd remember to answer to that name anyway.

  "Oh, I couldn't."

  "Mr. Lobbing, then. Please. I'd prefer it to sir."

  A bob of her head.

  "Say, that Chambers seems a tough one. Does he like anybody?" Start small. Gain her trust.

  "His nephew arrives in a week. He is coming to interview for the position you got."

  That explains a lot. "Well, Lady Rutherford plans to send me on my way within the week if I can't meet her demands, so the job may yet be open."

  "I'm sure you'll do well enough. Mr. Lobbing."

  She stumbled over his name, and Owen watched her, trying to gauge if something was amiss or if she was simply the nervous sort.

  Before he could decide, she scurried down the rest of the steps to the shadow-hidden door and vanished into the servants' area.

  And again Owen was left wondering if there was more to the housemaid. Hm…

  As he made his way to his room he realized something else. He still didn't know her name.

  Chapter Two

  Three days had passed since the beginning of his employment with Lady Rutherford. Owen stared at the ledgers spread out across the considerable breadth of the walnut desk and blinked slowly. By jove, I think I'm on to something here. At the sound of approaching feet, he closed the ledger and picked up some of the late viscount's correspondence.

  The housemaid shuffled in then. "I'm here to stoke the fire, Mr. Lobbing."

  "Go ahead. By the by, can you tell me your name? I keep forgetting to ask."

  She bobbed her head and gave a half-curtsy. "Isadore."

  "I'm pleased to meet you, Isadore."

  "But we've met before, Mr. Lobbing."

  He chuckled. "Of course, but we've not been introduced until this moment."

  She gave him an odd look and went about her business with the fireplace. He'd not seen her the last couple of days, and according to Chambers, she'd been punished for some infraction and assigned scullery duties. The butler hadn't been forthcoming about the infraction, so Owen had been left wondering.

  "It's good to see you out and about again, Isadore. The footman did a passable job with my fire, but he's not nearly as efficient as you."

  She glanced at him with wide eyes before she dropped her gaze back to her task. Once she was done with the fire, she took a step toward the door, but her foot caught on the edge of a rug. Time slowed. Isadore lurched to her right then overcorrected and stumbled wildly to her left until her feet became tangled up in the legs of a globe stand. The globe teetered, its position precarious, and Owen jumped to rescue it. Neither of their jobs would be secure if something happened to the globe, and he had a feeling Isadore didn't have many employment choices.

  Isadore, in fighting to get her feet free, finally sent the globe stand toppling onto its side. The globe tumbled out, striking the floor before Owen could get a hand on it. He helped Isadore to her feet and found his eyes drawn to her blue ones in the most peculiar way. Owen turned his back to her and set the globe's stand to rights again. Then he reached for the globe, but Isadore must not have been quite steady on her feet yet, for her foot slipped past him and kicked the the spherical object before she regained her footing.

  "I'm so sorry, Mr. Lobbing. Do you think it's damaged? I can't get in trouble again, I jus' can't."

  Owen glanced from Isadore to the globe. It had made a sound when rolling that last little bit. "I'm sure it's fine. You'd best be on your way."

  He picked up the globe and examined it. Much to Owen's relief, the sphere remained unbroken. Isadore did not need more trouble with her employer. Waiting until the maid was out the door, he shook the globe. A definite clank met his ears. Owen ran his fingers across the globe's entire surface. A compartment had to be hidden within. Sure enough, over the western part of the colonies along one of the seams, a slight irregularity could be felt along the surface, nothing more than a small bump. Firm pressure from his fingers, and he heard a satisfying click. The globe came apart in his hands.

  Owen pulled out two documents but left the third item in place. What was Viscount Rutherford doing hiding a rock inside his globe?

  ****

  Lady Rutherford barely allowed Owen to take his seat at the dinner table that evening before she began questioning him. "Have you made any headway yet, Mr. Lobbing?"

  "I believe so, m'lady. I've ascertained that your late husband had five primary business ventures."

  "Oh?" A single eyebrow rose with her question.

  If her eyebrow got any pointier, he'd be able to hang a cape on it.

  Her narrowing eyes told him how unwelcome his silence was. "Do you intend to enlighten us, Mr. Lobbing?"

  "I'm terribly sorry," he replied. "I must have been woolgathering. Of course I'd be happy to explain." A footman set a bowl of soup in front of him, and Owen ate a spoonful before answering. He knew it was cheeky of him, but he couldn't quite help himself. The role he played, servant to the high and mighty lady of the house, did not fit him well at all.

  Edward cleared his throat, and Owen bit back a smile before launching into a detailed explanation of the different business accounts Lord Rutherford had kept. What he did not tell the grieving widow was how scrupulous her husband's records had been or how obvious it was that he'd been kind and generous. A man's ledgers reveal much about him, and the late viscount's said he had been a good man who had always been willing to help out those in need while also being a shrewd and forward-thinking businessman.

  Lady Rutherford seemed perfectly uninterested in what Owen had to say. Until he stopped talking. Whenever he paused for more than a single swallow, he found himself the focus of her undivided attention. Rather like a vole at the mercy of an attacking falcon. The grieving widow had a way about her.

  "Your husband dabbled a bit in legal matters. Was he by chance a practicing attorney at some point?" Owen thought the question innocent enough. Was he ever wrong.

  A sharp intake of breath — from Edward this time — met his question.

  The lady of the house speared a piece of quail on her plate. The footmen had long since removed the remains of the soup. Owen almost pitied the poor, dead bird. He was fairly certain Lady Rutherford would have rather impaled him.

  "My late husband wasn't expected to inherit the title. He went to university and became an attorney, but he put all that behind the minute the title fell to him."

  "I'm sure you are correct, m'lady. If he occasionally gave legal advice — or counsel as it were — that's of no import."

  "I see." Lady Rutherford ignored the footman removing her half-eaten quail. "And were the books in order for all of these various business ventures?" Her voice tightened with strain.

  "As far as I can tell, yes. I haven't found any discrepancies. Should I be worried about such things?"

  "Of course not." Lady Rutherford's hand waved through the air in a dismissive manner. "I was merely curious."

  Owen took a bite of his pudding. Despite her denial, the dowager viscountess had been a bit too keen to know whether or not the books were in order.

  Did she have any idea what her husband had been up to?

  ****

  A couple nights later, Owen set his portmanteau onto his bed and pulled out the tidy folded clothes within until he reached the bottom. Three well-placed tugs later, a flap lifted, revealing the hidden compartment.

  He'd made copies of the papers he'd found in the globe and had placed those copies in the bottom of his traveling bag. The orig
inals remained in the globe for now. Each night he pulled out his copies of the coded documents and worked on deciphering them. Unfortunately, he wasn't familiar with this code from his time with the War Department, and without the key he fostered nothing more than random guesses about the content of the message.

  He lifted the pages out, and a small scrap of paper fell out from between them and fluttered to the ground. What in heaven's name?

  Someone had found the papers! Who? And why didn't they take them?

  He sat heavily on his bed and considered the scrap. The handwriting was minuscule but clear.

  Now I lay me down to sleep,

  I pray thee, Lord, my soul to keep;

  If I should die before I wake,

  I pray thee, Lord, my soul to take.

  Owen read over the passage of verse three times more before he made the connection.

  He looked at the papers in his other hand and studied the first two lines

  16 23 43 33 25 41 11 25

  21 12 45 28 18 49 18 39 48 23

  His eyes quickly scanned back and forth between the supplied poem and one of the papers he'd been laboring over. He pulled the stub of a pencil out of his pocket and began transcribing.

  First line, sixth letter… a. Second line, third letter... r. Fourth line, third letter… r. And on it went.

  arriyiny noyemder on ane hurlants under name yiselda fairweather

  The letter y appeared to have been substituted wherever a corresponding match couldn't be found. That was sloppy.

  Owen snorted and muttered to himself, "Yeah, and I was making such great headway."

  He took the time to rewrite the message, running the words through his head until he'd committed them to memory.

  Arriving November on ne Hurlants under name Yiselda Fairweather.

  The last y was anybody's guess. Yiselda? Giselda? Liselda?

  He had a date, a name and… since the viscount owned a shipping company, Owen hazarded a guess that the ne Hurlants was a ship.

  Laughter echoed in Owen's modest room as the ship's name finally registered.

  ne Hurlants was French for Braying Donkey.

  Funny as the name struck him, he still didn't know who had gone through his things, found his hidden compartment, and left him the written key to unlock the coded message.

  Speaking of which, he had one more page to decode…

  Chapter Three

  The next day, Owen read through all the shipping logs until he found the gem he needed. Purchased in 1815, the ne Hurlants served exclusively to transport goods to and from the colonies and was due back from its current Atlantic voyage sometime in December.

  When one of the footmen came in to check on his fire, he asked, "Where's Isadore today?"

  The footman smirked. "She don't work here no more."

  "Oh?" Not that it should be any of his concern, but the news unsettled Owen. "What happened?"

  The footman shrugged. "She dropped a bust made by someone named Rush. M'lady ordered her out of the house. I ha'n't seen m'lady's face so red since the last time she and m'lord had words."

  Rush? Owen wasn't familiar with the name. "Did m'lady and the late viscount disagree often?"

  "I think all they did was fight the last fortnight afore he died."

  Chambers marched in then and glared at the footman. The quickly cowed young man excused himself. "I would thank you not to gossip with the servants, Mr. Lobbing. I'm sure Lady Rutherford would not approve."

  Owen bowed his head. "Of course. My apologies."

  Chambers stepped toward the door, but Owen stopped him. "Do you think Lady Rutherford would be able to grant me an audience sometime today? I… I received some rather poor news from a family member and I need to take my leave. I'm terribly sorry to leave her without proper notice, but I'm afraid it can't be helped."

  Delight lit Chambers' eyes. Owen could almost taste the flavor of the man's joy. "I'll let her know you require her presence." The butler's step had a bounce as he left the study.

  As soon as the man's footfalls fell silent, Owen hurried to the globe and removed it from its stand. The stone and original documents might be his only evidence, something he would need if the agency were to catch up with him and demand an accounting of his actions over these past weeks.

  He tucked the items into the inner lining of his jacket and put the globe back. Owen took three steps before the dowager viscountess came into the room.

  "What is the meaning of this?"

  "I'm so sorry, my lady. I received word this morning. My sister's husband died, and she needs me to come. I'm all she has, and her situation is quite dire."

  The viscountess gave him a serpentine glare as she audibly ground her teeth. "Obviously I won't be able to change your mind."

  "I'm afraid not. I am most apologetic about leaving you in such an unexpected manner."

  The viscountess took two steps toward the door before she executed a slow-motion spin back to Owen, a sweet smile on her face and nothing but kindness in her voice. "Tell me, Mr. Lobbing, did you happen to find anything in my husband's papers about precious metals? I do believe he mentioned something to me about gold at one time, but I don't recall you saying anything about it during any of our conversations."

  Owen shook his head. "I didn't come across anything about gold in the business documents I've been able to study so far. Some items yet remain that I haven't gotten to. Perhaps they hold mention of it."

  "Nothing at all?" The feigned kindness proved itself too painful for her to bear, for the sharp bite returned to her voice.

  "Not a thing, my lady."

  She turned her back on him and walked out of the room without a backward glance.

  Owen got the distinct impression he'd just learned the rock's nature.

  ****

  The next day, Owen rode toward Bristol. The ne Hurlants was scheduled to dock there, and he planned to be present. Weeks remained before the ship was due, and Owen decided to take a detour to Berkeley so he could visit an old associate.

  "I need a favor, Peter."

  The older man regarded Despiadado with affection. "Of course you do. No one rides a horse this fine into such a humble hamlet without either arrogance or need, and since you're not the arrogant type…"

  The old man's words trailed off, and Owen grinned. "Sometimes horses like to visit old friends."

  Peter clapped Owen on the shoulder. "Only one person's ever stopped by to visit without asking for something."

  "And who's that?"

  "Queen."

  Owen's step faltered. Queen hadn't been mentioned in a long time. "She's active?"

  Peter shrugged. "I didn't ask, and she didn't say. We went fishing and talked about nothing."

  "Did she say where she was heading?"

  A grunt. "Ye ain't listenin' to me, are you? I didn't ask, and she didn't tell me. It's safer that way, always has been."

  ****

  After lodging for the night with his old friend, Owen was once again astride Despiadado as he rode out of Berkeley heading south. Peter had provided him with the necessary commendations to prove his new identity, should they be needed.

  Queen is back. What could that mean?

  He'd never met her. But he'd heard plenty about her. She'd been an agent for the War Department before she'd reached her majority. Her identity remained tightly guarded. Agents often had codenames, which is how they referred to each other. The policy was supposed to help protect their identities, but the truth was, until Parliament's recent overhaul of the War Department, most agents had worked together at one time or another and knew the identities of at least some of the other agents. Except for Queen. Nobody he'd ever met had known her identity.

  Four years had passed since he'd last heard her name bandied about. Nothing but silence had passed on that front since. Rumors of death and retirement circulated in equal measure. Someone had even started taking odds on where she would next surface. She hadn't shown up again, though, and no explanation h
ad ever been provided. If she'd been a ghost before, she became an invisible whisper on the breeze.

  Can her presence be coincidence?

  That question was quickly followed by another.

  Who gave me the key to the code?

  ****

  Owen stabled Despiadado at a livery in the heart of Bristol and made his way toward the docks. He was fueled by the sort of grim determination that comes from too many unanswered questions, and his steps ate up the ground on his way through town.

  Once he arrived, his first order of business was to find a place to stay. Wherever Owen lodged, it had to be respectable enough for a man of business but rough enough to still attract dock workers, giving him an opportunity to hear whatever gossip or news they had to bandy about. Since most of the taverns close to the dock rented out their rooms by the quarter hour rather than the night, his mission at first proved difficult.

  Thanks to his old friend Peter, Owen's name was now Oscar Lanford. He had in his possession documents showing he was in Bristol representing the interests of Lady Rutherford. Similarly, he had papers stating he represented Giselda Fairweather. It couldn't hurt to be prepared, and of the three possible names, Giselda had the advantage of being the most common.

  After walking past almost a dozen different establishments — How much can sailors possibly drink? — Owen rounded a corner and noticed a cottage sitting up on a hill. From that location, he'd have a perfect view of the harbor. He'd be able to see new ships coming in before they ever arrived.

  Owen hiked up the steep path and arrived at the front door. To his surprise, he found the structure wasn't a cottage after all. Built into the side of a knoll as it was, Owen had seen a single level from his vantage point below. Now that he was closer, he could see the building's other levels. If that wasn't enough, the noise from within indicated it was most definitely not a place of residence.

  Rather than knock, Owen opened the door a crack and glanced in. Sure enough, it looked to be a tavern. He nudged the door further and took in the scene. A pert barmaid with frizzy red hair tucked under her cap served drinks to…