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  Ah, this must be where the captains come to drink.

  More respectable than the other dockside establishments he'd visited, this tavern was still loud and raucous enough to be exactly the sort of place Owen wouldn't frequent during the normal course of things in his life. In a word: perfect.

  The man behind the counter nodded to Owen while he continued to fill mugs with ale for the redheaded barmaid. Owen sidled up to the counter rather than taking a seat.

  "What can I get you today?" The man's voice was friendly, but his eyes were assessing.

  "I need a room and wondered if you have any to let."

  The innkeeper stared at him for a moment before speaking. "What business brings ye to Bristol?"

  "I represent the business interests of a family, and those interests are tied into a ship due into port sometime in the next month or so. I've been instructed to stay in Bristol until it arrives so I can take care of the business posthaste once it's docked."

  "Which ship are ye waitin' on?"

  "ne Hurlants."

  The man behind the counter threw his head back and laughed. "That ship's been one of my favorites since the day it was chistened. Heard a rumor it was named after a wife."

  Owen nodded. "I've met the woman."

  With a gold-laced grin, the barkeep asked, "Does the name fit?"

  Owen shrugged. "I'm sure I couldn't say." Then he gave an exaggerated shudder.

  The barkeep chuckled. "Aye, I've got a room you can rent by the week. Ye pay the week in advance, and you won't get any of yer money back if ye leave afore the week's out. Price includes a morning and night meal. If ye want to eat midday, ye'll have to pay for that yerself."

  "Understood. I'll take it."

  "One last thing..."

  Owen waited.

  "Ye don't strike me as havin' a lot of experience with sailors. You probably wouldn't know a pirate ship from a navy ship, so do me a favor and be careful. I charge extra if I have to clean yer blood up off o' me floors."

  Chapter Four

  The next morning, Owen strolled into the main room for breakfast. Unlike the inns he normally visited, the tavern and dining room here were above stairs on the main floor while the rooms-for-rent and other living quarters were below. His room here cost almost as much per week as his residence in London cost per month, but the view made it worthwhile. He had one small window in his room, and its place up in the side of the hill framed a vista both breathtaking and advantageous.

  Owen nodded to Hank, the man behind the counter, and sat down. Before long, the barmaid with the frizzy red hair brought him a plate of steaming food and a cup of tea. As she left his table, he watched. He recognized her, but from where?

  The sway of her hips reminded him of someone, but who?

  After Owen finished the food he'd been given to break his fast, he sat back and waited. He wanted to get a closer look at the girl's face, and if he waited long enough, she'd have to come back and collect his plate. So wait he did.

  The barmaid avoided his table for as long as possible. She navigated paths through the room, managing not to come into contact with him. Owen enjoyed her creativity until Hank hollered at her. "Iola, go get that man's plate! Don't keep him waiting!"

  Hank's voice boomed through the room, but Iola never flinched. How would she handle the command? Owen didn't have long to wait before finding out.

  Her shrill bellow echoed off the walls. "Quit yer harpin'! He's not gonna expire from waitin'!"

  A fishwife would be melodic by comparison.

  She sounded nothing like Isadore, looked nothing like Isadore, and yet…

  The barmaid spun and sauntered by, carrying plates piled high with food for another table. That's how Owen got his first real glimpse at her face. He saw a slight similarity to Isadore but nothing too striking. He was about to dismiss his foolish notion entirely. Then her eyes skipped over him on their way to something else, and the air left his lungs.

  She had Isadore's eyes.

  Rather than stay and draw attention to himself by staring, Owen stood and headed for the front door. He would pay a visit to the harbor master's office and learn what he could about the ne Hurlants and its impending arrival back in England.

  The puzzle of Isadore/Iola would need to wait a bit. She wouldn't be going anywhere, and he had business to attend. Besides which, he needed to put some distance between himself and the barmaid while he sorted out her identity. The urge to sit and stare was strong, which is precisely why he needed to leave for a bit.

  Owen couldn't help but wonder how an agent more experienced at this type of assignment might have handled the encounter.

  For one thing, he wouldn't have fled.

  Teeth gritted until they hurt, Owen continued on his way out the door.

  ****

  "I don't care whose interests yer representin'! I told ye all I can tell ye!"

  Owen hadn't expected to run into quite so much opposition. All he'd asked was whether or not they had any idea when the ne Hurlants would be arriving, but the older man behind the counter began yelling as though Owen had volleyed a barrage of insults about the man's wife.

  Lord, give me patience. I could certainly use it.

  "I'm not trying to be difficult, sir. I simply have a job to do, and I was told the ship would be docking here sometime in November. Is there a way — with any of the ships — of knowing when to expect them back? I mean no disrespect by asking."

  The man behind the counter took his spectacles off and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, mister. The harbor master was supposed to be in two hours ago but hasn't shown up yet. I've got more ships approaching than I have docking space for them, and two of the ships I need to get out of here are disabled and need repairs before they can safely leave. Unless your ship is one of them that's waiting to get through the Floating Dock, I don't have time for you today."

  Owen nodded and backed out the door. No point in making an enemy. He'd return the following day. In the meantime, he would spend the day in one of the taverns closer to the docks and ascertain what, if anything, the locals and workers knew about the ne Hurlants.

  ****

  Hours spent in various taverns around the docks had produced little useful information. Owen had pretended to drink ale, gin, Scotch, and even cognac in an attempt to blend in and gain the confidence of the men. It seemed to do little good, though, and as he contemplated his glass in each establishment, he found his mind returning to other issues. The mysterious barmaid, for one. The coming holiday, for the other.

  October would soon be drawing to a close. Would he be done with this mission before Christmas? Too many years had passed since he'd spent the holiday with his family. He hoped to make it home this year. If he could settle the issue of Giselda Fairweather's cargo and the mysterious barmaid, he might just stand a chance.

  The sun began to make its way toward the horizon, and Owen returned to the inn and settled in at a table. The redheaded barmaid approached with a tankard of ale, and he waved her away. "I'd rather have tea."

  She flounced her skirt and pivoted back toward the kitchens. As nervous and timid as Isadore had been, Iola was bold, loud, and spirited. They were polar opposites.

  A short time later Iola reappeared and set a cup of hot tea down on his table with enough force that some of the brew jumped up out of the cup and onto the table as if trying to escape her wrath. "Are ye ready for yer evenin' meal?"

  Owen nodded and watched her walk away. Between the hips and eyes, there was no doubt. The rest might be different, but Iola was definitely Isadore. The barmaid was even a good stone heavier than Isadore, especially around the middle, but Owen was still convinced. Isadore and Iola were one and the same.

  Now the question of what to do about it.

  ****

  Later that night, Owen left the inn and concealed himself in the cleft of a large outcropping of rocks along the path leading down to the docks. The inn and tavern settled into a quiet repose, and Owen waited. It was
n't until he heard the soft footfalls making their way down the path that he allowed himself the luxury of a stretch.

  Isadore/Iola came down the path in complete darkness, no candle to light the path for her. Her shadowed form approached, but unless she was looking for him, she wouldn't be aware of his presence. Surprise should work in his favor. He waited until she passed by and then ran onto the path and grabbed her, one hand over her mouth, and dragged her back to the concealed cleft.

  Isadore/Iola kicked him, bit his hand, and clawed at his face.

  "I'm not going to hurt you." Owen never got the chance to finish what he wanted to say: Just tell me what's going on. Pain exploded in his head, the strength left his legs, and the ground welcomed him with a cold embrace.

  The last thing he heard before losing consciousness was a voice, neither Isadore's nor Iola's, saying, "Oh, dear."

  So that's her real voice…

  ****

  "I don't want him knowing what either of you look like. You need to leave until I get him back to the inn."

  "It's not safe."

  "The situation is a disaster, but he's safe. I trust him."

  Owen listened to the voices. The first was Isadore/Iola. Thankfully, she'd dropped the horrible screech she'd been using as part of the barmaid act. The other belonged to a man. Older, he guessed, but he couldn't say by how much.

  "I don't like it. This isn't part of the plan."

  A woman's voice, also older. Isadore/Iola's parents?

  The voices talked some more in a hushed whisper, then a door opened and closed.

  "You can stop pretending to be unconscious, Mr. Loring."

  "How do you know my name?" Owen sat up, his movement slow. He winced at the pain while taking in his surroundings. He was on a pallet in the main room of a small cottage. His hand explored the source of his discomfort and found a tender lump on the back of his head.

  "I make it my business to learn things about people." She stood near the front door, not very far away in the smallness of the room. Her frizzy red hair looked as if it might take flight were it not held down by the small linen cap that was part of her uniform at the inn.

  "I'm at a disadvantage, then, because I'm fairly certain I don't know your name. Isadore. Or should I say Iola?"

  A kind of tired silence was her only response, and Owen decided to go for the jugular.

  "Maybe it's Queen?"

  Her hissed intake of breath told him he'd hit the mark.

  "I stopped to visit Peter on my way here. He mentioned you two went fishing."

  She smiled then, and the lines of tension eased from around her eyes. "Peter never mentions anything on accident."

  Owen stared, puzzling out her words. "You didn't go fishing, did you?"

  A quick shake of the head. "But you and I appear to be fishing in the same pond."

  Peter had always been a sly fox. He'd told Owen, but the younger agent hadn't listened.

  "Nobody's seen you in these parts for a long time."

  She tipped her head in agreement. "Four years."

  "Where have you been?"

  "Does it matter?" She frowned at him.

  "You told someone in this room that you trust me. So trust me now. Tell me what's going on."

  "Where do I start?"

  "Your name would be a good place."

  Her mouth again stretched wide, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and light danced in the blue orbs. "Let's stick with Queen for now."

  Reaching up with both hands, she made quick work of some pins and made to pull her hat off. She paused a moment, glancing at him. Indecision flashed in her eyes before she squelched it and pulled off the lacy cap that was part of her uniform at Hank's.

  "Well, I'll be." Her hair's not red, either.

  The frizzy red mop came off with the cap, and underneath lay the flattened strands of her own sun-kissed blond hair. "And here to think I'd been feeling sorry for poor Isadore and her stringy hair."

  Queen shrugged. "Women can disguise themselves easier than men. A change of hair, a different class of dress, maybe a little extra padding here and there tucked away in one of the many layers we're forced to wear, and before you know it, an entirely different person has been born. Men can't change much more than their name."

  Owen agreed, but he didn't want her to know it. "We can change our voice and clothes, too, and in less time than it takes you."

  She tilted her head and tucked her chin down for a moment, conceding him the point, so to speak.

  Owen couldn't pull his eyes away from Queen's face. Now that he saw her with the blond hair, something tugged at his memory, a loose thread he couldn't quite grasp.

  Queen crossed her arms. "You're staring."

  He squinted at her and tried to pull up the memory. "Have we worked together before?"

  "We've crossed paths."

  Her answer took Owen by surprise. People used to say Queen was the wind. She could be as quiet as a gentle breeze and as powerful as a hurricane, sometimes at the same time. How many times had they worked the same job? Had she pointed him in the right direction before? As he grappled with the questions, one thing became clear to Owen. She wasn't the sort of woman who would respond favorably to unwanted questions.

  "I hope you'll tell me more someday, but for now we've got more pressing matters to discuss. Still, I can't shake the feeling we've met." The notion tugged at his memory and became an itch he couldn't quite satisfy.

  Queen rolled her eyes before reaching behind her into a bureau. She pulled out another wig, this one with blond hair much longer than her own. She slapped it unceremoniously on her head. "Does this help?"

  His chest constricted. The wig was crooked, and the strands of hair were the wrong shade and texture, but the resemblance was unmistakable. "Isabel? Isabel Thorpe?"

  She gave him a sad smile, and all the memories flooded back. Her father had worked with Owen's father. They'd had business dealings together. The two families had spent a lot of time together, but Owen was three years her senior and had been away at school much of the time. Then one holiday he'd come home, and her family had been gone. His parents had refused to tell him what had happened. He'd even ridden out on his horse with the intent to visit Mr. Thorpe and learn what had occurred, but the Thorpe family was gone, the house vacant.

  He'd sought answers but had found everyone inordinately busy whenever he approached, far too busy to stop and chat with him. Owen returned to school at the end of his holiday with more questions than answers. As school demanded more of his time and attention, though, thoughts of Isabel and her family had slipped from his mind. Caught up in his own life, he'd let the memories of his family's neighbors slip away. Shame for that oversight now hit him with enough force to make him choke on his own guilt.

  Why was Isabel Thorpe in Bristol? Could she really be Queen? Owen's mind struggled to pass over the decade of missing years since he'd last seen her. He couldn't reconcile the girl he'd once known with the agent known as Queen. Yet the proof stood before him.

  Chapter Five

  "It's been a long time, Owen. The years have been kind to you." Isabel couldn't help the softening of her voice. Being able to speak to Owen without guile was a good thing, wasn't it? Of course, he'd have questions…

  "What happened? Where did you and your family go?"

  She frowned at him. "Leave the past alone. We need to deal with the current situation."

  "And you're Queen? You're a decade-old legend, but I know your age. You can't have been an agent all these years. That would mean you started…"

  With a broad swipe of her hand, she cut off his words. "Not now, Owen. Focus on the topic at hand."

  "All right, Isabel. Tell me what's going on. Why are we both chasing the ne Hurlants? Why did Queen vanish? Why not tell me who you were when we were both at the Rutherfords’?"

  Isabel took a moment to inhale deeply and remind herself to stay focused on the current mission. "Queen didn't quite vanish. She relocated four years ago.
"

  Owen waited, his eyes bright with curiosity.

  "I worked for the War Department, and an assignment I was on went every kind of wrong." Isabel framed her next words before saying them. "Things became complicated, and Tobias shipped me off to a distant land."

  After she said nothing else, Owen prompted her. "Which distant land? Surely not Africa?"

  A smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. "Someplace even less civilized. He sent me to the colonies."

  Owen's mouth dropped open. "The colonies?"

  "It's a beautiful land. Truth be told, though, they haven't thought of themselves as the colonies in forty years."

  "Let me guess. They think of themselves as the states."

  She gave a small chuckle. "Something like that."

  Content, Isabel let the conversation falter. Owen apparently needed more. "What brought you back to England?"

  "Columbia." The Columbia District was a part of the New World. Resting on the far west by the Pacific Ocean, the District remained contested between England and America.

  "More skirmishes?"

  Isabel shook her head. "There's rumor of a treaty. More than rumor."

  Owen's voice was thoughtful. "The most recent treaty hasn't been entirely well received in England. Some claim it's a sign of weakness. Parliament is giving away land without a proper fight, that sort of thing."

  Isabel ran a hand through her wig-flattened locks, lifting them away from her scalp and fluffing them. "This next treaty is even more volatile than the last one. Tensions are high. People are volleying for position in both governments."

  "What's the significance? Stop dawdling, and explain."

  Isabel's heart lurched. Few men would speak to her so. Instinct wanted her to snap at him, but she couldn't help but appreciate his strength. She might even admire him. "They're still working on the details of the treaty, but with French, British, and American trappers living in the mountains of Columbia and clashing with one another on a regular basis, something needs to be done. I see three ways this can go. Either England will take full possession of the land, America will keep it and force England's retreat, or the two will decide to share it. My sources tell me the latter is the most likely."