Chapter 1

England, 1813

The sun was low in the sky as Miss Simone Delacourt stood in the gardens. She brought her wrist back, and with expert precision, aiming for a mark at least twenty yards away, released the dagger towards the target. It embedded in the center, just as she had intended.

Simone had been gifted her first dagger by her mother when she was eight years old. They had spent countless hours together as she perfected her aim and it was a time that she cherished, especially since her mother died nearly two years ago.

Throwing daggers was an odd skill for a genteel lady to be proficient in, but her mother had been anything but conventional. She loved learning new skills, just for the sake of learning. And that had been something Simone had admired about her mother. It was something she wished to emulate.

The sound of approaching footsteps drew her attention and Simone watched the butler come to a stop a short distance away. "Your father wishes to see you, Miss," Clarke informed her.

Simone hesitated. Her father had hardly uttered a word to her in weeks, and when he had, it had been in passing. It had been this way since her mother had drowned. She felt as if she had lost both parents that fateful day. Her father seemed lost in his grief, unable to move on.

"Are you sure?" Simone asked.

Clarke's face softened, and she knew that he understood why she had asked such a thing. "I am," he replied. "And it is best if you don't keep him waiting." His words were spoken with kindness that was all too familiar.

Simone smiled at the white-haired butler. He had been working for their family since before she was born. As of late, he felt like more of a father figure than her own. "Let me collect my dagger," she said before she approached the target.

After she retrieved the dagger, she slipped it into an opening in her gown that her lady's maid had created for her.

They started walking back towards the townhouse and Simone found herself curious as to why her father had summoned her. An uneasy feeling came to her stomach, and she had learned long ago not to discount her emotions so easily.

Once they arrived at the study, Clarke stopped at the open door and offered her an encouraging look. "You will be just fine."

Simone was grateful for the butler's comforting presence. She was not one to get nervous, but standing outside of her father's study, a wave of nervousness washed over her.

"Thank you," Simone responded before she stepped into the study.

Her father was sitting at his desk, his head hunched over his ledgers. She took a moment to study him. He was tall, dark-haired, but the wrinkles on his face were starting to deepen, marking his advancing age. He had a commanding presence about him, one that had terrified her when she had been a child. But she was not so young anymore and he had never treated her harshly. He just treated her with indifference now.

Simone thought it was best to make her presence known and not keep him waiting. "Father, you wished to see me," she said, walking further into the room.

Her father rose from his seat and gestured towards a chair that faced the desk. "Yes, please sit down."

Her father sounded cordial enough, she thought, as she lowered herself down onto the proffered chair.

Returning to his seat, he dispensed with pleasantries. "You are on your third Season, and it is time that you wed."

Simone felt her back grow rigid. His declaration surprised her, at least the timing of it, but she thought it was best if she was honest with her father. "I do not wish to marry."

"You wish to be a spinster then, an utter drain on my finances?" her father asked. There was a harshness to his voice that she couldn't help but notice.

"I did not mean to imply such," Simone responded. "I have an inheritance from my grandmother that I can live on."

"That much is true, but not in the style you have been accustomed to living."

"I can live on much less," Simone insisted.

Her father leaned back in his seat. "I don't doubt that but I can't keep providing Seasons for you, only to be disappointed, time and time again," he said.

"It has only been three Seasons, Father," she argued.

"Three is far too many for someone of your beauty and connections," he stated. "Your mother was married during her first Season."

"True, but I have not found a suitor that has piqued my interest yet," Simone said. Which was the truth. But, then again, she hadn't truly been looking for a suitor.

Her father let out a frustrated sigh. "I have been watching you, Simone," he remarked. "You sit with the other wallflowers, along the back wall, and you don't make yourself available to dance with the unattached gentlemen."

"No one has given me any heed," Simone attempted.

"That is because you show no interest," her father said. "It is time for you to come out of your shell and find a suitor."

Simone shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "But I do not wish to marry, Father."

"Why?" her father asked. "Your dowry is more than sufficient to attract a worthy suitor, and that is in addition to the inheritance your grandmother allotted for you."

"Yes, but once I marry, it all belongs to my husband."

Her father gave her a blank stare. "Is that an issue?" he asked. "He is, after all, tasked to take care of you."

"I don't want someone to ‘take care of me.' I want more out of a marriage," she said. "If I ever did marry, it would be for love."

Simone didn't dare tell her father that if she wed, then she would have to stop working as a spy. And she didn't want to give that up. It provided her with a sense of accomplishment every time she completed an assignment. It may be dangerous, but it gave her the adventure that she so desperately craved in her life.

"You reach too high, just as you always do," her father stated. "Marriage is more mutual toleration than love."

"Didn't you love Mother?" she asked.

His jaw tightened and she wondered if she had gone too far in her line of questioning. "I did love your mother," he replied after a long moment. "But it didn't start that way. We had to work for what we had, and it wasn't always easy."

"I didn't mean to imply such."

"I am not without compassion," he said. "You have until the end of the Season to select a suitor or I would be happy to arrange one for you."

Simone reared back. "Surely you cannot be serious?"

"It is far preferable to being on your own," her father said. "It is lonely not having a spouse to lean upon."

Simone could hear the pain in his words and she knew he was speaking from his own experience. But that didn't soften her resolve. She would rather remain unwed than marry a stranger. It was almost unfathomable to think of.

"Are you so quick to get rid of me?" Simone asked. In truth, she needed to keep having Seasons to keep her cover intact. She may play the part of a wallflower, but she used that time to observe the members of high Society.

Her father frowned. "I am hoping this motivates you to make the changes necessary in your life to be happy."

"I am happy."

"Are you?" her father asked. "Mrs. Fernsby has informed me that you hardly leave the townhouse, and you spend your days in your bedchamber."

Simone quirked her lips, knowing her father truly had no idea how she spent her time. Her companion was hardly a match for her, but she needed to at least pretend she had an objection to Mrs. Fernsby. "I do not need a companion to watch over me."

"You do." He abruptly rose from his seat. "This conversation is over. I have much more pressing issues at hand."

"More pressing than me?" Simone asked as she attempted to keep the hurt out of her voice.

A look of annoyance flashed in her father's eyes. "You would be wise to remember your place, Simone. I am needed at the House of Lords and I don't have time to lollygag around the townhouse."

Simone's gaze grew downcast as she knew fighting with her father would accomplish nothing. He was stubborn, almost to a fault, and would talk down to her. How she hated being treated in such a fashion, but she had little choice in the matter.

"Now run along," her father ordered.

Knowing what was expected of her, Simone rose and dropped into a curtsy before departing from the study.

Her father didn't know what she was capable of. He only saw her as a weak young woman that relied solely on him. Which was far from the truth. She was strong and determined, but she couldn't risk revealing her true self. Quite frankly, she doubted her father would ever accept her if he learned of the truth.

Simone hurried up to her bedchamber on the second level. Once she stepped inside, she saw her lady's maid, Felicity, waiting for her on the settee.

Felicity jumped up when she saw her, an eager look on her face. "What did your father want?"

Tossing her hands in the air, Simone replied, "He wants me to get married."

"Married?" Felicity repeated. "Why now?"

"Apparently, he is tired of paying for my Seasons and three has been enough," Simone replied.

Felicity harrumphed. "I am surprised he has even noticed you are in your third Season."

Simone nodded in agreement. Felicity had been her lady's maid since they had left their finishing school and they bore a striking resemblance to one another. It had come in handy a time or two since she had become a spy.

"What am I to do?" Simone asked. "I won't marry for the sake of it, and I have far more important matters to deal with. I have yet to track down those two French spies."

Felicity grew serious. "Have you spoken to Mr. Bolingbroke about this?"

"I have not," Simone replied. "I can handle it on my own."

"I thought you were assigned to work together?" Felicity asked.

Simone dropped down onto the bed. "I can't work with Mr. Bolingbroke. He vexes me. I just wish Kendrick had assigned someone else, frankly, anyone else, to work with me."

"If you can't stand him, why did you break cover and save his life?" Felicity asked knowingly.

She playfully narrowed her eyes. "Whose side are you on?"

Felicity laughed. "There are no sides. I am merely curious."

"I need to leave soon and speak to my informants," Simone said. "I hope they have discovered something of use."

"What about Mrs. Fernsby?"

As if on cue, the door opened and her white-haired companion stepped into the room. She adjusted the thick, rounded spectacles on the top of her nose. "There you are, Child," she admonished as she looked at Felicity. "I have been waiting for you in the drawing room."

Felicity opened her mouth to no doubt correct her, but Simone spoke first. "She will be right down," she said.

"What?" Mrs. Fernsby asked as she brought a hand to her right ear. "You must speak up."

"Miss Simone will be down in a moment," she said, raising her voice. "She just needs a moment to change."

Mrs. Fernsby perused the length of Felicity, who wore a simple brown service gown. "Simone looks fine to me. Come along."

Felicity lifted her brow and Simone clasped her hands together, silently pleading her to play along. After a moment, Felicity conceded, "Perhaps we can work on our needlework in the library."

"Library, yes," Mrs. Fernsby agreed. "The lighting is much better in there. I might just close my eyes for a minute while you work on your embroidery."

Simone stood back as they departed from her bedchamber, pleased that she had time now to meet with her informants. But she did have to hurry. Mrs. Fernsby usually was fooled for only so long, but her father wouldn't notice. He never did. She could be invisible for all he cared.

She changed into a simple cotton gown and headed towards the main level.

Clarke met her in the entry hall. "I see that you tricked Mrs. Fernsby again by switching places with Felicity," he tsked. "I wouldn't feel as bad if she wasn't such a crotchety old woman."

Simone giggled. "You shouldn't say such awful things," she said lightly. But the truth was that she appreciated his honesty.

The humor left Clarke's face. "Dare I ask where you are going now?"

"It is best that you didn't know," Simone replied. "Is the coach out front?"

"It is."

Simone tipped her head. "Thank you, Clarke," she said. "I shall be back shortly."

"I won't lie for you," Clarke stated.

"Nor would I ask you to, but we both know that my father won't ask about me," Simone said dejectedly. "He hasn't cared about me since my mother died, and don't you try to deny it."

Clarke's eyes held compassion. "Your father cares for you," he attempted.

"I do believe his actions speak louder than his words," Simone said before she departed from the townhouse.

She knew Clarke meant well, but her father cared more about his reputation than his own daughter. Perhaps one day she would make him proud and he would finally see her for who she truly was. Until then, she was going to find these two French spies and finish the assignment.

Mr. Caleb Bolingbroke was tired of this blasted assignment. He had been scouring London for any sighting of the French spies, but he kept coming up empty-handed. It was as if they had vanished. But that was impossible. Someone must know where they had gone, or what their purpose was for being in England.

He would find them; it was only a matter of time. But what kind of havoc would they have released before he did so?

Caleb stood just beyond the entrance to The Dark Raven Tavern, observing the patrons as they came and went from the disreputable establishment. He was to meet his informant soon, yet he hesitated to step into the dim, musty confines of the tavern. Not that it was much better on the narrow, uneven pavement in the rookeries.

The air reeked of desperation, and as people with hollowed-out faces brushed past him, Caleb couldn't escape the palpable sense of misery that clung to the surroundings. The buildings, blackened and collapsing in on themselves, housed entire families in uninhabitable rooms. It was a place of torment. There was no hope in a place like this. Despite Society's inclination to turn a blind eye to such realities, the misery persisted, regretfully undeniable.

Caleb saw his informant approaching. Matthews was rather short and had a patch over his right eye. It was a sailing accident, or at least that is what Matthews had told him. But Caleb had his suspicions, considering his informant's line of work.

Matthews came to a stop in front of him. "Shall we go inside for a pint of ale?"

Caleb had no desire for the watered-down ale that was served in this establishment but it was best if they got off the street. No good came from loitering there. He was dressed in tattered clothes with disheveled hair and dirt strategically smeared on his clothing. Despite being the son of a viscount, he convincingly portrayed the role of someone down on his luck.

Opening the door wide, Caleb said, "After you."

Caleb followed his informant into the loud, rowdy tavern and they found a table in the back. Once they were situated, Matthews leaned in and revealed, "You are not the only one asking about information on the two French spies in London."

"Who else is asking?" Caleb inquired.

Matthews rubbed his chin. "I don't recall, but a guinea would refresh my memory."

Caleb retrieved a coin and slid it across the table. "How is your memory now?"

"It is much better," Matthews replied, depositing the coin into his worn jacket pocket. "A beautiful young woman named Hope has been asking questions. I do fear that she is in over her head but she pays well for information."

Who the blazes was Hope, he wondered, and why was she asking questions about the French spies? "What have you told her?" Caleb asked.

"The same as I will tell you," Matthews replied. "I don't have any information on the whereabouts of the French spies. No one matching their descriptions has drawn attention."

"They must be somewhere," Caleb said.

Matthews shrugged. "Sure, but they are most likely hiding out somewhere, waiting to make their move."

Caleb frowned. "That is what I am afraid of."

As the tavern door swung open, a hush fell over the room. Miss Delacourt entered with poise, her head held high, displaying no sign of hesitation. Her blue gown was simple enough, doing little to flatter her figure, and her dark hair was neatly gathered in a tight chignon at the nape of her neck. She was tall, with a thin frame, but she had the most striking green eyes. They seemed to assess everything, making him wonder what she truly saw.

Miss Delacourt's eyes roamed over the room until they landed on him. Annoyance flashed in her eyes, and she did not appear eager to see him. Not that he blamed her. The feeling was mutual. They were supposed to be working this case together, but Simone had made herself completely unavailable to do so. Which was fine. He would rather work this case alone than work with someone that clearly disliked him.

Matthews spoke up. "That is her. Hope," he said, gesturing towards Miss Delacourt.

"I should have known," Caleb muttered.

"You know her?"

Caleb kept his gaze on Miss Delacourt as he replied, "Unfortunately."

Miss Delacourt ignored the jeering of the patrons as she approached his table. "I need to speak to you," she said firmly.

Caleb took his foot and pushed out a chair. "Have a seat, then."

With a glance at Matthews, Miss Delacourt said, "Alone, if you don't mind."

Matthews shoved back his chair and rose. "That is my cue to leave. Good day."

Miss Delacourt watched Matthews' retreating figure for a moment before turning her gaze back towards Caleb. "I need your help."

His brow lifted. That was the last thing he expected to hear from Miss Delacourt. "What is it that you need my help on?"

"I understand that you have intercepted a French code, and I am in need of it."

With a nod, he asked, "What you have heard is true, but why do you need it?"

"Is the reason important?"

"It is to me," Caleb replied.

Miss Delacourt let out a frustrated sigh as she reached into the folds of her gown, retrieving a piece of paper. "I think I have discovered how someone is communicating with the French spies."

Now Miss Delacourt had his attention. "How?"

Miss Delacourt lowered herself down onto the chair and extended him the piece of paper. "Someone is placing ads in the newssheets and they don't make any sense. They are just a bunch of random words and letters."

"Why do you assume this is related to the French spies?"

"Because the first ad was placed the day after Lord Drycott was declared dead by the newssheets," Miss Delacourt explained.

Caleb looked at the ad and saw that it was a muddled mess. But that didn't prove it was related to the French spies.

"Furthermore," Miss Delacourt continued, "the person always pays for the ad in person and is very specific about what is to be written."

"How do you know that?"

Miss Delacourt pressed her lips together. "Surely you didn't think I wouldn't do due diligence when it came to discovering who posted the ad."

"Did you get a name?"

"The person was not forthcoming about that particular information so I had to get creative."

Caleb gave her a knowing look. "You mean break into their offices and look at their files?"

"Perhaps, but how I discovered the information is not as important as the fact that I did discover the information."

"What is the man's name?"

"Hugh Crowe," Miss Delacourt replied. "Does that name mean anything to you?"

Caleb shook his head. "It does not," he replied. "That still doesn't prove that these ads are coded messages to the French spies."

"That is why I need the code so I can decipher it," Miss Delacourt said.

"Unfortunately, I gave the code to Kendrick and he turned it over to the agents that handle linguistics," Caleb remarked.

Annoyance once again etched itself onto Miss Delacourt's features. "Why didn't you just tell me that to begin with? It would have saved us a considerable amount of time."

"It would have, but I would have missed a chance to converse with a beautiful young woman," Caleb said, a smirk playing on his lips.

"You are useless to me, then."

Caleb placed a hand over his heart. "You wound me, Miss Delacourt," he mocked. "How can I earn your approval?"

Miss Delacourt reached down and snatched the paper out of his hand. "I don't know why Kendrick ever thought we could work together. You are impossible."

"I have never had a complaint before, especially from a young woman," Caleb joked as he leaned back in his seat.

"Perhaps they were just being polite," Miss Delacourt retorted.

A burly man approached their table and his bloodshot eyes were fixated on Miss Delacourt. "Is this man bothering you?" he asked, his words slurring.

"Yes," Miss Delacourt promptly responded, "but it is nothing that I can't handle."

"We don't take kindly to men mistreating womenfolk here," the burly man said, waggling his finger at Caleb.

Miss Delacourt flashed her protector a smile. "You are kind, sir, but you do not need to worry about me. I am fine."

The man eyed her for a long moment before bobbing his head. "All right. You've convinced me, but we will be watching him."

As the man returned to his own table, Miss Delacourt gave Caleb a knowing look. "You think you would be nicer to me, considering I saved your life once already."

"I believe I have already thanked you for that," Caleb said.

"Yes, but you could stand to thank me more," Miss Delacourt responded.

Caleb glanced at the broken, grimy window along the side wall. "Kendrick wants us to work together. Should we not at least make an attempt to do so?"

"I don't need a partner."

"Neither do I, but here we are," Caleb said, putting his hands up. "We both haven't made much progress on the assignment working alone. What would happen if we combined forces?"

Miss Delacourt held up the paper. "I did find this clue."

"Until we get the French code to decipher it, you have nothing, and you know it."

Emotions flickered on her expression as she seemed to assess him. "Fine. You may call upon me tomorrow to discuss the case," Miss Delacourt said.

"I may call upon you?" Caleb tipped his head. "Thank you for the invitation. I feel honored that you would bestow such an honor upon me."

Miss Delacourt crossed her arms over her chest. "It isn't as if I could call upon you," she said.

"I would rather go someplace that doesn't have prying ears," Caleb remarked. "What if we met in Hyde Park on the bench near the south entrance?"

"I am amenable to that."

"Good, let's say we meet at noon," Caleb said.

Miss Delacourt abruptly rose. "I will see you tomorrow."

Rising, Caleb asked, "Would you like me to see you home?"

"No," came her curt reply.

Caleb gave her a pointed look. "I am not your enemy, Miss Delacourt," he said.

"I know."

"Do you?" Caleb asked. "Because you keep me at arm's length, and you clearly do not trust me."

"Trust is to be earned," Miss Delacourt asserted. "Regardless, I doubt that you trust me either."

Caleb knew that Miss Delacourt had a point. He didn't trust her, because, quite frankly, he didn't know anything about her. She was an anomaly to him. She may be beautiful, but she was also dangerous.

"You are right," Caleb sighed. "But this is not a good start to our partnership. Perhaps if we got to know each other better."

"I know everything that I need to know about you," Miss Delacourt said. "You are a somewhat competent agent, except when you are careless and let Lord Drycott discover your true identity."

"That was unfortunate, but I assure you that I am a proficient agent."

"Are you?" Miss Delacourt asked.

Caleb was not about to engage in a debate with Miss Delacourt. He assumed she was the type of woman who would rather fall on her sword than lose an argument.

"Until tomorrow, and don't try to follow me," Miss Delacourt said before she walked off, drawing the unwanted attention of every man in the hall.

"Botheration," Caleb muttered. Why had Kendrick assigned him to work with the most obstinate young woman in all of London?

Caleb waited a moment before he headed out of the tavern. He had meant what he had said before about how working together might yield more results. He no more wanted to work with Miss Delacourt than chew glass. But he was first and foremost a spy. And a spy always finds a way to complete the assignment. Even if that means he was to engage in a battle of wits with Miss Delacourt.