Like many before him, Breksby fell prey to the beguiling charm of Patrick’s smile. “Ah, well,” he said, “I always strive to do my duty.”

Patrick’s grin widened. “I am certain that my son, should I ever have one, will be even more grateful than I.”

Breksby almost smirked. “There you are correct!”

Lord Breksby parted with the future Duke of Gisle well satisfied. He was right not to have informed Foakes that they were worried less about the theft of the scepter and more about its substitution. He himself found the whole possibility remote, anyway. Why would Napoleon bother to pack a scepter with explosives? The plan had a far-fetched ring that didn’t appeal to Breksby’s sensibilities. Likely nothing would happen at all—and saying naught about it would save his own reputation. What if Foakes spread it about that Breksby had got the wind up unnecessarily?

The sky was threatening rain as Patrick left the Ministry for Foreign Affairs. He had undoubtedly missed Sophie and Braddon. He walked down the great marble steps leading to the Thames and stood looking at its muddy depths for a moment. Then he turned and summoned a hackney. What on earth was he thinking, to neglect his work? Normally, after being out of town, he would have visited the warehouse immediately. He’d been married only six weeks and already he was overlooking his responsibilities.

When he reached the West India docks, his portly man of business trotted over to him with a look of acute relief. “By George, I’m glad to see you, sir!”

And Patrick was swept into the hurly-burly air of the warehouse. One of his ships had run aground off the coast of Madras with the loss of a cargo of cotton; his man in Ceylon had sent an urgent message about the availability of black tea; Foster had an inkling that the master of the Rosemary was bilking them out of a cargo of sugar. Patrick settled down with a will. There, in the dusty, bustling offices that resounded with shouts and thuds from the warehouses next door, there were no disturbing wives, reproachful glances, or guilty consciences. He ate a light supper at his desk and continued working far into the evening.

Sophie looked suspiciously about the street before she stepped into Braddon’s landaulet, but there was no sign of her husband. Tears still burned at the back of her throat, but she was perfectly collected. Without hesitation, she agreed to meet Madeleine’s father the following day.

“Perhaps, if it is agreeable with Miss Garnier,” she said, “we could meet once or twice a week after that point.”

Braddon agreed eagerly.

“I have only one requirement,” Sophie said.

Braddon squirmed. He’d seen that sort of look before, coming from females, and he hated it. “Anything,” he said with a silent groan.

“My husband is to know nothing.”

“Patrick? You mean Patrick?”