He’d received a summons to the lawyers’ office. An appointment set for the following week, no doubt to wrap up the guardianship. His twenty-fifth birthday loomed, three weeks away, at which time his mysterious patron would no longer support him. An anxious feeling in his chest warred with elation at the thought of finally being free. No more obligation to do as his patron expected. No more errands and tasks handed down through the offices of Coles, Franks & Moody by a faceless, nameless entity who expected total obedience in exchange for his financial and influential aid.

But also no more power moving in the shadows for Daniel’s benefit. No more quarterly allowance, no more fine clothing appearing from merchants on a regular basis. Daniel would have to survive on his wits and his salary from the Bow Street Magistrate’s Court.

A niggle of doubt burrowed into his chest. What if, after all his chafing against the restraints of his guardianship, he found he could not make a success of his life without it? What if, without the weight of his unknown patron moving behind the scenes, Sir Michael Biddle, Daniel’s supervisor, found a way to terminate his employment at Bow Street and he was forced to find another way to support himself?

Rubbish. Stop cowering. You have a tidy sum laid by after all the reward money pressed upon you when you returned that stolen artwork. And you’re not without skills and education. And you do have another job, even if you have no idea what it entails or if you’ll be a success at it. Nor what being an agent for the Crown pays. You failed to discuss the matter when you were recruited.

He looked down the table to where Sir Bertrand Thorndike conversed with the Duchess of Haverly. The duchess’s husband, Marcus Haverly, was Daniel’s new part-time employer, though they had yet to set terms and expectations. He had supposed his invitation to this luncheon was in part to acquaint him with the new tasks he’d be asked to undertake.

“Don’t you agree?” Finch waved his fork near Daniel’s face, and he jerked.

“Your pardon?”

“I say, you were woolgathering, weren’t you? I asked if you agreed. Mill owners are the latest ogres of the workforce, automating their mills to the point where honest men cannot make a living.” The budding anarchist leaned back, dropping his fork to his plate with a clatter that drew the attention of the rest of the party. “I had hoped to encounter one such mill owner here and confront him. Where is the good …” He trod heavily on the word, coating it with sarcasm. “Mr. Montgomery? Was he afraid to face me?”