Joan could feel his gaze like a slimy touch along her skin. It was foul, permeating the air around her. Morgan spoke, interrupting her urge to scoot farther away from the offensive man.

To begin, Morgan asked some innocuous questions. Joan watched carefully, noting his demeanor and using it as a foundation to build upon.

“What day is it?” Morgan asked calmly.

Other than a furrowing of his brow, likely from the lack of importance in the question, the man answered swiftly.

Morgan asked a few more similar queries before launching into the important subjects.

“Who are you working with?”

Joan studied the man, noting the way his hands flexed on the table, not into complete fists but enough to show tension. On the next question, his eyes turned upward, not in recall but to avoid eye contact. His posture was alert, not relaxed, and the small details of his answers didn’t coincide.

When she had seen enough, Joan set her hand on the table and lightly drummed her fingers.

Morgan asked several more questions, likely to deflect any suspicion of their signal, and then dismissed the man.

In short work, they were walking out to the waiting curricle. Joan stepped up, took her seat, and breathed deeply the air of freedom.

“So?” Morgan asked as they started back toward home. “I tried to ask the sort of questions that needed a yes-or-no answer to make it easier.”

Joan considered what she’d learned. “That did help, but I’m afraid I don’t have the specifics. I’m not a mind reader.”

“Anything is helpful, Joan.” He turned his attention back to her.

Joan released a pent-up breath. “It would be best to wait till we’re in your study. I have a feeling you’ll need to send out several missives.”

“Drat.”

“Yes. You were right, Morgan. They haven’t given up because Napoleon is on St. Helena. All the things you wished were him speaking the truth had clues, little mannerisms that can mean they are lies. And that, my brother, does not bode well.”

Morgan sighed. “I wish you were wrong.”

“So do I. So do I,” Joan said and, not for the first time, wondered if maybe her skills were as much of a burden as they were a blessing.

Seven

Rowles shrugged into his greatcoat and quit his chambers, refusing to look down the hall to where his mother rested. First, the doctor had attended to his mother, adjusting the dose of laudanum and its frequency while monitoring the bruising on her arms where the footmen’s hands had held her in place to prevent her from attacking anyone further. Then the doctor had a frank conversation with Rowles concerning her care.