Last night I had a strange dream. I dreamed that I was mistress of an enormous house. It was so large that I couldn’t find my way around it. I kept running down long dark hallways and opening doors but nothing looked familiar. Empty rooms. Furniture covered in dust sheets. I knew that somewhere was a man who would take care of me, but I had no idea how to find him. I awoke, sweating, reached out for Darcy and found only a cold empty bed beside me. I sat up, heart pounding, before I realized that he had gone away.

By the light of day I analyzed that dream. The strange thing about it was that it was all true. I had achieved my ultimate desire: I was married to a gorgeous and sexy man, and really was mistress of a big, empty house called Eynsleigh. I know—it’s still mind-boggling to me! It was mid-October. We had been married for almost three months and much of that time had been wonderful. Darcy and I had been to Kenya on our honeymoon—a little more dramatic than I had anticipated. I had enjoyed learning to be mistress of a large house for the first time, arranging Eynsleigh to my own satisfaction and slipping into a comfortable routine with my new husband.

I had encouraged him to turn down a desk job at the Foreign Office, knowing him too well and suspecting he would be bored with inactivity. But now I was coming to regret this as last week he had accepted some sort of assignment from person or persons unknown, and gone off, unable to tell me the nature of this assignment or where he was going. I had accepted, in theory, that this is what life would be like with Darcy. I was pretty sure by now that he did something undercover for the English government but the reality that he might disappear at a moment’s notice with no forwarding address was just beginning to sink in.

“You were the one who insisted I didn’t take the desk job, Georgie,” he reminded me as he packed a tiny suitcase for himself. He wouldn’t even let me feel useful by packing for him. “You knew what you were getting into.”

I nodded, determined not to cry in front of him. “I understand, but at least you could give me a hint about where you’ll be and how long you’ll be gone.”

He smiled at me then and ran a hand down my cheek. “Like sending you a postcard saying ‘Wish you were here’ for all my adversaries to see?”

“Will there be adversaries?” I asked, picturing men with guns hiding behind trees.