“What do you recommend?” Thoroton studied the menu from his relaxed pose in his chair. He wore the pale linen suit of a Spaniard, but there was no disguising his British features. Even so, he got on well in the country. And should, as hard as he had worked to ingratiate himself.

Drake skimmed the menu, though he ate at this bistro at least once a week. His director had spoken in Spanish, so he followed suit. “I’m partial to the chorizo and rice.”

“That sounds good.”

They put in their order, both looking out at the pretty street of the Old Quarter while the waiter busied himself at a table nearby. In England right now, autumn had no doubt fully dislodged summer, and rain would be usurping the fair days. But here the sun beat down hot and golden, painting the cobblestones with heat that radiated back up to them at their outdoor table. Around them, chatter buzzed from the other tables, all filled.

It wouldn’t look odd for Drake to be entertaining an Englishman—he frequently did, whenever an acquaintance came into town. But more often than not, those acquaintances were other agents, serving with him under this one.

Thoroton reached into the satchel he’d brought with him and drew out a stack of envelopes with familiar script on the outside. His words switched to English. “Here’s your post, while I’m thinking of it.” As he slid the stack onto the table between them, Charles the Bold offered a lopsided grin. “I suppose it’ll be easier once Hall grants you permission to tell your sister where you really are. Then she can just write to you at your grandfather’s.”

Drake breathed a laugh and tucked the four envelopes into his jacket pocket. “I honestly can’t imagine letting Dot in on it. Unless you mind playing courier?”

Thoroton waved that off, his mustache twitching in amusement. “I’ve been meaning to ask you—more as a curiosity, not because I doubt you’ve seen to it. How do you keep your grandfather from writing to her of your presence here?”

Drake hid a snort behind his glass. “Oh, that hardly requires any planning. Abuelo’s letters are solely responses to our letters to him, which he expects every fortnight. They offer advice and reply to whatever we share, but he never volunteers anything at all from what is going on in his life.”

Lazily trailing a finger through the condensation on his glass, Thoroton lifted a brow. “And if he slips?”