men were silent for what seemed an eternity.
At last, Sebastian said, “Am I meant to pamper this woman spy, sir? What if this woman you’ve chosen fails our program?”
Sidmouth shrugged. “If she fails, she fails, but I expect you to give her every opportunity to succeed. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir.” Defeat colored his words as if they were in mourning.
“Good. The location of Wilson Academy is secret, is it not? Send word to my office as to when the young lady will be escorted there. That will be all, spymaster. Good day.”
“Good day, sir.”
By the time Olivia had finished collating the papers in her files, it was half past five, nearly the end of her workday. She stacked the folders in a neat pile. I’ll wager no one bothers to look at these once I’ve tucked them away in their proper file drawers.
She had read through each and every one when she put the pages in proper order, but in her view they didn’t amount to much. At the very least, most of them contained nothing even a spy would take the trouble to read. With titles such as, “Committee to Facilitate the Quartermaster’s Supply System” and “Agenda for the Meeting of the Home Secretary’s Task Force on Office Reorganization,” there was hardly anything earth shaking in any of them. No intelligent person would consider these reports worth the paper they had been written on.
Her supervisor had warned her to collate all the folders and store them in the filing room before she left her desk at the end of the day. The man had the gall to insult her intelligence as well. “You do know how to alphabetize, don’t you, Fairchild?” How petty.
There were at least forty folders to be filed in alphabetical drawers and less than half an hour left in her workday to accomplish this odious task. She took a deep breath, picked up the pile, and staggered down the hall to the filing room. She was forced to sidle along the wall since she could not see very well above her heavy burden. As she neared the end of the hallway, she let out a sigh of relief. The filing room was just around the corner, a mere dozen steps away.
Sebastian strode down the hall from the opposite direction, his brows knit together as if sewn fast by an invisible weaver. His thoughts were filled with disgust over his disastrous meeting with the home secretary. Sidmouth was a stubborn man who was afflicted, like so many men in power, with an inability to entertain any opposing point of view.
Caught in the web of his anger, he turned the corner and collided with a clerk whose arms were full of folders. The woman went sprawling and the folders flew all over the floor in hopeless disorder.
“Oof!”
“Why don’t you look where you’re going?” Sebastian spat out, taking his fury out on the poor clerk.
“Why don’t you look where you’re going yourself, you miserable…excuse for a man?” Olivia challenged without so much as a glance. She scrambled to her knees and gathered the file folders. Drat! She would have to stay late to put them all back in proper order. She’d also be late for dinner, and what a state that would put her father in. Her cap had flown off, releasing a riot of blond curls.
“I’ll send for help if you need some.”
“No! And don’t you dare tell anyone about this.”
“As you wish.” He held his hands up in surrender, but she was too absorbed in gathering papers to notice. He couldn’t see her face, since her hair covered most of it. Indeed, he wondered how she could see anything at all with that unruly mop. He began to walk away, but glanced back in time to see her hitch her gown up as she bent to the task.
The sight of her enticing derriere, outlined through her thin chemise, was the only bright spot of his wretched afternoon. If she weren’t a mere clerk afraid of being sacked, he might just be able to relieve both his gloom and his growing hardness in some nearby broom closet, but it was not to be. He suppressed the bitter laugh that threatened to escape his lips. Without another backward glance, the spymaster continued on his way.
“A letter for you, milady,” said Dunston. “Hand-delivered early this afternoon along with instructions to deliver it to no one else but you.”
“Thank you, Dunston. I haven’t any time to read it now. As you see, I’m already late for dinner. Please leave it on my desk.” She rushed into the dining room.
“Forgive me everyone. I was unavoidably detained at the home office.”
“Father is very angry with you, Livy,” said eight-year-old Jane, understating the duke’s sentiments by several degrees. The chubby child had a round, cherubic face. Freckles danced up to her green eyes, her red hair plaited with ribbons. She reached for another sweetmeat.
“Be silent, Jane, before you find yourself banished to the schoolroom when the family dines alone.” Though he made every effort, the duke could not bring himself to love his youngest daughter.
At fifty-six years of age, he retained his good looks but for the hair graying at his temples and his faded blue eyes. Even so, the family resemblance between him and his eldest daughter was remarkable. He turned his attention back to her. “You’re late again, Livy.”
“I beg your pardon, Father. Forgive me, but it was vital that I finish my work before I left the office.”
“Saved the empire from invasion this day, did you?”
She ignored his sarcasm. Instead, she looked around at her mother and her sisters, and realized all eyes were upon her. She allowed the footman to fill her plate with beef and vegetables, and summoned another to fill her wineglass.
“My apologies for being late, Mother. I should have been home in time, but for a foolish accident. You see…”
“Run over by a mail cart, were you?” The duke’s snide remark stung his intended target.
Olivia glared at him and emptied her wineglass in one swallow. “No, Father. I was putting away important papers, my last task of the day, when this strange man came barreling round the corner of the hall and knocked me down. I went sprawling and so did my day’s work. I was forced to stay late to sort them all out again, you see.”
“Serves you right,” he grumbled, but that brought a warning look from his wife.
The duchess, a celebrated beauty in her youth, could still turn heads. Only fifty, she looked far younger than her years. Her eyes were slightly slanted, almost black, like two obsidians. Helena resembled her mother most closely, having the same hair color, the same eyes and the same height.
“Were you hurt, dear?” asked the duchess in a soothing tone.
“Thank you for inquiring, Mother. No. Not at all.”
“Did the fellow at least help you up, Livy?” asked Georgiana, fast becoming the loveliest of the Fairchild sisters. Already the young bucks in Hyde Park stopped to stare at the sixteen-year-old beauty with the raven hair, sparkling blue eyes and a charming dimple on her chin.
“He did ask, Georgie, but I’m convinced he didn’t mean it. He just kept walking when he spoke. The man was an utter boor.”
“Who was he?” asked Mary. At fourteen, she
