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accident.”
    Silence for a moment. And then Arthur laughed, stiltedly.
    “Truly, Linwood, I would not have thought you capable of a flight of fancy. James’ death was tragic but most decidedly an accident—”
    “I must beg to disagree, Arthur. My sources would hint otherwise. James’ death was decidedly suspicious.”
    “Linwood, you cannot believe—”
    “Arthur, you are being obtuse. We know there were spies in this neighborhood just last year. Your trusting nature blinds you to the realities of life—”
    “That is hardly the case.” Arthur let out a bark of laughter.
    “I fear I shall have to be more specific.” More finger tapping on the desktop. “As you know, the Home Office has operatives from all walks of life who provide the British government with information. Several weeks ago, the Home Office lost contact with one of their most-trusted clandestine agents. A member of the aristocracy. But before disappearing, this agent informed the government there was an individual here in Marfield with connections to French intelligence gathering.”
    “Heavens!”
    “Indeed. Aside from trying to locate this agent, the Home Office is desperate to understand the nature of the threat in this area. Marcus is a known to be a man of some fighting skill who has been intimately involved with international spy activities. Due to his sister, we know those covert operations encompassed Marfield at one point. Therefore, it stands to reason Marcus has, at minimum, valuable information. At worst, he might be an informant himself.”
    “I am still not quite sure I understand your reasoning, Linwood. We are in Herefordshire. Rural Herefordshire. Why would the French have any interest in this part of the country? It makes no sense.”
    Linwood shifted, his trousers brushing against the desk. “There are reasons.”
    A pause.
    “Something perhaps related to the attempted break-ins at Kinningsley?” Arthur asked, pointedly. “Seeing as you are sharing confidences, what are these would-be thieves looking for?”
    Again, a pause. A shifting of feet. And then:
    “I am not at liberty to say.”
    “I see.” Though Arthur’s tone indicated he clearly did not . “Well, if I hear from this Marcus, I will inform you immediately.” He sounded . . . amused, was it? As if he were humoring Linwood.
    “I appreciate your cooperation in this matter. I have also been making inquiries into all newcomers. This new paid companion of your aunt’s, Miss Ashton, is it? From whence does she hail?”
    Kit held her breath. Oh no .
    “Yorkshire, I am told. She had been staying with the vicar but had glowing references from Lord Curtis.”
    Kit grimaced. False references she wrote with her own hand.
    See, this is why you should never, ever tell a falsehood , Virtuous Angel whispered.
    The answer seemed to mollify Linwood, however, as the drumming fingers stopped.
    A knock sounded at the door.
    “Come,” Arthur called. The door swung open.
    “I say, most sorry to interrupt.” Jedediah Knight’s nasal words skittered down Kit’s spine. Like squeaky chalk on slate, that voice. “My mother sent Miss Ashton to fetch her embroidery, but Miss Ashton has not yet returned. Have you seen the chit?”
    Kit could almost see Jedediah’s long nose twitching as he spoke, flushed and clashing with the striped orange and pink waistcoat he wore.
    Both Linwood and Arthur disavowed knowing her whereabouts.
    Jedediah grunted. “Hopefully she has not taken to sneaking whiskey in her chambers. Mother’s last companion spent every day half-sprung.”
    The nerve of the man! Kit clenched her teeth. Though if anyone could drive someone to the bottle, it would be Jedediah Knight. Kit could hardly blame the woman.
    Truth be told, if her situation became any more intolerable, whiskey could start to look like a viable solution.
    Which merely underscored the point more fully. The sooner she found her brother, the better.
    Daniel could try to shut her out of his