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her, but to protect her in case anyone tried to kill her.
    Apparently word had gotten out that the Wardens had “the Dove” in custody.
    It was such a hideous name, but every agent had to have a code name. She’d been given hers because Robert had made some stupid joke about how many doves were at the funeral for a Napoleon-type character she’d sent to his maker. She wasn’t supposed to kill him, but he’d shot a child in front of her, just because he wanted to make a point. She’d done the world a favor by disposing of him in kind. He’d gotten off easy; she had planned to let the child’s father have him.
    And then there was that silly rumor that she’d earned the moniker because she was like the dove sent out by Noah, but that was just a fanciful story.
    She picked up the tin cup the guard had brought her tea in. It was still warm. She wasn’t a big fan of tea, but it gave her something to do. She could read one of the books on the shelf, but that would require moving, and her entire body felt as though . . . well, as though it had been shot and had then fallen off a roof.
    The clock was ticking. She had to get back on Howard’s trail. He’d be at that country party a few days at best before moving on to the next phase of his plan. Even if they let her go tomorrow—in Five’s custody—she was in no condition to travel hell-bent for leather. It was going to take longer than she wanted to catch up to the bastard.
    She’d seen the look on Payne’s face when she offered up information on Company operatives. He wanted what she knew, but he was disgusted with her for turning on her former comrades so easily, even though she’d explained what happened to Robert. All her strength had gone into showing as little emotion as possible as she talked about her brother, and that ginger-headed bastard looked at her as if she were dog excrement on the bottom of his shiny boot.
    Claire would have looked upon herself with the same expression once upon a time. Now she didn’t care what anyone thought of her or how anyone looked at her. She didn’t even care that what she was about to do was tantamount to putting nails in her own coffin. She was going to make certain Stanton Howard paid for her brother’s life. If that satisfaction cost her own life as well, then so be it.
    She took another sip of tea. She was going to have to make her way to the toilet soon. It was hand-painted porcelain that swept waste away with the pull of a chain. Back home in New York, they’d had chamber pots. Apparently England believed even her enemies needed posh pots to piss in.
    There was no fighting it any longer. Claire pushed herself to her feet with a throat-ripping growl of pain and clung to the bedside C th>
table for support while stars danced before her eyes. Her breath came in shallow gasps. She gripped the top of the chair that sat in front of a little writing desk—where she was expected to commit all she knew to paper—and used it as a makeshift crutch as she shuffled across the carpet.
    By the time she finished her business and began her return to the bed, her legs were trembling and cold sweat clung to her hairline. It was of course at that moment that a rap sounded at her door, followed by a key in the lock. She heard the grinding of gears as the locking mechanism disengaged, then a solid “thunk” before the door eased open. Claire looked up, expecting to see Dr. Stone.
    It was Payne.
    Had he come to kill her? She’d heard of such things happening to Company agents in W.O.R. custody. They were taken and never heard of again. Or had Huntley changed his mind about helping her? That would be unlike the man she used to know, but then he wasn’t that man anymore.
    “What do you want?” she demanded. Why did he have to show up when she was in need of a bath and trembling like a leaf in the wind? She had to look a fright, and her looks had always been something she used to her advantage. Men—and some women—generally