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At least if her letters were any indication. He wondered again what she looked like, and vaguely hoped she took after her mother.
    “I don’t denounce my heritage, and I don’t forego the use of my title out of any altruistic notions about the populace, Lord Darmont. One day I may take up the title and wield it for the public good if I can, but at the moment my business interests here and elsewhere aren’t well-served by reminding people of my ancestry. You know it takes a great deal of money to maintain one’s estate. The French and the Spanish buy all sorts of equipment from my workshops. They don’t mind dealing with an American inventor, but I suspect they might be less sanguine about negotiating with the Makesmith Baron.”
    He threw the epithet out and waited for a response.
    “But it’s the Makesmith Baron who would make such a convenient husband for my daughter. You would need to use your title, foster the notion that you’re a typical blithe aristocrat. Play the baron to Charlotte’s baroness.”
    They both knew the truth of that. What other single man could fulfill all the necessary roles for this particular political ploy? Who else had the technical expertise to advise the Agency’s engineers and work on the dirigible if necessary, the conveniently public disinterest in politics and the perfect credentials of gentility to marry the widow of a baronet, daughter to the eminently respectable Viscount Darmont?
    Serendipity.
    And Matthew, upon his return from delivering the “funny hat,” had waxed rather lyrical regarding the physical charms of the widow Moncrieffe. He had met her a few times before, he said, but had clearly been too callow a youth at the time to appreciate the qualities of such a subtle blossom. He was no longer too callow, apparently. Dexter supposed the woman took after her mother, after all.
    “Pocket Venus,” Matthew had extolled. “Chilly as a winter day, and black isn’t her color, but still. Fire under all that ice, you know? You forget she’s tiny while you’re talking to her, then all of a sudden it strikes you that you could break her in two if you weren’t careful. Although . . .”
    “Although?” Dexter had tried to pretend he wasn’t interested in Pence’s prurient gossip. He’d remained bent over his workbench, pencil in hand, sketching a design that wouldn’t leave his mind’s eye.
    “She wouldn’t break, I suspect. There’s steel there.” Hardly the thing to say in compliment to a delicate lady. But he said it with admiration.
    Dexter hadn’t risen to the bait. He hadn’t asked for more detail about the potential charms of the interesting widow with her inexplicable need for esoteric devices. For
camouflaged
devices.
    Now that he knew the reason for the camouflage, he had more difficulty concealing his desire to learn more, and to meet her face-to-face at last. She was intriguing, this Lady Moncrieffe, with her mourning turned to espionage and her father who was willing to pander her to him on a temporary basis if necessary. Not that her father seemed happy with the idea.
    “Did you mean for her to be the inducement, sir?” Dexter asked him. He was politely horrified by the very notion, and mortified to have to ask, but he thought it best to have it out in the open either way. “I would have taken this on for Crown and country. Even if nothing comes of it, you can depend on my discretion. Title or no, I think my reputation and my family’s honor are insurance enough of that.”
    “I
meant
for her to continue her safe, sedate work decoding documents for the Agency. Before that, I meant for her to marry my protégé Reginald and induce him into an early retirement from the field,” the Viscount said gruffly, not meeting the younger man’s eyes. “I also meant to have a grandchild or two to dandle on my knee by this time. Instead I have a daughter who rarely smiles, who wears black all the time and looks terrible in it and who wants to turn her