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received in England. Some claim it's a sign of weakness. Parliament is giving away land without a proper fight, that sort of thing."
    Isabel ran a hand through her wig-flattened locks, lifting them away from her scalp and fluffing them. "This next treaty is even more volatile than the last one. Tensions are high. People are volleying for position in both governments."
    "What's the significance? Stop dawdling, and explain."
    Isabel's heart lurched. Few men would speak to her so. Instinct wanted her to snap at him, but she couldn't help but appreciate his strength. She might even admire him. "They're still working on the details of the treaty, but with French, British, and American trappers living in the mountains of Columbia and clashing with one another on a regular basis, something needs to be done. I see three ways this can go. Either England will take full possession of the land, America will keep it and force England's retreat, or the two will decide to share it. My sources tell me the latter is the most likely."
    "France has no claim?"
    "None they can defend. Their position is too weak." Isabel paused and swept her arms wide to encompass the room. "If you'd ever been there, you would understand. Columbia — Oregon Country, as the Americans call it — is over 250,000 square miles of beautiful land. Hunting, fishing, farming — whatever you can imagine, you can do in the Columbia District." Her voice wistful, she continued. "It's some of the most beautiful land God ever created. Waterfalls, mountains, lush vegetation, peculiar and interesting animals." Isabel's words couldn't do the land justice, but she hoped to at least partially convey the wonder of it.
    Owen's wide eyes reflected his shock. The Columbia District was almost five times bigger than England and was nothing more than a tiny fraction of the land claimed by the colonies. The vastness was difficult to comprehend by those who hadn't witnessed its grandeur firsthand.
    "This upcoming treaty is what brought you back?" Owen's voice stayed neutral, but Isabel heard the unasked question.
    Where do your loyalties lie?
    She nodded. "Lord Rutherford stumbled onto a plot." Isabel focused on the business at hand. "I was following up on a rumor to gauge its validity. The viscount landed himself squarely in the middle of both the plot and my investigation." She paused to fluff her bothersome hair again. "Gold started showing up, and the quiet stories whispered in the dark corners of taverns said Columbia gold. I tried to discover whether or not the claim had any truth."
    "Rutherford had gold."
    She nodded. "He's in shipping. Rumors about his ship had reached him. Once he dug into the books, he found a problem. The Âne Hurlants was being used for smuggling, but he couldn't find any indication what was being smuggled. He followed his investigation, which brought him into mine. The plot was determined to cross both continents, so I returned to England and hired on at his estate to protect him."
    Isabel frowned. "He had no idea who I was when I came to work for him. We'd corresponded but not met. I was supposed to keep him safe so he could uncover the rest of the plot and tell the people in power. Maybe if I'd shared my identity with him, things would have been different. Lord Rutherford was an honest man, and he would have done the right thing. All I had to do was keep him alive long enough to deliver his findings." Isabel's voice came to a shuddering halt.
    "You are not at fault for his death."
    Isabel had the deaths of too many people on her hands for Owen to ever understand her sadness. "Yes, I am. I failed to do my job, and a good man died. I need to follow through on this so his death won't be in vain."
    "Is the gold being smuggled in to buy off someone over here and prevent the treaty, or to establish an inflated value for the Columbia District, forcing Parliament to fight for it?"
    "I don't know. I think Lord Rutherford figured it out. I believe it cost him his