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and unique black-rimmed, blue eyes. She wanted to show him off to her girlfriends, which would have been enough to keep Harry in London, except Amanda, Rex’s wife and the sweetest woman he knew, had asked him to stand as godfather to the boy. He could not refuse.
    Daniel was godfather to the girl. He started weeping the instant that tiny scrap of lace and love was placed in his arms. Everyone laughed except Harry, feeling the tears well up in his own eyes, to see them reflected in matching blue ones with the dark rim. A baby, born in harmony, wanting for nothing, his future assured. Oh, lucky Rex, and oh, how Harry wanted that peace, that promise, a son, for himself.
    And that was the truth. It was as sweet as honey, as sweet on his tongue as nectar.
    Miss Ryland coughed, and he came back from his wool-gathering to wonder what her lips would taste like.
    He sighed. Such thoughts were for another tomorrow. Today was for finding out the truth, the way the Royce men always had, always could. Rex saw colors, true-blue for honesty. The earl heard notes of discord for lies. Poor Daniel got rashes at untruths. And he, Harry, the illegitimate son, could taste a falsehood.
    The odd, unheard of gift of truth-knowing made them all invaluable to the country. Lord Royce acted in the legal system; Rex and Daniel had been the Inquisitors on the Peninsula, interrogating prisoners to find the enemy’s secrets, secrets that could keep the generals informed and the soldiers safe. Recently Rex had been a huge help to Bow Street’s police force before he left London for his wife’s confinement and the infants’ births. He’d do more when he returned to Town. They all worked in secrecy, of course, for the talent was too close to sorcery or witchcraft or magic for the public’s comfort. Or for Daniel’s. He was determined to sow his wild oats in London, then become a gentleman farmer, where only nettles could make him break out in hives. He had no interest in serving the country in time of peace, only in carousing his way through the city’s underworld. Harry could sympathize, but he had plans for Daniel anyway. The gift was too important to waste on barmaids, brawls, or barley crops.
    As for himself, Harry was usually tucked away in hidden offices, in wigs and disguises when he went out. He was the Aide, a state secret onto himself. Half myth, half truth, he could sift through all the gathered intelligence and recognize the truth. He had fingers in every aspect of military or political or criminal life, in everything that could threaten his country. Recently he’d dealt with smugglers, embezzlers, and spies, French sympathizers all.
    Now Napoleon was gone, and the Aide could be, too. Then Harry might make a real life for himself, as himself. The house party was the key. Harry Harmon, Lord Royce’s bastard son, was invited now that he was acknowledged by his powerful father. He’d go, raffish Harry, and Major Harrison would stay behind. An assistant was already fitted for the right clothes, the wig and beard and moustache. The man wouldn’t be in actual danger despite the death threats—Harry would not have let another man take a bullet meant for him—but he’d die anyway. He’d suffer a heart spasm spectacularly, loudly, visibly, right there on the steps of Whitehall for everyone to see. He’d be carried inside, physicians sent for, for naught. Harry had the obituary already written.
    Farewell, Major, with all your enemies. Welcome, Harry Harmon, rakehell from the wrong side of the blanket. No one could connect the two, not when Harry was conducting a torrid affair at Lord Gorham’s party in Richmond. He’d be safe and done with intrigue, ready for the rest of his life.
    Of course Harry Harmon wasn’t his real name, either, but it was close enough. The son of an unwed opera-dancer, he could not carry the Royce family name, naturally, except Ivy Harmon had written Royce on the birth records anyway. He was Royce Harmon, a name