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which would have kept the scandal of his birth on everyone’s lips, and in the mud, for all time. The Earl of Royce had been too generous to Harry for such a blatant affront, and his lady wife deserved far better. The ton was willing to endure if not wholeheartedly accept Harry Harmon into their midst. He was not quite proper, but raised a gentleman and wealthy in his own right, with excellent connections. But Royce, son of Royce? No.
    So he was Harry Harmon in public these days, a rakish young man about town. He was the soon-to-expire Major Harrison at the War Office; middle-aged Mr. Harris at McCann’s club; Harry the footman there on occasion; Harold the coach driver; Hal the beggar. Sometimes he forgot who he was.
    That was not by choice. The Crown commanded, and his loyalty to his country governed his actions. Even now, more than his own life was at stake. Harry was willing to let the Aide die with Major Harrison; the Prince Regent was not. So while Harry was indulging in debauchery in the countryside, he’d also be trying to recover letters from a blackmailer. Oh, and listening for rumors from dissatisfied men who had supported Bonaparte’s efforts, and hoped to free him from exile to retake France. That was where Miss Ryland’s education came in. No one expected a courtesan to be conversant in so many languages; no one was as careful of their whispers when they were full of wine, their arms full of woman. So Harry would be serving his country even while he entertained a female of respectable past and questionable future.
    All depended on if she were trustworthy, naturally, because he’d have to explain his work—and his altered identity—to enlist her cooperation. She could be invaluable to him, or she could be the worst threat of exposure he’d ever faced. Time would tell, and his truth-knowing.
    Meanwhile, for the possible gains, for the risk, double her fee was fair. “How much were you earning as a governess?” he asked.
    Simone assumed he’d base his offer on that, so she added ten pounds to her yearly wage, which was nothing but a pittance anyway.
    Harry stood up, too quickly for an old man, but he was too angry, yes, and too disappointed, to care. The money was of no account, nothing more than a bit of loose change. The lie was his whole life. He tasted bitter almonds, almost like arsenic in his mouth. “I will not deal with untruths. I told you. Lyddie told you. You said you understood. I am sorry you did not understand the value of honesty. Good day, Miss Ryland, and good luck to you.” He reached for his purse, intending to toss the lying wench a coin to tide her over until she found some gullible pigeon to pay her rent.
    She jumped up and grabbed his cane before he could reach for it, thinking that would stop him. “No, wait. Please, Major Harrison. I am sorry. It was desperation making me exaggerate my pay. Surely you can see that? My grandfather was a horse-trader. I told you, didn’t I? Never leave yourself without a bargaining point, he always said. I swear I shall never lie to you again.”
    Now Harry tasted something like wine, sherry perhaps. She meant what she said, at least. She might not hold to her oath, but she meant it, which was something.
    “I think we should take a few days to decide if this is what we both want,” he said, buying time to investigate the Ryland connection, that baron’s household, her landlady’s impressions, and her own ability to keep a promise. He was not fool enough to take an unknown female into his confidence, no matter how pretty or how needy. He had to reveal too many secrets, not all of them his. “I can meet you here in a few days. Shall we say Friday?”
    Simone’s rent was due on Thursday. “I…I fear I cannot wait that long. I need to find employment immediately if I am to keep my lodgings. They are not much, but they are clean and safe.”
    That was a porridge-tasting half-truth. Harry raised a bushy eyebrow. “How safe?”
    She stared at