Catherine kissed Sophie’s forehead. “All is well now, sweetheart. Run along upstairs and change your clothes while I speak to our guest. I’ll be up in a little while to check on you.” She turned her daughter around and nudged her toward the servants’ staircase.
Her daughter pinched the sides of her frock, looking for splats of dirt and bits of grime. “Mama, there’s nothing wrong with this dress.”
“No, there’s not,” she agreed. “But it’s your play dress, not your house dress. Up you go.”
Sophie groaned, but did as told. Her progress up the narrow stairs had all the signs of a convict headed to the gallows.
“Mary, please see Miss Sophie to the nursery,” Catherine said.
“Oh, Mama.”
Catherine allowed herself a small smile as she watched the two make their way up to the third floor. Once they turned the corner, Catherine rushed to the window to peer outside. Her gaze slashed from tree to tree, building to building, shadow to shadow. But nothing moved or appeared out of place. Everything seemed oddly untouched, yet frightfully violated.
She checked the lock on the kitchen door again and made her way to the drawing room. When she entered, she found the Foreign Office official lounging on her sofa, an easy expression on his handsome face. “Mr. Cochran, this is an unexpected surprise.” Again. After their last meeting, she had not looked forward to their next.
He did not rise to greet her. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Ashcroft. I’m afraid our former timeline has been compromised. Have you the list?”
Catherine strode farther into the room. “There is no list, sir.”
“What do you mean?”
“I had occasion last evening to search his lordship’s library, study, and even his bedchamber, and none contained a list of secret agents.” The only names she found were the two tucked under the earl’s ink blotter—Sebastian Danvers and Jeffrey Ashcroft. Hardly a list.
“Yes,” he said with a slight curl to his lip. “I heard you spent the night with Somerton.”
Catherine clenched her teeth. “Perhaps the intelligence you received regarding Lord Somerton’s involvement with the Nexus was wrong.”
“I can assure you,” Cochran said, “the information I shared with you is quite accurate.”
“Then maybe his lordship has not compiled the list yet.”
“Could it be that you have not looked well enough?”
His humoring smile made her jaw clench. “Where else would I search, sir? Based on what I have witnessed, Lord Somerton is not a threat to anyone. Quite the contrary, actually. He’s been nothing but helpful to those in need. What you are accusing him of simply makes no sense.”
“All men, even those with evil intent, have a weakness. It is how governments do business, madam. They find the other’s weakness and exploit it.” He tapped his two forefingers against his lips, considering her for a moment. “The better question here is which one of the Ashcroft women is Lord Somerton’s greatest weakness?”
Cochran’s piglet gaze sent a rush of wary tingles down her spine. Why had she never noticed his close-set eyes before? “What can you mean, sir?”
A pregnant pause, then the official’s face split into an affable smile. “I mean nothing at all. My mind tends to venture off course at the most inconvenient times.”
Drawing in a deep breath, Catherine said, “Sir, I have made a gross miscalculation in my eagerness to bring my husband’s killer to justice. I can no longer assist you in this endeavor.”
Cochran released a sigh. “That is not good news, my dear. Is there nothing I can do to change your mind?”
Catherine shook her head. “No, nothing, sir. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”
Cochran rose from his chair, pulling at the sleeves of his forest green coat to smooth out the wrinkles. “This exercise wasn’t a waste of time, madam,” he said, strolling toward the door. “It’s always best to attempt the path of least resistance, don’t you agree?”
Catherine stared at Cochran, not understanding his cryptic remark. “Excuse me?”
His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Give me but a moment and I’ll explain.” He turned and disappeared down the corridor.
When Catherine heard the front door open, she made her way to the window overlooking the small circular drive. Outside Cochran’s carriage stood a short, wiry man with a balding pate interspersed with clumps of stringy brown hair.
Recognition crashed into her chest like an angry bull trying to breach a fence. Cochran joined the stranger, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder while he spoke. The little man listened intently, lifting his gaze in Catherine’s direction before scurrying