B00Q5W7IXE (R) by Shana Galen Page B

it. Apparently, there was a first time for everything. “It’s Christmas and time to let bygones be bygones and all that rot. As I am not the heir, nor with five older brothers ever like to be, I dare say he’s realized he need not care what I do.”
    “Good. Then he may wait. I must discuss the second act with Hel—er, Lady Ernest.”
    “Good God, I’d rather you call her Helena.” Blue took his wife’s hand and, drawing her out from behind the screen, kissed it. “I shall wait for you outside, sweet.”
    As he moved toward the door, Helena took her seat at the dressing mirror. “The mishap in the second act was not my fault. Leopold missed his cue. I had to improvise.”
    “With scales?” the theater manager bellowed. Blue closed the door. He had no worries his wife would handle Burton with her usual aplomb. She was not one to shrink from conflict.
    He stepped away from her dressing room and ducked into the nearby shadows. From his vantage point, he could see her door, but could not easily be seen by the men and women scurrying about backstage. He leaned carelessly against a support beam and straightened his cuffs.
    Then he gave an exaggerated sigh. “I know you are there. This is my hidey-hole. Find your own.”
    “Now I understand your sudden interest in opera,” Baron said, coming to stand beside him. “She’s lovely. I always thought your tastes ran to baritones.”
    “I’m full of surprises.”
    “So am I.”
    Blue gave his lace a last fluff and lifted his gaze to the man beside him. Winston Keating was the new leader of the Barbican group, the Crown’s most elite espionage wing. They’d recently foiled an attempt to blow up Parliament, and that had been on top of thwarting an assassination attempt on the Prince Regent himself.
    “Hardly,” Blue remarked, giving Baron’s wrinkled coat a disdainful glance. One would think a man with those broad shoulders might look better in a coat.
    “I imagine you are here in an attempt to entice me back to the Barbican group.”
    Baron tried to look innocent. “Did you ever leave? I seem to remember you were at Bonde’s side when she brought down Foncé.”
    “Coincidence.”
    “Bulls—”
    “What is it you want, Lord Keating?” Blue interrupted. “I have a pressing engagement.”
    “Yes, I can imagine you will be pressing the lovely Miss Giles into your carriage squabs—”
    Blue moved quickly, ramming his arm against Baron’s throat and slamming the man against the support beam.
    “A word of caution, my lord.”
    Baron’s eyes bulged as he fought for breath.
    “Take care what language you use to refer to my wife.”
    “ Your wife ?” Baron wheezed.
    Blue released him. “As per my lady’s request, I have indeed retired from service. You may take your letter or missive or”—he gestured toward Baron’s waistcoat pocket—“intercepted orders and go.”
    Baron merely stared at Blue. He was either still catching his breath or he was suitably awed at Blue’s powers of deduction.
    “You are married?”
    Or Baron could not conceive of Blue having a wife.
    Understandable. At times Blue could hardly believe it, though he’d been married for more than half a decade.
    “And you call yourself a spy.” Blue shook his head with exaggerated woe. “Run home to Lady Keating and your offspring. I understand she is breeding again. I imagine she will need her feet rubbed or some such thing.”
    “I call myself an agent of the Crown,” Baron said, straightening his bull-like shoulders. “As did you at one time. Your country needs you.”
    Blue cast a glance behind him. Helena’s door was still closed. He ducked behind the support beam, motioning Baron to follow.
    “I have served the Crown. Foncé is dead, and the Maîtriser group in shambles—thanks in no small part to me. I have done my duty and am formally retired.”
    A sliver of light pierced the floor to his left.
    “I do accept your apology, Mr. Burton.” His wife’s voice sounded