Oh, dear. Was Sir Broderick up to date on the character I was playing?

“He told her he knew about Lord Monthalf’s murders in London, and while he knew part of the family had gone to the Far East years ago, he didn’t know anything about what had become of them. Then he questioned her about what she’d learned.” Emma was about to bubble over with excitement, which made her helping me get out of my dress difficult.

I put my hands on her arms. “Tell me what she said, and then help me undress.”

She nodded. “She said you’re an old friend of the Duke of Blackford’s from India, and he is obviously smitten with you.”

I wished that were true.

“They’re buying your story. Your entrance into society is assured. Isn’t that great?”

“Yes.” It would be even better if we quickly found those plans so I could get out of society and back to managing my bookshop.

She slipped off my dress and began to unlace my evening corset. “You don’t sound very pleased.”

“Sir Broderick and the duke appear to have forgotten I have a whole life that doesn’t revolve around espionage.”

The yank Emma gave to the laces told me whose side she was on. “You’ve forgotten two things. You dragged Phyllida into this by promising to find her cousin’s killer.” The corset was tight enough to make breathing difficult. “And you have very good friends who know the business and will take good care of your bookshop. Trust them.”

“I’m trying. I really am. But I can’t do anyone any good if you break my ribs.”

Emma considered for a moment whether I’d learned my lesson before she loosened my corset strings.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE next morning I was up, dressed, and eating a light breakfast when one of the maids brought me a note addressed to Georgina Monthalf. I set down my tea and opened it.

Georgia Fenchurch, I know what you’re up to.

Stop immediately or I will give away your identity.

I glanced around the empty dining room as if the writer were lurking in my house. Blast it. Someone knew my real name and my role in the investigation. I’d been careful to keep my real life separate from the people I was investigating, but someone had found out.

Sir Jonah Denby, who knew my real name and that I was involved in the search, could be the author, but he was supposed to be on our side. I hadn’t heard from Sir Broderick on my request for information on Sir Jonah. I needed to telephone him from the bookshop.

Or someone had found out from Madame Leclerc, but who would go to all that trouble? And what about the German spies? Were they onto me already?

I considered my options. If I told Emma and Phyllida, Emma would shrug it off, but Phyllida would immediately insist we stop before we were hurt.

The worst the writer threatened to do was give away my real identity to everyone involved in the investigation. The only way I could imagine proceeding with this investigation was to wait to see what happened.

There was no point in telling anyone and upsetting them before it became necessary.

I stuffed the note up my sleeve with my handkerchief and finished my breakfast in time to travel with Emma to the bookshop.

We took a different route than the morning before, which was Emma’s way of assuring we learned every street and alley and knew how to reach someplace safe if we had to escape an attack. On the way there, I told her what I’d learned about the baron and Lady Bennett going to Lord Harwin’s.

“Could someone else be carrying the plans to Germany for the baron? Someone we’re not watching?” Emma asked.

“Such as the Dowager Duchess of Bad Ramshed or someone in her party? I think the duke’s going to learn more about that today, leaving us free to worry about the bookshop.”

“You don’t have to worry about the bookshop, Georgia. You have very good friends who are looking out for you.”

I nodded. She was right. But I still worried.

It turned out I had good reason to. As soon as we opened the door, a half-dozen customers descended on us. Their spokesman, a heavyset woman in black with a choleric face and sweat already running down her cheeks, said, “Miss Fenchurch, why aren’t you selling the two-shilling copies of The Ruined Castle by Mrs. Hepplewhite?”

The cheaply bound two-shilling editions were our best sellers, especially ones written by the gothic and adventure writers. “We are, Mrs. Appleton. Or we will be.”

“Other shops had them on the shelves yesterday afternoon. If they hadn’t sold out, we’d not be here today.”

How many customers had I lost by not being here yesterday afternoon? “Just a moment. Let me check in the back.”

I walked to the office, the half-dozen customers following. Two large boxes sat on the floor, unchecked against the inventory still attached to one of the boxes. I opened them and found Mrs. Hepplewhite’s newest on top.

I grabbed a dozen. “Here we are. I’ll take these up to the counter and we can take care of you immediately.”

“You’ll have to do better than this next time if you want to keep our business.” Nevertheless, Mrs. Appleton led the parade to the counter.

“You’re right. I do. And I will.”

I’d almost reached the counter when Grace walked in. I set her to checking the inventory in the boxes and then getting the books shelved. The women left with their purchases, still grumbling but not as loudly.

I looked at Emma and sighed. “Don’t worry?”

“We’ll get it straightened out.”

“Get what straightened out?” Frances asked as she entered the shop.

I took a deep breath so I wouldn’t yell at her. “When orders come in from the popular publishers, we need to check the inventory lists and shelve the books as quickly as possible. Most of the time, unfortunately, they come in the afternoon, when Emma and I have to work on the investigation. Maybe if you put Grace onto that chore while you wait on customers, it won’t put too much of a strain on you.”

Frances stepped back and folded her arms over her chest, her hat still perched on her gray topknot. “Grace had to do something for Lord Barnwood yesterday afternoon, or I would have started her on those boxes in the back.”

“Next time you’re in that situation, call Sir Broderick and have him send someone to help you. Quickly getting new stock of these big sellers on the shelves is important.”

“Everything around here is important, or so you tell me. If you don’t like the job I’m doing, just say so.” She was nearly spitting out the words and still dressed to go out.

I knew none of this was her fault. More selfishly, I couldn’t work on this investigation without her good-natured help in running the bookshop. “Frances, I’m less familiar with the character I’m pretending to be than you are with running a bookshop. I know I’m putting a lot on your shoulders, but you have good instincts and you’re doing well. Much better than I am. Don’t think I’m not grateful.” I lifted my hands palm upward. “But today I’m tired and confused and so far, our investigation hasn’t gone anywhere. We’re being fed lies and half-truths and gossip.”

The anger left her eyes, replaced by concern. No matter which members of the Archivist Society were actively involved in the investigation, we were all distressed when things weren’t going well and proud when we succeeded. “What’s happened?”

“The baron is leaving with his lady friend in a few days for a house party at an estate in Gloucestershire. His lady friend lied about spending the afternoon with Clara Gattenger on the day she died. Ken Gattenger lied about arguing with Clara and the fire in the study fireplace on a hot evening. The police have evidence Gattenger was selling a copy of his warship plans to the Germans and there’s gossip he’s short of money. The police think Clara died in an accident while trying to stop Gattenger from handing off the ship design. And if the baron told the truth about not leaving England in the foreseeable future, he doesn’t plan to touch the stolen plans himself. That means they could be handed off to anyone.”