In this rousing sequel to The Blackstone Key, Rose Melikan’s heroine returns to the world of espionage for an intelligent, thrilling adventure in Georgian England. When the story begins Mary is a wealthy heiress. Young ladies in her situation ought to marry well—as her friend Susannah Armitage has. But is Susannah’s marriage to Colonel Crosby-Nash all that it seems? Mary thinks not, and when her suspicions lead to a meeting with the elusive spymaster, Cuthbert Shy, he reveals the terrible truth—the colonel is a traitor. At Shy’s request, Mary agrees to accompany the Crosby-Nashes to their country estate, in order to discover his secrets. It is a perilous assignment, and the danger increases when her only means of communicating with Shy is murderously cut off. If only Mary could contact the redoubtable Captain Robert Holland, but as he has inexplicably ended their friendship, his help seems out of reach.… In the grand tradition of Charlotte Bronte and Daphne du Maurier, Melikan presents a gripping tale of adventure and romance, while enhancing both with flawless details of time and place. The combination will keep readers holding their breath until the next explosive installment. Rose Melikan is the author of The Blackstone Key. Born in Detroit, Michigan, she lives in England with her husband, and teaches legal history at Cambridge University. The Counterfeit Guest 1 ON THE SUFFOLK coast some eight miles east of Woodbridge stood what had once been a priory for women adhering to the Cistercian order. Its appearance had changed over the centuries, and the nuns had long since departed. Yet it was called White Ladies in their memory and, in the spring of 1796, it was to be restored to female rule. A young woman named Mary Finch had inherited both the estate and a considerable fortune, and she had resolved to make her home there. This resolution could not be enforced immediately. Miss Finch had come to Suffolk under somewhat unusual circumstances, and the lawyers had only recently determined that she was indeed the rightful owner of White Ladies. Various practical matters would also have to be settled before she could take up residence. So, for the time being, she remained at nearby Lindham Hall, as the guest and protégée of its owner, Mrs. Tipton. Lindham Hall was another sphere of feminine influence, a fact to which Cuff, the only masculine member of the household, could testify. Cuff held the offices of coachman and porter, and between Mrs. Tipton, Peggy the maid, and Pollock the cook (“them old cats,” as he was wont to call them, when he thought no one was listening), he rarely had a moment’s peace. Mary Finch also made occasional demands of him, but he did not mind these, somehow. Indeed, sometimes he went so far as volunteering his services, and he joined her in the flower garden on a sunny May afternoon without the least prompting. Observing the slim, straight figure poised on the edge of the lawn, a figure that managed to exude energy even when motionless, he reflected that Miss Mary surely had a way about her. Mary was deeply engaged in horticultural matters and did not hear him approach. Fashionable ladies, she was convinced, spent a great deal of their time arranging flowers, and she knew little of the art. As a first step in her education she must learn the names of all the likely blooms, and now she repeated, “Wallflower, windflower, cowslip, narcissus, rockfoil,” in the direction of the items in her basket. “Just so,” agreed Cuff, nodding and touching his hat. “And that one there?” He pointed at the colorful bed with the toe of his boot. “Lungwort—what an unpleasant name! Like something witches might use for their spells.” A breeze lifted the curls that had escaped confinement while Mary’s attention had been elsewhere, and her smile was similarly mischievous. Cuff bent and plucked a pale blue flower to add to her collection, and Mary said, “Forget-me-not. I did not pick any, as they are so small.” “No, best left where they are, perhaps.” After a moment Cuff added, “Nothing for him, then, miss?” removing his pipe from between his teeth and frowning, as if its failure to draw had something to do with his question. Mary shook her head, and her voice lost a little of its enthusiasm. “Not yet.” The rather complicated logic of Cuff‘s remark had not confused her. “Him” referred to a Royal Artillery officer of their acquaintance named Robert Holland. He was part of the unusual circumstances that had first brought Mary to Suffolk and had set in motion what she still privately called her “Adventure.” Few people were privy to everything that had happened during those strange weeks in October when she had helped to defeat a French spy, and those few had been sworn to secrecy. For his part Cuff knew only that there was a sort of understanding between miss and the captain, and that he, old Cuff, meant to help it along. The help he provided was of a particular nature. The two young people