Imogen Fox lay abed, the only sound in the darkness the soft snores of the housemaid she shared quarters with. Her eyes were open and could, in the dimness, faintly make out the contours of the ceiling above her. Though it was long past the hour at which she should have been asleep—not three more hours would pass before the housemaid would rise and begin her duties for the day—she could not sleep. A frantic, eager energy coursed through her veins like fiendfyre, relentless and intense.

She had used a reclaimed hour of time that afternoon—after her morning chores were done but before the evening ones began—to visit the town's post office, to relay the information she had so carefully gleaned. What he would do with that information, Imogen knew, was up to him, but she had a sneaking suspicion that it would, indeed, be acted upon.

No hard day's work in the large Wellingtonshire home could ever make her feel as self-satisfied as that knowledge, the knowledge that her other job had been well done indeed.

Imogen closed her eyes, a smile on her face.