I’ve written down my thoughts on Christmas before. I’m now much more organised about it. I ensure that by the start of November I know who I’ll buy gifts for, and which should be personally acquired. I then send Griffin out to collect them. I do so enjoy his disapproval when I send him to pick up intimate items for my closer female friends. The first time I did this, I thought he’d actually combust!

I used to ensure that I knew well ahead where I’d be spending Christmas. It’s much easier these days as I’m usually at White Orchards for at least part of the holiday season. So much better than having to go home to see my wretched father and all my other easily disposable relatives.

I’ve quite surprised myself in delighting in finding Hope decent toys, and not the worthy things bought for her by her parents. Stepping into a toy shop took me back to my youth. I was, like most children, full of wonder at the world, and a good toy department can cause one to briefly and vicariously recapture that. The bright colours, the ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ of the little ones, the creaking of the fathers’ wallets, the gloriously safe and fantastical world of the young, where when play is finished, the toys go back into the toy chest, and someone who loves you tucks you up for the night. Battles with wooden soldiers, who might fall on the battlefield, but always stand up again in the end, and whose injuries can be fixed with a little glue and paint. Then there’s the games that have no purpose other than whiling away a few hours indulging in friendly, harmless fun. Of course, there are also certain games that one can play as an adult, but care is required to ensure they too remain purely fun.

I’ve no objection to buying Hope cartloads of toys, but I don’t ever want to be in a position of buying them because I have my own child. That wouldn’t do at all. I am still far too young and full of wonder to ever be a parent myself – and intend things to stay that way.

I’ve a light and pleasing baritone voice that’s sometimes mistaken for that of a tenor. When I gatecrashed one of Alice’s missions, posing as a West End stage singer, she was quite taken aback to hear me sing. In fact, I recall the expression on her face was akin to what I’d imagine her reaction might be seeing a camel dance. Sadly, even I, with all my animal magnetism, couldn’t make a camel dance. Those creatures are as grumpy as Morley - our department head - and with a predilection for spitting in one’s face. To be fair, Morley only does this metaphorically.

Not only was Alice unaware that I could sing, but she didn’t know that I could read music as well, and that I have a love of the classics (Strauss, and Bach, in particular). Oh, certainly I can dance and sing along with more contemporary ‘in’ tunes, but I’m happiest listening to a live performance with a full and talented orchestra. I rather enjoy opera too – as long as the singers are good enough. I can overlook a few imperfections in execution, although, it’s something a bug bear of mind that tenors tend to be poorest, yet the most arrogant, of singers (which is why I hate being mistaken for one).

My mother taught me the piano when I was young, but I gave it up when she died. I suspect I could pick it up again. I do have a natural ear for music, as well as perfect pitch - but then, what else would one expect? The real problem, of course, is that one can hardly go on a mission with a piano in tow, but I can sing anywhere. I frequently do so in the bathroom. I’ve even been known to burst into song in my own front room. Even more so, I admit, when I learned Griffin is not an opera fan. The Barber of Seville seems to annoy him in particular, So I’ve become quite proficient at that.

I suppose, in general, I rarely sing in front of others because I feel it shows a different side of me. Music makes me feel that there’s hope for my fellow man. If we, as a species, are capable of producing something so divine, then one day we might actually give up our preoccupation with killing one another and become decent and honest creatures. When I sing, I’m filled with hope, and I become quite different. I’m transformed into an optimist (which is most embarrassing). Still, on top of all that, it never hurts that it tends to impress when one is embarking on the wooing of a lady.

A Gentleman must wear a hat. It’s a rule in polite society. It’s no more acceptable for a man to go around bare headed than it is for a woman to go around without a corset - garment I, for one, have always hated for, a) it conceals the truth, b) it inflicts a peculiar kind of torture on its wearer, and c) it’s damn well difficult to get off when one is caught in the throes of passion. They’re nothing less than assassins of amorousness.

Hats are, of course, quite different. A gentleman’s hat adds - if he chooses wisely - a dash of sportiness, a spot of mystery, or a flash of charisma. The very best hats do all three. However, being employed in the espionage business does, on occasion, making the wearing of hats a chore. I mean, when one’s officially entering a house, or going to an evening dance, one hands over one’s accoutrements to the butler or houseman to look after (its only when indoors that it’s acceptable to be hatless). A pause upon entering an establishment - to ensure everyone sees the dashing nature of one’s head apparel - should be followed by a flourish of removal. Then, one should turn to the servant, showing one’s best side if possible, and flaunting the exposed hair on one’s head. If one is follicly challenged, the hat is best removed in quieter, more private surroundings. One feels for the gentleman who plummets from dasher to dotage by the mere removal of his topper, but it’s still better than wearing a toupee.

However, as a spy, I have to run from time to time. I don’t mean flee the country, but physically run. At night I can always use a flat cap to cover my head, which won’t stand out if I need to duck into a pub. For running during daylight hours, a bowler is best, as these have a suction-like adherence to the scalp (although it’s not good for the locks). Unfortunately, the old bowler is becoming rather passe, and almost every other kind of head apparel tends to show a dislike of quick movement, ending up on the ground, or worse still, in the gutter. I can’t tell you the number of times an enemy of the state has deprived me of a fine hat.

Women, of course, have hat pins. There are no hat pins for gentleman. However, I’ve recently designed my own version in the form of a discreet clip. Were it not for the secrecy of my occupation, I believe I could market it and become even richer than I am.

It really does tickle me that, in this particular instance, I literally keep my own genius under my hat.

I was recently asked by an acquaintance if I enjoyed warm beer.

Needless to say, I bally well don’t!

They’d seen me carousing in a public establishment where, to all intents and purposes, I seemed to be having a jolly good time. Of course, I was undercover – or as as undercover as one can get in London – seeking out information that I believed some of our stout working class colleagues had inadvertently come across. The fact that this blighter had decided to slum it for an evening, and in doing so recognised me, was pure chance. Yes, yes, I suppose I should’ve been in a rudimentary form of disguise, but I certainly didn’t expect to be recognised in the Dog and Duck. It’s a nice enough establishment, if you like that sort of thing, but not one that members of society I normally have the displeasure to associate among are liable to patronise.

On this particular occasion, I was having an excellent game of darts with two chaps. One of them had a damned good eye. I was also moderating my accent although, it has to be said, not in mimicry of theirs. Acting quite that common would have taken some serious work. I didn’t choose to be born into privilege, but I was, and it has indelibly left its mark upon me. No, I was playing the part of grocer who’d owned his own shop but, finding himself down on his luck, he’d had to sell it. He now managed one for someone else. This was still a bit above the class of people who were in there, but by buying a round of drinks (I said my horse had come in), and by being someone who had come down in the world, I quite won them over.

Then this blighter walks in. I did the only thing I could upon his entrance and walked out, before it was established in his high pitch voice that we were cronies. Later, when I bumped into him at a club, he asked me about my preference for warm beer, but by that point I was no longer eager to punch him in the face. I had, after all, obtained the information I needed moments before he entered the establishment, so all was not lost. He had, however, ruined a surprisingly enjoyable evening, but he is, at best, an utter duffer, and has no idea at all that I work for the crown.

So, I told him a lie that I was doing it for a bet. This caused him great consternation that he might have been the cause of my losing said bet. In his rather indolent world, bets are of considerable importance. In fact, I can think of more than one instance when a gentleman (to use the term loosely) has decided his marriage vows are of far less importance than winning a bet.

I told him the matter was under discussion with a third mediating party. He was so appalled by this, that he bought me an excellent dinner, after which we sank a couple of excellent bottles of red. Of course, he prattled inanely throughout, but his voice is of such a pitch that after a short time I can completely block it out, becoming no more than an irritating drone in the background. Fortunately, he is never as a loss to prattle on about his most passionate and favourite subject, himself.

I had some quite some excellent fare, but in terms of sheer enjoyment, I far preferred the company at the Dog and Duck.

Do excuse this break in the normal communications channel. Fitzroy has grudgingly graciously agreed to let my alter ego, Gemini Gibson, take over just this once to announce the release of The Augmentors, an alternative history adventure that addresses the difficulty of finding the balance between humanity and technology.

So, if you like fantasy, please take a look, and if you know someone else who likes reading fantasy, maybe you would let them know? There is the usual ‘read inside’ feature on Amazon, so you, or someone else, can have a taste of it before purchasing. Thank you so much to my lovely readers as it is doing very well in the rankings and is getting excellent reviews.

Lastly, Fitzroy (who is not usually one for sharing the limelight) wishes me to reassure all his readers than his ongoing memoirs will continue as usual next week.

I have a very small puppy whiffling at my feet. I’ve called him Jack, and I’m considering what I’ve let myself in for. I’ve always loved dogs. In general, I can get on well with most creatures - apart from my fellow man, that is. There’s something good and honourable about a canine, if it’s treated right. They’re so loyal and devoted, they’re nearly always a reflection of their owner. Jack, I hope, will be a loyal ally, and a fierce friend, which is how I see myself, occupation allowing. I think it’s best if I keep him constantly at my side, unless I am going into active combat, of course. He’s a bull terrier, so he’ll be strong and resilient, but I don’t like to see any animal under fire. Although, I know they’re now using dogs out in No Man’s Land. Officially, the dogs are sent out to bring medicine or water to a soldier that their comrades cannot reach. Unofficially, they’re sent out to lay beside a dying man, so that he’s not totally alone. And they do that. Despite the hideous cacophony of the battlefield, a dog’s heart is such that they’ll give what comfort they can under the most awful of circumstances. It really is a great pity that more owners aren’t like their dogs.

My first wife was murdered while I was away on a mission. I’d made peace with my inability to save her. I knew nothing of the threat. I was green enough to think her family, and the department, would keep an eye on her. I came to understand there was nothing I could’ve done. I’ve been unable to trace her killer, and that remains an open wound. I still have matters to attend to there. However, it’s made me very careful about who I let into my life. Knowing me is dangerous.

No one takes much notice of the occasional affair, except the husbands. Alice, I decided, I could potentially work with, but only if she proved to be a competent partner. I have, it seems, trained her well – far beyond my early hopes. She’s saved me on more than one occasion. But a dog – this dog, Jack – will come to rely on me and trust me in a way that few people ever will, so it’s only right and proper that I keep him as close to me as I can. Morley will get used to him in time, and as for the ladies, I’m sure they’ll think that it reveals a gentler, more caring side of me. Little do they realise that I’ll fight to the bitter end to defend my new canine companion.

Yes, I’ve been away. For goodness sake, it goes with the job. It’s not my fault she got herself pregnant. It wasn’t even my baby; it was my goddaughter. I suppose there’s some modicum of civility that dictates that I should mention if I’m about to go off for a while on a mission, one that I might die on, but I’m a spy! It’s not in my nature to alert anyone of my imminent departure, or even demise, even if she supposedly still holds the security clearance to know.

I say supposedly, because dear old Morley has given me another intelligence analyst to work with. His own experiment at bringing a woman on board. She’s awfully smart, and rather entertaining, but she’s a strictly on-British-soil-only posting. There’s no chance of me sneaking off abroad with her. I mean, it’s not like she’s a proper partner, which is why I haven’t mentioned her to Alice. Need to know, and all that. But it also means Alice isn’t in touch with what I’m up to, and she doesn’t like that. Oh, the questions! I think she thought that when she moved to an analyst role, we’d still be working together. We’re not. I do keep in touch, as best I can. Heavens, for the first couple of years of Hope’s life, I more or less lived at White Orchards. Of course, Alice remains unaware that part of that was due to my temporary enforced retirement. Again, need to know, and all that.

I’m going to have to come up with some sort of scheme. I suppose Hope is getting old enough to be worried about where her godfather might be (thank God her teeth came through and she can say godfather properly). I rather thought it I’d built up a picture of myself as a roving gad-about who got into all kinds of disreputable adventures, and as an old friend of her parents, I came and went very much with the wind. I mean, the only part there that’s actually a lie is that I’m a friend of both her parents. Ha!

However, the more I think about it, the more it seems to me that this is down to Alice’s concern for me, rather than Hope’s. Very sweet, but rather a bind. I may well have to get Morley to approve her for the occasional active service work. Then I could have my current analyst at home and Alice with me in the field. Could work well enough, but I’ll need to keep them strictly apart. Good grief, it’s almost as bad as managing a wife and a mistress.

It’s always been the women who’ve saved me. From the outside, I appear to live a privileged life. I’m rich; my wealth roughly equally split between my inheritance and money that I’ve made myself (it certainly doesn’t come from my pittance of a salary as a spy, but then, all I do is risk life and limb, preventing nasty international situations, and who’d expect a decent salary for doing that?). The gilt is beginning to come off.  I’ve a terrible relationship with my father. I still grieve for my mother, who died when I was a child. I went to a semi decent school and landed the opportunity to attend one of the best universities (due, in no small part, to my natural ability with languages). I left before I completed the first-year examination. I couldn’t see the point of it all. I could learn languages anywhere, and it seemed that the world was an infinitely more exciting place than a college quad.

I’m a mixture of good and bad fortune, like everyone else. Most would say I’m more fortunate than unfortunate, but then, few know about my murdered first wife, or where my heart truly resides. They only see the line of glamorous and exotic ladies whose bed chambers I pass through. Still, without physical diversions, I fear I’d become even more disassociated from my so-called peers than I feel most days. Intimacy grounds you. The honest connection you make with a woman, when there’s nothing between you but skin, is unlike anything else in life. Yes, there’s pleasure, this is what most reminds me that I’m part of the human race.

My marriage, and I was very young, was never going to be a faithful one, but as a daughter of one of the families traditionally involved with British espionage, I always assumed she knew this, even if she never acknowledged it. However, such extra marital affairs would’ve been strictly work related, even if that’s something of a side thrill for a young man. 

Now, though, the affairs I conduct are not part of my role as a spy (of course, there are still occasions when I have to do the deed, for the sake of the country) but most of my affairs are ones based on affection and connection. I fear if I had stayed married to my Rose, I’d have become less human, in the same way I see many in my profession go.  

No, as I sit here waiting for my paramour to steal away from her woefully inattentive husband, I must admit, it’s always the women who’ve saved me.

I never told Alice I retired. Nor did I tell her that my retirement was more of a storming out and leaving sort of affair. It was all her fault – in a way. The Great War was over, and things were being hashed out in a way that was making me nervous. I made the choice to stay away from all the diplomatic hoo-ha. I’m fairly certain, what with my ability with languages, that I could have made a case to the department to go to Versailles. It was a dangerous time, and a person with my many talents would have been useful. But I didn’t fancy it. I especially didn’t fancy seeing the locals trying to pick up what remained of their lives.

I always hold that the role of a spy is to prevent war, or failing that, to shorten it. The aftermath of war, the grief, the guilt, and the accusations, is something I prefer to stay well away from. So, I’d been hanging around White Orchards with Alice and her new baby, annoying Bertram and generally making a nuisance of myself. It was clear from the moment she saw her that Alice adored Hope, but she didn’t take to dealing with a baby the way most women do. More often than not it was Bertram or I who’d be playing those damned silly games that one plays with infants. I was worried about her. This didn’t seem like the Alice I knew. She was withdrawn and quiet. Even when I tried, I couldn’t annoy her. I’d merely get a ‘whatever you think/want/need to do’ sort of a comment, rather than the stinging rebuke I deserved. I wrote reports about maps and supplies for the department, along with the occasional note on how we needed to do more for the soldiers coming back, the latter of which no one paid any attention to. I’m meant to be apolitical, so I could send my thoughts to Morley, but I couldn’t pass them on anywhere else. In retrospect, I think old Morley agreed with a lot of my thinking, but he wasn’t in a position to do anything about it. Our relationship became somewhat strained. Alice seemed to be slipping into depression and I became increasingly worried. I admit to becoming snarky with just about everyone except her and the baby.

Then came the summons to go off to Northern Ireland. I told Morley that I couldn’t go for personal reasons. He pointed out that my position rather required I didn’t do the whole ‘personal reasons’ thing. Having to choose between staying with Alice and gadding off to the the Emerald Isle, I attempted to put my foot down and it all went to hell after that. I ended up resigning.

It was a bit of a blow. I’d no intention of telling Bertram, who I rather meanly thought would crow over my loss of status, and I certainly wasn’t going to tell Alice when she was already feeling so down. I carried on writing useless reports and spending a lot of time trying to think what I’d do with myself. Those were not pleasant weeks. But it was during this time that Alice became extremely melancholy. Bertram finally acquiesced to my bringing up a specialist from London. There was no question of her travelling by then, she was far too tired and lethargic.

The man – who came very highly recommended – told us it was the baby that was causing her to behave like this. He recommended employing more staff and allowing her to go back to her old way of life. Some women, he said, are not natural mothers. ‘Especially the intelligent ones’ I recall him saying in a manner that spoke volumes of his low opinion of men who chose smart women for their wives.

This led to a bloody awful conversation with Bertram, who asked me to take Alice back into the field. I’d originally told her I wouldn’t countenance her putting herself in mortal danger while the child was young. I know how much losing my mother messed me up, and I didn’t want that to happen to little Hope. However, it seemed that there simply wasn’t enough to occupy that brain of Alice’s, and the rather adventurous lifestyle we’d been living the past few years had become as vital to her as the air she breathed.

Only, I’d only gone and resigned, hadn’t I? I had a horrible row with Bertram over it, with both of us arguing the opposite of our normal positions. I really have no idea what I would have done if the fellows who were sent off to Northern Ireland hadn’t messed up so badly. They went native – the bally lot of them – roundly seduced and compromised by local women.

Of course, this couldn’t have worked out better for me. The sudden loss of these men, coming on the back of the war, meant the department was begging me to return. I gave all the signs of being reluctant, but still determined to do my duty to King and Country. Didn’t want to come across too eager. Anyway, it’s due to all of this that I was able to build the power base I have today. I’ve a longer and deeper reach than most of my rank, and the others know it. I’m valued and respected – and, I rather think, feared. The latter keeps me warm at night.

And Alice, she recovered, mainly because I started taking her on shorter missions once again. I did my best to keep the danger as low as I could until Hope grew into the lovely young woman she is today. The simple truth is I made Alice a spy in my own fashion, and moulded her in my ways, she became quite addicted to the job, and more competent that I could ever have imagined. It seems, in many ways, we really were cut from the same cloth.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, people never look up. If Londoners lived in the jungle, they’d all be killed by leopards pouncing out at them from the trees. It might have been hoped that humans would learn by experience, but they seldom ever bloody do. Why, I remember Euphemia telling me the first time she’d seen a man’s head blown off was because the idiot had loaded the wrong size cartridge into his shotgun. If a man is not prepared to properly check something potentially explosive that he’s putting right up next to his face – and triggering it – then just what the hell is he prepared to check? I don’t care how much you bloody well want pheasant for supper, little things – like maintaining the structural integrity of your skull – should always come first.

The unobservant nature of the average British male never fails to surprise! There are places they simply don’t look, which means there are places for people like me to steal through, and hide in. If one chooses to navigate through a dirty alleyway, they can be assured that no self-respecting gentleman will have cause to follow. Traverse the roof-tops after dusk and only the pigeons will notice my progress. What’s more, I’m really rather a handsome fellow but dress me as a footman and – quite astonishingly – no man will pay me the slightest amount of heed.

It’s different with women. We, gentleman, spend so much of our lives cosseting and comforting the dear things, ensuring they’re not subjected to wearisome activities, like fetching their own gloves, that they’ve come to learn that they have lots of free time with which to observe what’s going on around them. We have confined them with corsets, and the silliest shoes, not for the sake of fashion – as they erroneously think – but to hobble them. On top of that, we constrain them with morals and etiquette. They are treated like baubles, nice to look at but with no real function.

But, stationed as they are in restrictive environments, women learn to look, to notice, and to extrapolate. That’s why a lot of the most useful information I’ve come across has been acquired during pillow talk. I like to think of this as a most suitable example of quid pro quo – I satisfy them greatly and they, in turn, do so love to regale me with all manner of stories.

In my job, one of the skills I’ve had to acquire is the ability to assess whether two people genuinely like each other or not. This ranges from simple things, like watching which way someone points their feet when standing in a conversation with someone else, to spotting those occasions when a lady picks a bit of fluff off a gentleman’s jacket. In the first instance, if someone’s feet are pointed away from their interlocutor, it betrays their desire to be elsewhere. In the second instance, it usually means that a sister-in-law is somewhat closer to her brother-in-law than is considered proper.

It’s quite remarkable how predictable people are. It’s like we’ve all been pre-set with certain expressions and gestures that give away our innermost thoughts and feelings. I, of course, being a master of such skills, enjoy sending the most confusing messages to my fellow humans.

Dogs, it transpires, are much the same. Jack has a very different expression – to my eyes at least – when his canine jaws are parted in a happy greeting compared to when he’s slyly contemplating giving a little nip. He loves to nip ladies’ ankles, but being a gentleman’s dog, he never draws blood. However, on more than one occasion, if I haven’t kept an eye on him, there’ll be a sudden unladylike yelp from my female companion, followed by a small white shape shooting out from under her skirts. I really shouldn’t find this funny, but I’m afraid I do. What’s more, the ladies who take it with good grace tend to be the one’s whose company I prefer. It’s clear that there’s no real malice in Jack. He’s a very affectionate beast at heart. Quite noble too. Why, I could record the things he’s done on missions and make a very compelling argument as to why he should be on staff (more so than several of my colleagues).

It all goes to show, observation is key. So if my eye lingers on a lovely lady’s form, I am – you can be assured – merely assessing her credentials and relationship status for the good of the Kingdom. As I’ve stated before, putting one’s duty above all else is a task for which I am eminently suited.

I can’t recall the last time I was so bloody infuriated. It’s just the kind of thing my father would have done. Bloody uptight lot. If only I could get my hands on them…

I’m trying to breathe and calm myself down. It’s too damn hot to get angry, and most of them are likely dead, or octogenarians. Even I would feel bad having a go at a man in a bath chair.

At least I left Euphemia back in Cairo. Poor girl’s not been feeling quite right. Normally she has an iron constitution, but she’s been distinctly queasy the last couple of days. I thought it best she didn’t come with us, that being myself and the chap I found who has a jeep. He actually thought he was going to be the one to drive it, but there was no way I was going to give up the opportunity of driving across the sands. It was enormous fun, and I only rolled us over once. If I’d brought Euphemia, I wouldn’t have been able to let rip in the same way. Still, when I was roaring along underneath the bright full moon, it was rather special. Wished she’d been there to witness it.

I offered to stay with her, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Personally, she wasn’t too bothered about a jaunt out to the temple of Karnak. I’m not saying that she isn’t interested in history, but she’s a touch more focused on the war right now. Not being a linguist, she doesn’t have the same compunction that I do to make use of a rare opportunity to see ancient hieroglyphs.

It’s quite marvellous. Giant statues, pillars reaching up to the heavens, built with a sound knowledge of mathematics, but no machinery! I can see why people worshipped here. It’s nothing short of awe inspiring – and my awe is seldom inspired. What I wouldn’t give to step back in time for half an hour or so to see the original inhabitants doing their thing. Wouldn’t be able to stay much longer, of course – no brandy in ancient Egypt.

But I was angered to find that the bloody Victorians defaced, or snapped off, anything that their prudish little minds found offensive. I mean, it’s a bloody hot country and it’s little wonder the ancient Egyptians wore so little. That and the phallic symbology, which was so instrumental to their religious beliefs. Even so, the sheer nerve of vandalising such an important historical site just makes my blood boil.

Still, I really must put down my diary and get back to Euphemia. I hate been worried about her. To be fair, she rarely gives me cause, but with this sickness of hers, I can’t help myself. Poor thing, it’s at its worst in the mornings.

I’m beginning to think that we should cut short this trip. Egypt clearly doesn’t agree with Euphemia, and the Cairo spymaster turned out to be an utter washout. A  fantasist who never gets his hands dirty. Euphemia doesn’t mind him, but he irks me in a way that I can’t quite put my finger on. I don’t know, how can a man like that get by with such a massive ego? I simply can’t begin to comprehend it.

Alice’s husband damn near mortally offended me today when we were at luncheon at White Orchards. I know he doesn’t like having me around, for reasons too numerous to mention, but he just has to lump it. Either that, or make a stand, and he really isn’t that kind of man. Anyway, he commented, quite derisively I may say, on my many ‘conquests’.

I have never, ever – at least in my personal life – sought the conquest of a woman. I don’t pursue a woman unless I’m under orders to do so, and I’ve never, in all my various amorous encounters, had to resort to using my powers of persuasion to convince a woman to climb into my bed.

Now, obviously, I’m charming, handsome, and witty, and that alone is enough to entice women to me, as a moth to a candle flame. So, quite honestly, I neither have a need, or the desire, to conquer the fairer sex. In fact, the very idea that a woman is something to be conquered is quite repugnant to me. No, the only women I truly wish to encounter between the sheets are the ones as adventurous, as eager, and as consenting as myself.

A love affair should be the result of mutual attraction and willingness. I’m quite prepared to dress well, to flatter, and to present myself in my very best light, but I draw the line at persuading the unwilling. I mean why should I? Leaving aside the obvious ethical concerns, there’s no end of trouble when you go down that route.

There are rare occasions when I’ve been asked to seduce someone, in the interests of the realm, but I’m happy to say that, so far, I’ve not been asked to have a dalliance with a lady who wasn’t already well aware of the game we were playing.

Alice, naturally, is an exception to all of this. She may be part of the game, but her virtue is quite unsullied, and I’ve made it clear to the department that it’s expected to remain that way. She’s a lady, and will be treated as such.

I, however, am something of a scamp, and as long as I break no hearts, I’m more than willing to do whatever is necessary in the service of my country. Alas, such is my devotion to my duty.

You wouldn’t have thought it would work, but it does. The human eye sees what it expects. Those fly-boys have only gone and created some mock airfields, and blow me if the Germans haven’t started bombing them rather than the real thing. If you see them from the ground, they’re nothing more than painted plywood shapes representing the outline of buildings and airplanes. Ah, but when viewed from high up in the air…

I’ve always had a bit of thing about aerial photography. I did think about doing a bit myself, over enemy lines, but I never could quite get the hang of it. Without the proper setup, I’d almost certainly drop the camera out of the bloody plane. Aeroplanes today go so much faster, and you get much less time to visually recognise things on the ground. It’s said to be the main reason why St Paul’s hasn’t had its chips. It’s not by the grace of god it’s been spared, it’s more to do with the enemy bombers using it as a navigation marker. Still, if a little bit of divine propaganda keeps people’s chins up, then who are we to suggest otherwise.

Anyway, the real reason I didn’t go down the aerial photography route was down to the fact that there was no way on earth I was taking Alice up in a plane. Nowadays, there’s no way she would even consider such a thing as she knows what kind of pilot I am (flying by the seat of my pants, like all the flying aces do).

Alice isn’t risk adverse by any means, but she does her best to keep me away from flying. I keep telling her, I’m much more likely to get killed driving one of my cars. The way automobiles have come on since the early days is quite astonishing. It often feels like you’re flying when pelting along the road at breakneck speed. The advantage, of course, is no one’s shooting at you while you’re doing so. Occupational hazard and all that, but it’s nice to get a break from that kind of thing.

I’m hearing fascinating things about these new helicopters. I really rather fancy having a go in one of them. The only question is, how can I get my hands on one without Alice knowing?

One of an agent’s greatest obstacles is bias. By this I mean not that one prefers blondes over brunettes, but rather when one finds themselves set on a certain course, there’s a tendency to want to make evidence fit in accordance with what has already been determined.

For example, thinking that it simply cannot be a husband’s footsteps I hear on the stairs, for the lady in question has assured me that he is away for a further week (in this case, she was mistaken, and I was forced, for the sake of the her reputation, to make a hasty exit via a second storey window).

So, the lesson here is to trust only reliable sources. I’ve always found redheads like myself to be quite trustworthy informants. Still, it’s only through thoroughly engaging with said assets that one can truly assess their merit, so that’s a cross that one simply has to bear.

However, bias can work on many levels. For a while, Alice kept getting mixed up with murders, and dragging me into the investigations. I’m familiar, of course, with assassinations, executions, and just damn bad luck, but murder is another thing altogether. Figuring out which civilian has killed another civilian is generally something I’ll happily leave to the police. It’s frequently dull and tawdry. Money, lust, jealousy, and occasionally reputation, are the main motives that prompt civilians to kill one another. There’s no wider political game, or ramifications, and I’m as keen on solving your average murder as I am getting my teeth drilled, or listening to a parson’s overly long sermon.

However, it was clear that if I was to get through such episodes, I needed to explain to Alice that you mustn’t force one piece of evidence to fit in with the rest. This is an all too common mistake among ordinary people. They invest their pride and reputation in being right, so having honed in what they believe is the guilty suspect, they’ll continue to uncover evidence to back that up, no matter how circumstantial it may be.

This is not something a spy can do. So many lives rest on the decisions we make in the field. We’ve got to keep an open mind. That is to say, it’s always easier to assume that everyone is guilty, traitorous, or whatever, but we must examine new evidence, and equally reexamine old evidence, in the face of whatever information has most recently come to light.

Alice proved to be exceptionally adept at this. I believe I can only think of two occasions on which she became remarkably pig-headed, and that’s quite an achievement for any woman – or any man, for that matter. It was probably her ability to examine matters from all angles that first interested me in her. That, and my interest in examining all her angles, of course.

The world I live in means you have to constantly watch your back. I try to avoid knowing too much about current operations, but the longer I stay in the service, the more knowledge I acquire. It’s very annoying. Of course, one always wants to know what one is doing, but I’m quite happy to let all the other blighters get on with their jobs and just focus on my own.

Becoming a repository of knowledge puts you at risk on a lot of levels. There’s the straightforward capture and torture. I can normally keep myself out of those situations – although, even I’ve been caught in the past. Not that I’ve ever given anything up, you understand. But one round of torture makes a bloke quite keen not to have a second, and you end up watching your back even more after that.

Then there’s the capture of someone one cares about, and they get tortured until you give up whatever it is the enemy’s looking for. It’s one of the main reasons my liaisons are not of the long lasting variety. Still, there’s Alice now, although I rather think anyone who tried to capture and torture her would be in for a bit of a surprise. That and a fair deal of pain. Being my protégée she is, to say the least, exceptionally capable.

However, thinking about this sort of thing can make a man truly paranoid. I’ve seen it happen to chaps in the service before; the jumping at shadows, the suspicion that every stranger is an enemy agent, and the one occasion you forget to sit with your back against the wall is the time that somebody will stick a knife in it. Makes it awful difficult for some of the chaps to attend a large banquet when undercover at a country house weekend. I mean, one can hardly move the furniture around, can one? That’d be damn rude.

My personal take, when in just such a situation, is to perform an assessment of the environment, and who’s present in it. Pick out any obvious candidates to watch and then, apart from knowing where the exits are, go with the flow. I rely on my wits and my sharp reactions to save me from unexpected danger. I don’t take risks. Well, actually I do, but then I’d rather be a bit of a loose cannon than someone who is overly risk averse.

Having a partner helps too. I’m mystified as to why more agents don’t have female partners. There’s so many places you can go undercover posing as a couple and, above all, you can watch each other’s backs. Alice is very good and sensible about these sorts of things and will give a man the benefit of the doubt right up until she has to stab him in the eye with a hat-pin.

So, I’ll carry on keeping a level head and dealing with the enemy whenever and wherever they pop up. Life is for living. One can’t spend it always looking over one’s shoulder and being afraid. You’ve got to square up and look danger in the eye, not shy away from it. Scares the willies out of the enemy too. If you look confident enough, they’ll always assume you know more than you do. And, with my indomitable confidence, charm and guile, it generally makes the ladies swoon, and the enemies flee. Even so, it’s just as well that I’m also light on my feet, because there are times when I find myself having to dodge both husbands as well as adversaries.

Hope once told me that her mother never cried. At the time she was in the midst of some childish tantrum. Of all the adults that figured in her life, I perhaps gave her more leeway, and this was why the storm was visited upon me. Her mother would have told her to get herself under control, and her father would have been all horror, astonishment and worry.

Bertram’s reaction would have immediately made her dry her tears. Hope is a loving, dutiful little thing, and would not wish to cause her father distress. However, Euphemia’s approach would have changed Hope’s tears to anger and she would have stormed away. I, on the other hand, simply accepted the tears. I didn’t try to console her, but merely talked to her calmly and reasonably until the cries had abated somewhat.

Being a passionate man myself, I understood all too well the difficulty of learning to control such an expressive nature, especially when Hope is always surrounded by composed, competent adults. She’s so deprived of playmates that I’ve caught the Staplefords’ extremely respectable butler, Giles, playing bears with her below stairs. It’s an image I’ve held dear to my heart, and the remembrance of which has gained me eternal access to Bertram’s best brandy. There are some things butlers don’t ever want known.

So, when Hope suggested that her mother never cried, I replied that just because Hope had never seen her mother shed tears, it didn’t mean she was incapable of doing so, but rather that she chose not to cry in front of her daughter.

Still, when I come to think of it, I can’t remember ever seeing Euphemia weep. I’ve cried, once or twice, in a most manly way of course, in front of her. Although, I hasten to add, I’ve never done so in front of anyone else. But Euphemia is quite different from everyone else. In some ways it was the greatest pity that I only came to realise she’d make the perfect mate for me when I approached the altar as best man for her husband.

And yet, I failed to protect my first wife, which has always prevented me from even considering taking another. Rose was as beautiful and as dutiful as a wife could be, but she was also far more intelligent, and far more passionate, than her family ever realised. I’d only just begun to waken these most desirable of qualities within her when she was murdered. I was out of the country when it happened, so by the time I’d returned, all traces of her killer had gone.

I’ll feel responsible for her death until my dying day. It was undoubtedly one of my enemies, and I’d wrongly counted on her family, who were, for the most part connected to the intelligence services, to protect her while I was absent. I suspect they considered me of too minor a status to have put her in any real danger. Truth be told, I’d not considered it seriously myself. Although, what I could’ve done differently, I’ve no idea. Anyone associated with me was known to be at risk, but the idea of teaching poor Rose to defend herself never occurred to anyone, including me. She may have been a clever woman, but she was exceptionally feminine in attitude, and I don’t think anyone could ever have convinced her to do something so crass as to throw a punch.

Euphemia, being my colleague, rather than my wife, has learnt to throw a mean punch, using the force of body dynamics rather than simply her own strength. She’s a formidable fighter, and has taken a lot from Ju-jitsu (those suffragettes knew what they were about). No one will murder Euphemia while my back is turned. It’s far more likely she’ll end up being my avenging angel when one of my enemies eventually takes their final revenge.

But, sometimes, I wonder if I’ve caused her to wrap a cold shield about herself. I know she’s a woman capable of many passions, and that her love for her daughter has no bounds. Yet, with my training, she can all too often present herself as a perfectly calm and reserved person, while keeping all her emotions suppressed beneath the surface. I know this, not only because I’ve seen behind her façade, but because it’s what I must do everyday myself.

Religion is not a subject to be spoken about when one is enjoying oneself. Or, at least, that’s the impression one has. Don’t mention religion, or politics, during dinner, one is taught as a child. Never ask people their religions inclinations or political affiliations, whether that be upon initial meeting or developing acquaintance, lest it create a gulf in an otherwise constructive relationship.

Yet, we are a religious country. Our sovereign is the head of our church. Almost everybody goes to church on a Sunday. Even the servants get time off to do so. We are all assumed to be Christians, and even the poorest among us stump up for christening cake for their offspring, following the necessary dunking in the local font.

The splashing of water on the infant’s head is meant to drive out the devil, I believe, and the cry the suddenly moistened child is a sign that he has departed. More than one person has suggested that at my own christening, the ministering priest was deficient in his vocation.

Personally, I’m not much of an interlocutor with the almighty. My duty frequently requires me to break some, if not all, of the commandments. Do not kill is the obvious one, and my temperament encourages me to break some of the others (I’m thinking, in particular, of that one about not coveting thy neighbour’s wife, and where that can, and in my case often does, lead).

Does this mean I’m beyond salvation? Possibly. Probably. But what does it say of the people who order me to do such things? (Not the adultery, of course. Well, not usually that). I work for the Crown, via many intermediaries. As I have already stated, the Crown is also the head of our church, and yes, though you may dislike the comparison, the Crown is our version of the Catholic’s Pope. Obviously, I’m not one to question the sovereign’s state of grace, but you get the implication.

All those Sunday church goers, and all those partners of mine in commandment breaking, what about them? I don’t doubt there some truly good and devout people, though not necessarily in the clergy. The most devote oenophile I have ever known was a bishop. But then, vocation to join the clergy used to come down to no more than one being a third son (the first inherits the estate, the second goes into the army, and the third is sacrificed to the church – so to speak – and as I was a fourth son, no one had any idea of what to do with me).

Cynically, I have come to take the view that the majority of the British population are religious on Sundays, between the hours of ten in the morning up until to the serving of the Sunday roast. The rest of the time, religion takes a back-seat to the wanton group of profligates /that passes for society.

In fact, as I make no claims of being good, nor will I ever, when it comes to hypocrisy, one really could say that I’m the best of a bad lot. Ha!

There are some days when all I want to do is sit reading by the fire, with my dog snoring at my feet. Despite this, I’ll find myself at some society party, where I’m required to be charming, witty and entertaining, all the while growling inside like a dog deprived of its bone.

It might seem to some that spending one’s time among the elite, ferreting out enemies of the state, the gullibly indiscreet, and those who are in a position to be ‘helpful’, would be an easy task. After all, I belong to the best clubs, I patronise the right tailors, I wear the best cologne, and I’m always groomed in a perfectly distinguished, yet unremarkable, way. I’m fortunate enough to be a naturally handsome chap, but even so, the elegant appearance I must casually present takes a great deal of work. What’s more, when at these elite social events, I’m not allowed to do as I please. I cannot partake of any refreshments that might dull my senses, so I’m forced to pass on the best of wines, or worse still, pour the contents of my untouched glass into the nearest flower pot. I cannot even overly partake of the vittles on offer, lest they slow my body and mind. I must, at every moment, be alert to not only threats and rumours, but also opportunities. It is wearing on a man.

The so-called elite classes, the ones with power – be that through influence, position or base finance – are mostly of a dullness that is quite remarkable. I, therefore, do not have to play the fool among them, the jester who humorously entertains while rooting out all sorts of information. No, while some of my colleagues may have chosen such a guise, I refuse to do so. If I have to spend time spying on such dullards, I entertain myself by being an engaging man of mystery, and making ugly fellows shuffle protectively towards their wives.

Yet, still there are occasions when I know that my wit and insight fall on the deafest of ears, and are barely comprehended by the shallowest of minds. That such ‘chumps’ are often the people who orchestrate the inner workings of our nation appalls me and makes me wonder how we remain the greatest empire on earth. The truth, no doubt, lies with fellows like myself, and my peers, who work tirelessly behind the scenes to keep the show on the road. Never mind the politicians, who usually get all the accolades, without my kind, it would all end in disaster.

I do take pleasure in playing the game, in manipulating people and dispensing disinformation where required. There’s something satisfying about winding up these imbeciles – like clockwork toys – and sending them off to do my bidding, unbeknownst to them, of course. I admit, it gives one a certain sense of power. I suppose it’s fortunate that I ended up on the side of the angels as I could’ve been quite a malign influence otherwise.

However, it’s a lonely task. When one’s intellect is of a magnitude above one’s associates, it can be isolating. However, even the social elite includes ladies, and it’s here that one can find minds with which to engage in discourse. I constantly thank providence that the female of the species are so much more interesting than the male. When someone such as myself enters the lives of these pretty, quick-witted young ladies, who’ve been paraded about by their mothers for the prospect of having the marriage of the season, they’re all too ready to enjoy a little intellectual – and perhaps even physical – intercourse with myself.

So, thank goodness for them, I say! Without the ladies, this particular part of my profession would be unbearably tedious. So tedious, in fact, I fear that without their tender attentions, I’d be tempted into doing some very bad things indeed.

It’s always embarrassing when you kill the wrong chap. Not done it myself, but although we don’t like to talk about, it does occur. The thing is, when you’ve been travelling for a few weeks, maybe even had to live off the land for a while to get you into the best position (and that means going without those creature comforts that make a man a man, like hot shaving water), one can get a bit tired. It might have been a while since your stomach has seen three square meals a day, and that can have an affect on memory.

So, you’re looking down the sight of your rifle, and you’ve got a chap coming out of a door - just as expected – only, it turns out there’s a gaggle of them. A group of men who’ve been down the local watering hole together. All of them are on the bloated side, generally going to seed, and a bit dishevelled. A pack of politicians who probably went to school together, belong to the same clubs, and use the same tailor - doesn’t matter the country, it’s the same everywhere. Anyway, you’re looking down the barrel of your gun and you end up thinking, I’ve got a one in five chance of taking out the right target, I should go for it. After all, you’ve expended a lot of effort to get here.

This is, of course, when things like jug ears become important.

If you’re on an assassination mission, not that I would do that kind of thing, or at least I wouldn’t own to it if I did, then you can’t very well carry a picture of the fellow you’re about to help in shuffling off this mortal coil. If you get caught with something like that, the show’s over. However, trying to carry a clear and perfect picture of the target in your mind, all the while enduring the many difficulties of a mission, is hard.

What I advise is to only agree to take on missions to assassinate people who have distinctive features. That might be a particularly pronounced chin, overly large ears, a gargantuan nose,  a distinguishing facial scar or even a monobrow. These are sort of things that can be more easily committed to memory and used to accurately identify a target, even at a significant distance.

God, as they say, is in the details.