From Fitzroy’s Private Diary (EXTRACT 1)

Damn it all, Euphemia has only gone and dug out another of her notebooks. What part of secret agent doesn’t she understand? When I challenge her, she mutters about someday Hope needing to read it, and the British people deserving to know what we do in their name. Which, of course, sets me off shouting about why the British people can’t know what we do for the Crown and the preservation of the State. This gives her the opportunity to remind me that I promised never to swear at her. (I always swear when I’m shouting. It’s a great stress reliever, and far more comfortable than punching walls – or people for that matter. Not that I would ever hit a woman.)

She plays me like a bloody piano, damn her. That’s what comes of working too closely with people – they grow to understand you. I’m not comfortable with that. I prefer to be an enigma, or at the very least, greatly misunderstood.

Anyway, she’s off writing up her notes somewhere. I dare say I will come off in a terrible light. I often do. When I ask her about it, she says she is only writing up what she remembers, and has she hurt my vanity? A less vain person than I you could not hope to meet.

Apparently, this one is her recollections of how she came to join the service. I could weep.

I’ve never been able to stop Euphemia from doing what she wants. This despite her still being technically under my command. Ha! Might as well try to command the Earth to stop spinning. I don’t want Hope to read it. Dear God, I hope Bertram never finds it.

I need a whisky. My head is beating like a drum. Maybe it’s not too late to find something to distract her. There must be a mission somewhere that needs our urgent attention. I’ll make the damn thing up if I must…