"I gather that the lady in question is one of your agents," Rafe said. "What kind of trouble is she causing?"

Lucien hesitated, considering the best place to start. "I assume that you've been following the peace conference in Paris."

"Yes, though not closely. Weren't most of the issues settled at the Congress in Vienna?"

"Yes and no. A year ago the Allies were willing to blame the wars on Napoleon's ambition, so the Vienna settlement was fairly moderate." Lucien pulled the cigar from his mouth and eyed its glowing tip with disfavor. "Everything would have been fine if Napoleon had stayed in exile, but his return to France and the battle at Waterloo put the cat among the diplomatic pigeons. Because a large part of the French population supported the emperor, most of the Allies are now out for blood. France will be treated far more harshly than she was before Napoleon's Hundred Days."

"That's common knowledge." Rafe flicked the ash from his cigar. "Where do I come in?"

"There's a tremendous undercover struggle for influence in these months until the new treaties are settled," Lucien said. "It wouldn't take much to upset the negotiations, perhaps to the point of war. Information is critical. Unfortunately, my agent, Maggie, whose work has been invaluable, wants to retire and leave Paris as soon as possible, before the conference is finished."

"Offer her more money."

"We have. She's not interested. I hope that you can persuade her to change her mind and stay at least until the conference is over."

"Ah, we're back to kissing," Rafe said with an amused gleam in his eyes. "I gather that you want me to sacrifice my honor on the altar of British interests."

Lucien said dryly, "I'm sure that you have other means of persuasion. You are a duke, after all-she may be flattered that we're sending you to France to talk to her. Or perhaps you can appeal to her patriotism."

Rafe's brow furrowed. "While I'm flattered at your opinion of my charm, wouldn't it be simpler to have one of your diplomatic people who is already in Paris deal with the woman?"

"Unfortunately, there is reason to believe that a member of the delegation is… unreliable. Secret information has been getting out of the British embassy, and it has caused problems." Lucien scowled. "Maybe I'm seeing shadows where none exist and there is no traitor, merely carelessness. But this business is too vital to risk working through unsafe channels."

"I'm getting the sense that you're worried about something more than the normal diplomatic wrangling," Rafe said.

"Am I that obvious?" Lucien said wryly. "You're quite right-I've been getting disturbing reports that suggest a plot to disrupt the peace negotiations, possibly end them altogether."

Rafe rolled his cigar between his thumb and forefinger as he tried to think of a single deed so disruptive that the Allies would be thrown into chaos. "Is it an assassination plot? All the Allied sovereigns except the British Prince Regent are in Paris, along with Europe's leading diplomats. Killing any of them could be disastrous."

Lucien exhaled a smoke ring that formed an improbable halo above his blond head. "Exactly. I hope to God that I'm wrong, but my sixth sense says that serious trouble is brewing."

"Who is the assassin, and who is the target?"

"If I knew that, I wouldn't need to be talking to you tow," Lucien said gloomily. "I've only heard hints, gleaned from half a dozen sources. There are too many hostile factions, and too many possible targets. That's why information is so critical."

Nicholas said, "I heard that there was an assassination attempt on Wellington in Paris last winter. Could he be the target this time?"

"That's one of my worst fears," Lucien said. "After his victory at Waterloo, he is the most honored man in Europe. If he were to be assassinated, God only knows what would happen."

Somberly Rafe considered his friend's words. "Which is why you want me to convince your lady spy to keep sending you information until the plot is uncovered, or the conference ends."

"Precisely."

"Tell me about her. Is she French?"

Lucien made a face. "The plot thickens. I met Maggie through someone else and I know almost nothing about her background, but I've always thought she was British. Certainly she speaks and looks like an Englishwoman. I never probed further, because what mattered was that she hated Napoleon and looked on her work as a personal crusade. Her information was always good, and she never gave me a reason to distrust her."

Hearing the unspoken reservation, Rafe said, "But something has happened that makes you question her reliability."

"I still have trouble believing that Maggie would betray us, but I don't know if I can trust my own judgment. She can convince a man of anything, which is one reason she is so effective." Lucien frowned. "The situation is too grave to take anything for granted, including her loyalty. Now that Napoleon is on his way to St. Helena, she may be feathering her nest by selling British secrets to the other Allies. Perhaps she's in a hurry to leave Paris because she's earned a fortune through double- or triple-dealing and wants to escape before she is caught."

"Is there any evidence that she's disloyal?"

"As I said, I always assumed Maggie was an Englishwoman." Lucien glanced at Nicholas. "You knew Maggie as Maria Bergen. Recently you wrote me a letter, and rather than mention her by name, you discreetly referred to her as 'the Austrian woman you had worked with in Paris.'"

Nicholas straightened in his chair, expression startled. "You mean that Maria is actually English? I find that hard to believe. Not only was her German flawless, but her gestures, her mannerisms, were Austrian."

"It gets worse," Lucien said with reluctant amusement. "I became curious, and made inquiries of other men who had known her at earlier stages of her career. The French royalist knows that she is French, the Prussian says that she is a Berliner, and the Italian is willing to swear on his sainted mother's grave that she is from Florence."

Rafe couldn't help laughing. "So you are no longer sure where the lady's loyalties lie, if indeed she can be called a lady."

"She's a lady, no doubt about that," Lucien snapped. "But whose lady is she?"

Rafe was surprised by the vehement reaction, for Lucien was not sentimental where his work was concerned. Mildly Rafe said, "What should I do if I find that she has been betraying the British-assassinate her?"

Lucien gave Rafe a hard glance, not sure if the remark had been a jest. "As I said earlier, it's not a killing matter. If she's untrustworthy, simply inform foreign Minister Castlereagh so that he won't rely on what she says. He may want to use her to feed false information to her other masters."

"Let me see if I have this straight," Rafe said. "You want me to seek the lady out and persuade her to use her skills to uncover any assassination plots that might be afoot. In addition, I must ascertain where her loyalties lie, and if there are grounds for suspicion, I warn the head of the British delegation not to rely on her work. Correct?"

"Precisely. But you'll have to move quickly. The negotiations won't last much longer, so any conspirators will have to strike soon." Lucien glanced at Nicholas, who had been listening in silence. "Based on your dealings with Maggie in her Maria Bergen disguise, do you have anything to suggest?"

"Well, she's undoubtedly the most beautiful spy in Europe." Nicholas went on to contribute his evaluation of the woman, but the ensuing discussion resolved nothing.

Finally Rafe said, "The information we have is nothing if not contradictory. Obviously your Maggie is a superb actress. I'll have to play the situation by ear and hope that she proves susceptible to my famous charm."

As they all got to their feet, Lucien asked Rafe, "How soon will you be able to leave?"

"Day after tomorrow. The most beautiful spy in Europe? The prospect sounds quite stimulating." There was a gleam in Rafe's eye as he stubbed out his cigar. "I promise that I shall do my utmost for king and country."

They all returned to the party and mingled with the other guests. After he had done enough socializing to seem normal, Rafe was impatient to get away, but it occurred to him that he had forgotten to ask what the so-beautiful Maggie looked like. Since Lucien had disappeared, Rafe went in search of Nicholas.

Seeing his friend step into a curtained alcove, Rafe followed. Yet when he pushed aside the curtain, he halted, one hand clenching the edge of the drapery.

In the shadowy alcove, Nicholas and his wife Clare were in each other's arms. Not kissing; if that had been the case, Rafe would have smiled and left without a second thought. But the sight that met his eyes was simpler, yet more disturbing.

Clare and Nicholas were resting against each other, eyes closed, his arms circling her waist, her forehead against his cheek. It was a tableau of perfect trust and understanding, and far more intimate than the most passionate embrace.

Since his presence had not been noticed, Rafe silently withdrew, his face tight.

It wasn't good to be too envious of one's friends.

After a day of frenzied preparation, the Duke of Candover was ready to leave England. He would be traveling fast, taking only one carriage, his valet, and a wardrobe that would do justice to his rank in the most fashionable capital in Europe.

As the clock struck midnight, he sat down in his study with a glass of brandy and leafed through the day's correspondence to see if there was anything urgent. Near the bottom of the pile was a note from Lady Jocelyn Kendal. Or rather, Lady Presteyne; since she was now very married, he must stop using her maiden name. In the note she thanked Rafe for his good advice in sending her back to her husband, extolled the joys of a happy marriage, and urged him to try it himself.

He smiled a little, glad to hear that matters had worked out. Underneath her beauty, famous name, and extravagant fortune, Jocelyn was also a very nice girl.If she and Lord Presteyne were both raving romantics,perhaps they would stay happy indefinitely, though Rafe had his doubts. He raised his glass in a solitary toast to her and her fortunate husband and drained the brandy, then smashed the glass into the fireplace.

The toast came from the heart, yet his smile went wry as he contemplated the shattered results of his uncharacteristic gesture. A man known for savoir faire would have been wiser to refrain. All he had to show for the moment was one less crystal goblet and a nagging sense of loss.

He poured another glass of brandy, then settled back in the wing chair and surveyed his library with a jaundiced eye. It was a beautifully proportioned room, a symphony of Italianate richness. In all of Rafe's vast holdings, there was no spot he enjoyed as much. That being the case, why the devil did he feel so depressed?

Wearily he recognized that the only way to cure his morbid mood was by giving in to it. Jocelyn wasn't the issue; if he had wanted the girl that much, he could have married her.

What disturbed Rafe was the way she had reminded him of Margot-beautiful, betraying Margot, dead these last dozen years. There was little physical resemblance, but both women had had a bright, laughing spirit that was irresistible. Whenever he had been with Jocelyn, he had found himself remembering Margot. She had moved him as no other woman ever had-and since he could never be that young again, no other woman ever would.

As he sipped his brandy, he tried to think objectively about Margot Ashton, but it was impossible to be rational about his first love. First and last, actually; the experience had cured him forever of romantic illusions. But at the time, the illusion had seemed very real.

Margot was not the most beautiful woman he had ever known, and certainly not the wealthiest or best-born. But she had had warmth and charm in lavish abundance, and she had sparkled with matchless vitality.

Bittersweet images flooded his mind. The first time he saw her; the first hesitant, miraculous kiss; lengthy sessions over a chessboard, when the formal moves had masked a deeper, more passionate game; the interview with a gently amused Colonel Ashton when Rafe haltingly had asked for her hand.

Most vivid of all was a morning when they had met in Hyde Park for a dawn ride. A light rain had been falling as he trotted through the quiet Mayfair streets, but the sky cleared as he entered the park. Ahead of him, arching through the dawn-bright air, had been an intensely colored rainbow. As he admired it, Margot had emerged from the mist at the foot of the rainbow, riding a silvery gray mare like a fairy queen from legend.