They left the ballroom and went up a stairway to a door-lined corridor. Stopping outside the last door, Anderson said, "The countess is waiting for you, your grace."

"Do you know the lady?"

"I have met her."

"What is she like?"

Anderson hesitated, then shook his head. "I'll let you discover that for yourself." Opening the door, he said formally, "Your grace, may I present Magda, the Countess Janos." After a respectful bow, he left.

A single branch of candles cast a soft glow over the small, richly furnished room. Rafe's gaze went immediately to the shadowed figure standing by the window. Even though her back was turned to him, he would have known that she was beautiful by the confidence in her graceful carriage.

As he closed the door, she turned to face him with a slow, provocative movement that caused the candlelight to slide tantalizingly over the curves of her lush figure. A feathered fan concealed most of her face, and one wheat gold curl fell charmingly over her shoulder. She radiated sensuality, and Rafe understood why Lucien had said that she could cloud a man's judgment. As his body tightened in involuntary response, he had to admire how well she understood the power of suggestion.

Less subtly, her decolletage was low enough to rivet the attention of any man not yet dead. If Rafe was required to sacrifice his honor in his attempts to persuade the lady, he would do so with great pleasure. "Countess Janos, I'm the Duke of Candover. A mutual friend asked me to speak with you on a matter of some importance."

Her eyes watched mockingly above the fan. "Indeed?" she purred, her words spiced by a Magyar accent. "Perhaps it is of importance to you and Lord Strathmore, Monsieur le Duc, but not to me." Slowly she lowered the fan, revealing high cheekbones, then a small, straight nose. She had creamy rose-petal skin, a wide, sensual mouth____________________

Rafe's inventory stopped, and his heart began hammering with stunned disbelief. It was said that everyone had a double somewhere in the world, and apparently he had just met Margot Ashton's.

Struggling to control his shock, he tried to compare the countess to his memories. This woman appeared to be about twenty-five years old; Margot would be thirty-one, but she might look younger than her age.

Surely the countess was taller than Margot, who had been only a little above average height? But Margot's bearing and vitality had made her appear taller than she actually was. It had been a surprise how far he had had to bend over the first time he kissed her…

Sharply he retreated from his chaotic emotions and forced himself to continue his analysis. This woman's eyes seemed to be green, and she had an exotic, foreign look. But she was wearing a green gown, and Margot's eyes had been changeable, shifting from gray to green to hazel with her mood and costume.

The resemblance was uncanny, and there were no differences that could not be ascribed to time or faulty memory. He had the wild thought that this might be Margot herself. Though she had been reported dead, perhaps a mistake had been made; news was often mangled as it traveled. If Margot had been living on the Continent all these years, she might no longer have the air of an Englishwoman.

Yet the countess's behavior implied that they were strangers. If she was Margot, she must surely recognize him, for he looked much the same. If so, he couldn't believe that she wouldn't acknowledge him, if only with a curse.

Instead, she stood with a faint, amused smile during Rafe's lengthy inspection. The silence had gone on too long, and as the supplicant, it was up to him to make the next move.

He fell back on The Duke, who was never at a loss for words. With a deep bow, he said, "My apologies, Countess. I was told that you were the most beautiful spy in Europe, but even so, the description did you less than justice."

She gave a rich, intimate laugh. Margot's laugh. "You speak very prettily, your grace. I have heard of you also."

"Nothing to my discredit, I hope." Rafe decided that it was time to use his vaunted charm. Stepping toward the countess, he smiled and said, "You know why I am here, and it is a serious business. Let us not stand on formality. I would prefer that you use my given name."

"Which is?"

If she was Margot and this was an act, she was performing it superbly well. His smile showing signs of strain, he lifted her hand and kissed it. "Rafael Whitbourne. My friends usually call me Rafe."

She snatched her hand back as if he had bitten it. "Surely a rake should not have been named for an archangel."

At her words, Rafe's doubt vanished. "My God, it is you, Margot," he said in a wondering voice. "You are the only one who ever dared mention my lack of similarity to archangels. It was a good quip; I've used it myself many times. But how the devil did you come to be here?"

She gave a languid flutter of her fan. "Who is this Margot, your grace? Some vapid little English girl who resembles me?"

Her denial triggered a surge of the greatest anger Rafe had known in years. He could think of only one sure way to determine the identity of the woman in front of him. With a swift movement, he closed the distance between them, drew her hard against him, and kissed her mocking mouth.

It was Margot; he knew it in his bones. Not only because of the way her body curved into his, or the familiar softness of her lips, but because of a unique, elusive essence that was unmistakably hers.

Even without that recognition he would have known, because he had never met another woman whose touch produced such a blaze of desire. As passion burned through him, he forgot why he was in Paris, forgot the reason for this embrace, forgot everything but the miracle in his arms.

Margot shivered, and for an intoxicating instant she yielded, her body pliant and her mouth opening under his. The years seemed to fall away. Margot was alive, and all was right with the world for the first time in a dozen years…

The moment was over almost before it began. She tried to pull away, but he held her tight a little longer while he explored her mouth and marveled at how little she had changed in this particular way.

When she shoved violently against his chest, he reluctantly released her. She stepped back, her eyes blazing with such rage he thought she might strike him. To himself he acknowledged that she had the right to be angry, and he would have made no effort to avoid a blow.

Instead, in a mercurial change of mood, she laughed with genuine amusement. In her natural English accent she said, "I had you guessing, didn't I?"

"You certainly did." Glad to see a flash of the old Margot, Rafe studied her face, still not quite believing she was real. Why the devil hadn't Lucien told him who the spy was? Then he remembered that none of the other Fallen Angels had met Margot. Not knowing Maggie's real name or background, Lucien had no reason to make a connection between her and Rafe. Trying to sound collected, Rafe said, "Please forgive the impertinence, but it seemed the best way to establish your identity."

"Forgiveness is not my policy," she said flippantly, donning her worldly mask again. It was not an improvement.

She went to the sideboard where glasses arid an open bottle of Bordeaux stood. After pouring two glasses of vine, she handed one to Rafe. "Our kind hosts have provided everything a misbehaving couple might want. A pity to waste it all. Pray be seated." She sat in one f the solitary chairs, pointedly ignoring the velvet sofa.

As he settled in the other chair, she said, "Why should I have been hard to identify? I am said to be well preserved for woman of my advanced years."

" 'Age cannot wither her…'?" He smiled faintly as he quoted the line. "That in itself is a cause of confusion-you scarcely look older now than at eighteen. But the real reason I had trouble deciding if you were Margot Ashton was that you were supposed to be dead."

"I am no longer Margot Ashton," she said, her tone edged, "but neither am I dead. What made you think I was?"

Even now that he knew she was alive, he needed to school his expression before he spoke. "You and your father were in France when the Peace of Amiens ended. It was reported that you were both killed by a French rabble on their way to offer their arms to Napoleon."

Her smoky eyes narrowed with an expression he couldn't interpret. "The news of that reached England?"

"Yes, and it caused quite an uproar. The public was outraged that a distinguished army officer and his beautiful young daughter were murdered simply for being British. However, since we were already at war with the French, no special diplomatic sanctions were possible." He studied her face as he drank his wine. "How much of the story is true?"

"Enough," she said tersely. Setting down her glass, she got to her feet. "You are here to try to persuade me to continue my services to England. You will appeal to my patriotism, then you will offer me a substantial amount of money. I will reject both. Since the outcome is already determined, I see no reason to waste my time listening to you. Good night, and good-bye. I hope you enjoy your stay in Paris."

She started toward the door, but stopped when Rafe raised his hand. "Please, wait a moment."

Now that he knew that "Maggie" was Margot, part of his job was done. She was certainly English, not French, Prussian, Italian, Hungarian, or any other role she chose to play.

Beyond that, he flatly refused to believe that she would ever betray her country. If British state secrets were being sold, it was not by her. But he was uncertain how to proceed. Given the resentment Margot obviously felt for him, Lucien could not have made a worse choice of envoy. "Will you give me ten minutes?" he asked. "I may surprise you with something you don't expect, Margot."

For a moment, the issue waved in the balance. Then she shrugged and took her seat again. "I doubt it, but go ahead. And kindly remember that I am not Margot. I am Maggie."

"What is the difference between the two?"

Her eyes narrowed again. "None of your bloody business, your grace. Please say your piece so that I may leave."

Though it was hard to continue in the face of such hostility, he had to try. "Why must you leave Paris at this particular moment? The new treaty will be negotiated and signed before the end of the year. It may be only a few more weeks."

She made a dismissive gesture. "That argument was used on me at Boney's first abdication. The Congress of Vienna was supposed to be over in six or eight weeks, and lasted nine months instead. Before it was finished, Napoleon had returned and once more my services were indispensable."

She lifted her wineglass and sipped. "I am tired of postponing my life," she said with a trace of weariness. "Bonaparte is on his way to St. Helena to preach his destiny to the sea gulls, and it is time for me to take care of some long overdue business."

Sensing that her mood had changed, he risked asking another personal question. "What kind of business?"

She stared down at her glass, swirling the wine. "I will go first to Gascony."

Rafe felt a prickle at the base of his neck as he guessed what she had in mind. "Why?"

She looked up at him, her face expressionless. "To find my father's body and take it back to England. It has been twelve years. It will take time to find where they buried him."

Though he had guessed correctly, he took no pleasure in it. The wine tasted bitter on his tongue, for he must speak of something he would have preferred to keep private. "There is no need to go to Gascony. You won't find your father there."

Her brows drew together. "What do you mean?"

"I happened to be in Paris when news of your deaths arrived, so I went to the village in Gascony where the murders had taken place. I was told that two fresh graves belonged to 'les deux Anglais,' and assumed that you and your father were buried there. I arranged to have the bodies returned to England. They are in the family plot on your uncle's estate."

The worldly veneer dissolved and she bent over, burying her face in her hands. Rafe wished he could comfort her, but knew that there was nothing she would accept from him.

He had envied the friendly, loving relationship between Margot and her father, so different from the distant politeness between Rafe and his own sire. Colonel Ashton had been an affable, direct soldier, less interested in seeing his daughter a duchess than in seeing her happy. His death at the hands of a mob would have devastated her.