"I'm sorry," she said apologetically. "It comes from being in Paris, you know. People are so much more demonstrative here. I'm afraid it is contagious."

"Is that your excuse?" her husband asked nastily.

Rafe felt the tension as the two glared at each other. Knowing that he absolutely must escape before they started a public scene of the sort he most detested, he made the barest of farewells, then slid away into the crowd. This time he made sure that no one could catch his eye.

Outside in the warm night air, he gave a sigh of relief. Since it was still early, he decided to dismiss his carriage and walk back to his hotel. It would be interesting to see what Napoleon had done to the city. More important, he needed time to get his disordered thoughts under control.

First Margot-it was still hard to think of her as Maggie-whose very presence was a disruption and a reminder of things best forgotten. And as if that wasn't enough, the Northwoods. The evening might have been designed by the devil in a farcical mood.

But it was hard to be amused by a farce that made him feel as if he had been kicked in the stomach. As he walked unseeing toward the Tuileries, events came back to him with the clarity of yesterday rather than thirteen years before.

He had loved Margot Ashton with uncritical adoration, awed and humble that a girl who could have her choice of London's most eligible men had chosen him. They had behaved discreetly in public since their engagement had been unannounced, but he had spent every possible moment with her. She had seemed as happy in his company as he was in hers.

Then had come that fatal bachelor party in June. He could remember the name of every young man in the group that night, could recall with excruciating accuracy how Oliver Northwood had drunkenly described relieving a girl of her unwanted virginity in the garden during a ball some days earlier. Rafe had scarcely paid attention, until the end, when Northwood had let slip the girl's name: Margot Ashton.

Most of the young men were admirers of Margot, and after a stunned moment, one of them had shushed Northwood, saying that it was ungentlemanly to speak so of a young lady. But the damage had already been done.

No one present knew of the engagement, so they thought nothing of it when Rafe excused himself a few minutes later. The green tinge of his face was attributed to the quantity of claret he had drunk, and he was forgotten as soon as he left the room.

Outside, Rafe had made it no farther than the street when he fell to his knees and began retching. Feeling as if his very guts would spew out, he thought of Margot's body under that drunken sot, her full lips kissing his, her long legs entwined…

The vision had burned on his brain with nauseating clarity. He had no idea how long it was before someone said, "You all right, lad? I'll call a chair for you." The Samaritan helped him to his feet, but Rafe had refused further aid, heading blindly down the street as if he could outrun his imagination.

He had spent the rest of the night walking the streets of London, heedless of his direction. More than once lurkers in the shadows considered the richness of his attire, balanced it against the expression on his face, and decided to let him continue unmolested on his journey. The young gentleman might be worth a pretty penny, but his dead gray eyes threatened disaster to any thief foolish enough to try to collect it.

Inevitably, he had ended up at Margot's house early the next morning, just before she left for her dawn ride. They had not planned to meet, but he had joined her unannounced before.

She had greeted him with delight despite his disheveled evening attire. An emerald-colored veil had floated over her wheat gold hair as she danced across the salon for a welcoming kiss, her changeable eyes green in the early morning, her laughing face brimming with life.

Rafe had pulled violently away, unable to bear her touch. Then he told her what he had learned, heaping abuse on her golden head. He knew her passionate nature, and only his idealistic desire to bring her a virgin to the marriage bed had prevented him from taking what she had so casually given to another man.

How many others had there been? She was much sought after; had he been the only one too foolish to sample her luscious flesh? Had she accepted his offer among so many only because he was heir to a dukedom? On those early morning rides, could he have mounted her as well as his stallion if he had had the temerity to ask?

Margot made no attempt to deny it. Had she offered the feeblest of defenses, he would have grasped it with craven gratitude. If she had wept and begged his forgiveness, he would have granted it, even knowing that he would never be able to trust her again.

He would have beggared himself of his whole life's pride if she had given him the barest reason to do so.

She had merely listened, her creamy complexion turning dead white. She did not even ask the name of the man who had revealed her wantonness-perhaps there were so many men that it didn't matter. Instead, she had said calmly that it was fortunate that they had discovered each other's true natures before it was too late.

Her reaction had been a death knell, for Rafe had been unable to suppress a desperate hope that the story was untrue. In that instant, something in him had withered and died.

Though they were not officially engaged, he had given her a Whitbourne heirloom ring, which she wore on a chain around her neck. When she finished speaking, she pulled it from between her breasts, breaking the gold links in her eagerness to be free. Then she had hurled the ring to the floor at Rafe's feet with such force that the large opal cracked.

Murmuring that she did not wish to keep her horse standing any longer in the cool air, she had walked out with her head held high, no emotion visible. He had never seen her again. Within days, she and her father had taken advantage of the newly negotiated Peace of Amiens and left for the Continent.

As the months passed, Rafe's fury and sense of betrayal were gradually overcome by his longing for Margot. He found himself waiting with hope and pain for the Ashtons to return to England. After almost a year of agonizing, he had gone to France, determined to find her again. If he had succeeded, he would have begged her to marry him.

Then in Paris the news had come that it was forever too late. The only thing he could do to make amends was bringing the bodies of her and her father back to England.

As time passed, Rafe had convinced himself that it was fortunate that she had died before he could abase himself to her. The thought of being married to a woman before whom he was so helpless was not a pleasant one.

The Seasons and the Beauties had come and gone since then, and few remembered the glorious Margot Ashton who had been so briefly the toast of London. Rafe had learned to take his pleasures from the skilled and willing married women of his set, kissing lightly and letting go gracefully. Not for him the tawdry problems of getting birds of paradise out of the lovenest when they were loath to go; he saw no reason for a man to pay for a mistress when there were so many volunteers available for the price of a few compliments and an occasional bauble.

Rafe had taken particular pleasure in cuckolding Oliver Northwood. Cynthia Browne had been a pretty, happy girl, the daughter of a prosperous country squire. It had been considered an excellent match for her to marry the younger son of a lord. Oliver had been attractive in a bluff, blond way, and she had not realized the kind of man she was getting.

After learning of her husband's gambling, drunkenness, and whoring, she had bitterly decided to play the same game. Though she was not promiscuous by nature, she had started taking lovers of her own. It was tragic, really; with a loving husband she would have been a devoted wife and mother. Instead, she gave herself to any man who wanted her.

Rafe had been quite willing to oblige. Not only was Cynthia attractive, but the affair fulfilled an ignoble desire for revenge. Though Northwood would never know how his indiscretion had shattered Rafe's life, there was still satisfaction in paying the man back by bedding Northwood's wife.

The affair had not lasted long, for Cynthia's desperation had made Rafe uncomfortable. He had disengaged himself gracefully, as he was so skilled at doing. In the years since, he had sometimes seen Cynthia socially, and been pleased to see her regain her equilibrium, no longer holding herself cheaply.

There had been recent rumors linking her with a soldier, perhaps the major she had been talking with at the ball. Rafe wondered if she really loved the man, or if she was using him as still another weapon in her war with her husband.

Her tactics seemed to be working. Oliver Northwood was apparently the sort of man who would chase anything in skirts, but was enraged when his wife claimed the same freedom to amuse herself. One of them would probably end up murdering the other.

As he went up the steps to his hotel, Rafe swore that he would not let himself get caught in their crossfire. Paris promised to be unpleasant enough without that.

Chapter 4

Even before her eyes opened the next morning, Maggie remembered her encounter with Rafe Whitbourne, and shuddered. Impossible man! Usually she admired calm English control, but the same trait infuriated her in Rafe. Whatever warmth and spontaneity he had had as a young man had obviously dissipated over time.

She lay still in bed, listening to the sounds of early morning-the creak of a cart, occasional footsteps, the cry of a distant rooster. Ordinarily she rose at this hour, had a cup of coffee and a hot croissant, and went for a ride out at Longchamps. This morning she simply groaned and pulled the covers over her head, burrowing farther into the feather mattress as she planned a busy day of spying.

Half an hour later, Maggie rang her maid Inge for breakfast. As she sipped strong French coffee, she jotted down the names of the informants she wished to contact first.

While it was popularly supposed that a female spy gathered information on her back, Maggie scorned that method as too limited, tiring, and indiscriminant. Her technique was different, and as far as she knew, unique: she had formed the world's first female spy network.

Men with secrets might be cautious with other men, but were often amazingly casual in front of women. Maids, washerwomen, prostitutes, and other humble females were often in a position to learn what was going on, and Maggie had a talent for persuading them to confide in her.

Europe was full of women who had lost fathers, husbands, sons, and lovers in Bonaparte's wars. Many were glad to pass on information that might contribute to peace. Some wanted revenge as much as Maggie did; others were impoverished and desperately needed money. Together, they made up what Robin called Maggie's Militia.

Vital documents could be put together from scraps in trash baskets, important papers were sometimes left in the pockets of clothes sent for washing, men bragged of their deeds to their conquests. Maggie cultivated the women who had access to such data, listening to their joys and sorrows, sometimes giving them money to feed their children even when they had no information to sell.

In return, they gave her loyalty beyond anything that could be purchased. None had ever betrayed her, and many had become friends.

Since losing her father, Maggie had spent the largest part of her time in Paris, disguised as a humble widow with drab clothing and a mob cap over her bright hair. When the Congress of Vienna was called, she had resumed her natural appearance and gone to Vienna as the Countess Janos, where she had moved among the diplomats at their own social level.

When Napoleon had escaped from Elba and reclaimed his crown, she had immediately returned to her post in Paris so she could send information to London. After Waterloo, most of the diplomats and hangers-on from the Congress had convened again in Paris, so she had resurrected the countess and rented a house worthy of her rank. But she was getting very tired of being someone other than herself.

Over the years Robert Anderson had played many parts. He had helped her become established in her covert career, and had channeled the money that enabled her to live comfortably and pay her informants. He had also created her lines of communication, not easy when Napoleon's Continental System had closed almost all European ports to the British. At various times information had been sent through Spain, Sweden, Denmark, even Constantinople.