Now,that had taken the wind out of her sails. Satisfied, he watched the flash of surprise at this hardhitting return of serve.

"He was a Frenchman, sir. A man who loved his country," she replied quietly, and her eyes held his for a moment.

Nathaniel was of middle height, and the tall woman's charcoal eyes were almost on a level with his own; despite this proximity, he couldn't read the message they contained. But he had the unshakable conviction that Gabrielle de Beaucaire was toying with him in some way-that she knew something he didn't. It was an unfamiliar sensation for Lord Praed, and he didn't care for it in the least.

"Oh, I'm so glad you two have been introduced." Lady Georgiana Vanbrugh glided toward them, a beautiful woman, her daintily rounded figure delicately clad in lilac spider gauze. She slipped her arm through Gabrielle's and smiled with the genuine warmth and pleasure she always felt when she believed her friends were enjoying themselves.


"It's such a pity Simon had to go up to town so suddenly, Lord Praed. He charged me most expressly to tell you how sorry he is not to be here to greet you. But when duty calls…" She smiled, lifted round white shoulders so that the graceful swell of her breasts rose from her decolletage. "He assured me he'd do everything possible to be here in time for dinner tomorrow."

Two more different women would be hard to find, Nathaniel reflected, as they stood arm in arm, severe black velvet against lilac gossamer. The tall, white-skinned redhead with high cheekbones, cleft chin, and retrousse nose could only be called striking, if a man found clearly defined irregular features, a crooked smile, and a tall, willowy figure attractive. If he didn't, then one would be inclined to dismiss her as without charm. Georgiana, on the other hand, by any standards, was conventionally lovely with soft feminine curves, a peaches and cream complexion, small regular features, and gleaming golden hair.

"Members of the government are not their own masters, particularly in wartime," Nathaniel said easily.

"You speak as one who knows, Lord Praed," Gabrielle said. "Are you also involved in government work?"

Why did it sound as if she had some underlying point to make? He looked sharply at her and met a calm, cool gaze and that crooked little smile. "No," he said brusquely. "I am not."

Her smile widened as if again she was relishing some secret knowledge before she turned to Miles, a highly entertained but so far silent observer of the exchange.

"Do you hunt tomorrow, Miles?"

"If you do," he said with a gallant bow. "Although I doubt I'll keep up with you." He gestured to Nathaniel. "Gabrielle's a bruising rider to hounds, Nathaniel. You'd do well not to let her give you a lead."


"Oh, I'm sure Lord Praed will take any fence that presents itself," Gabrielle said, still smiling.

"I've never failed a fence yet, countess." He made a curt bow and walked away, annoyed that he'd allowed her to provoke him, yet intrigued despite himself… almost like a rabbit fascinated by the cobra, he thought irritably as he accepted a fresh glass of champagne from a hovering footman. A distinct aura of trouble clung to Gabrielle de Beaucaire.

"You don't appear to like Lord Praed, Gabby." Georgiana looked half reproachful, half anxious. "Did he upset you?"

Oh,he merely killed the man whose life was dearer to me than my own. "Of course not," Gabrielle said. "Was I rude? You know what my tongue's like when it runs away with me."

"I thought you'd find a sparring partner in Nathaniel," Miles remarked. "And I suspect you'll find him a worthy opponent." He grinned. "However, I think you won that round, so perhaps I'd better go and smooth his ruffled feathers." He went off chuckling with the slightly malicious pleasure of one who enjoys stirring up the complacent.

"Miles is wicked," Georgie declared. "Nathaniel Praed's his closest friend, I don't know why he so relishes making mischief."

"Oh, dear," Gabrielle said. "Should I beg Lord Praed's pardon?" Her expression had changed completely. There was warmth in her eyes as she smiled at her cousin and a vibrancy to the previously bland expression. "I didn't mean to disgrace you, Georgie, by offending your guest."

"Stuff!" Georgie declared. "I don't like him myself, really, but he's a most particular friend of Simon's. They seem to have a kind of partnership." She shrugged. "I expect he's something to do with the government, whatever he might say. But he's such a cold fish. He terrifies me, if you want the truth. I always feel tongue-tied around him."

"Well, he doesn't intimidate me," Gabrielle declared. "For all that his eyes are like stones at the bottom of a pond."

The butler announced dinner at this point and Gabrielle went in on the arm of Miles Bennet. Nathaniel Praed was sitting opposite her, and she was able to observe him covertly while responding to the easy social chatter of her dinner partners on either side. His eyes were definitely stonelike, she thought. Browny-green, hard and flat in that lean face, with its chiseled mouth and aquiline nose. He reminded her of some overbred hunter. There was the same nervous energy to the slender athletic frame, supple and wiry rather than muscular. His hair was his most startling feature: crisp and dark, except for silver-gray swatches at his temples, matching the silver eyebrows.

She became abruptly aware of his eyes on her and understood that her own observation had ceased to be covert… in fact, not to put too fine a point on it, she'd been staring at him with unabashed interest.

Thankful, not for the first time in her life, that she rarely blushed, Gabrielle turned her attention to the man on her left with an animated inquiry as to whether he was familiar with Sir Walter Scott's poem "The Lay of the Last Minstrel."

In the absence of their host, the men didn't sit long over their port and soon joined the ladies in the drawing room. To his irritation, Nathaniel found himself looking for the titian, but the Comtesse de Beaucaire was conspicuous by her absence. He wandered with apparent casualness through the smaller salons, where various games had been set up, but there was no sign of the redhead among the exuberant players of lottery tickets or the more intense card players at the whist tables.

He examined the faces of the men at the whist tables. One of them at some point in the week would be revealed as Simon's candidate… once Simon decided to stop playing silly undercover games. He'd dragged him down here with the promise of a perfect candidate for the service, refusing to divulge his identity, choosing instead to play a silly game with a ridiculous form of introduction.

It was typical Simon, of course. For a grown man, he took a childish delight in games and surprises. Nathaniel took his tea and sat in a corner of the drawing room, frowning at the various musical performances succeeding each other on harp and pianoforte.

"Miss Bayberry's performance doesn't seem to find favor," Miles observed, wandering over to his friend's corner. "Her voice is a trifle thin, I grant you."

"I hadn't noticed," Nathaniel said shortly. "Besides, I'm no judge, as well you know."

"No, you never have had time for life's niceties," Miles agreed with a tranquil smile. "How's young Jake?"

At this reference to his small son, Nathaniel's frown deepened. "Well enough, according to his governess."

"And according to Jake…?" Miles prompted.

"For heaven's sake, Miles, the lad's six years old; I'm not about to consult him. He's far too young to have an opinion on anything." Nathaniel shrugged and said dismissively, "From all reports, he appears obedient enough, so it's to be presumed he's happy enough."

"Yes, I suppose so." Miles didn't sound too convinced, but he knew which of his friend's tender spots were better left without exacerbation. If the child didn't bear such an uncanny resemblance to his mother, maybe it would be different.

He changed the subject. "So what inducements bring you to Vanbrugh Court? Country houseparties aren't your usual style of entertainment."

Nathaniel shrugged with an appearance of nonchalance. Not even Miles knew how Nathaniel Praed served his country. "Quite frankly, now that I'm here, I don't know. Simon was at his most pressing and just wore me down. Agreeing seemed the only way to achieve peace. He seemed to think it would amuse me. You know what he's like." Nathaniel shook his head in mingled exasperation and resignation. "He's never taken no for an answer, not even at Harrow." He glared around the room. "You'd think in the circumstances, he'd manage to be here himself."

"He does have a fairly lofty position in Portland's ministry," Miles pointed out mildly. "Anyway, he'll be here tomorrow."

"And in the meantime we have to endure this tedium with an appearance of good grace."

Miles chuckled. "You're an ill-tempered bastard, Nathaniel. The most thoroughgoing misanthropist." He glanced around the room. "I wonder where Gabrielle's disappeared to."

"Mmmm," responded Lord Praed, taking snuff.

Miles cast his friend a sharp look. For some reason the indifferent mumble didn't ring true. Nathaniel hadn't always been a misanthropist. It had taken Helen's death to turn him into this introspective, chilly character who seemed to delight in rebuffing all friendly overtures. Most of his friends had given up by now; only Miles and Simon persevered, partly because they'd known Nathaniel since boyhood and knew what a stout and unstinting friend he was when a man needed a friend, and partly because they both knew that despite his attitude, Nathaniel needed and relied on their loyalty and friendship, that without it he would retreat from the world completely and be utterly irreclaimable.

A man couldn't grieve forever, and the old Nathaniel would one day inhabit his skin again. Perhaps this concealed interest in Gabrielle de Beaucaire was a hopeful sign.


"I expect she decided to have an early night," he commented. "Be fresh for the hunt tomorrow."

"Somehow, I doubt that. The countess didn't strike me as a woman in need of much sleep in any circumstances." Nathaniel's tone was disapproving; but then, he made a habit of disapproval, Miles reflected.

Nathaniel went up to his own room shortly after, leaving the sounds of merriment behind. He had some work to do, and reading reports struck him as an infinitely more rewarding way of spending the shank of the evening.

Around midnight the house fell silent. House-parties kept early hours, particularly with a hunt on the morrow. Nathaniel yawned and put aside the report from the agent at the court of Czar Alexander. The czar had appointed a new commander in chief of his army. It remained to be seen whether Bennigsen would do better than the enfeebled Kamensky when it came to engaging Napoleon's troops in Eastern Prussia. Ostensibly the czar was fulfilling his promise to support Prussia against Napoleon, but Nathaniel's agent reported the vigorous opposition of the czar's mother to a policy that could sacrifice Russia for Prussia. It remained to be seen which way the czar would jump in the end. It was hard to second-guess a man who, according to this latest report, was described by his closest associate as "a combination of weakness, uncertainty, terror, injustice, and incoherence that drives one to grief and despair."

Nathaniel swung out of bed and went to open the window. Whatever the temperature, he was unable to sleep with the window closed. Several narrow escapes had given him a constitutional dislike of enclosed spaces.

It was a bright, clear night, the air crisp, the stars sharp in the limitless black sky. He flung open the window, leaning his elbows on the sill, looking out over the expanse of smooth lawn where frost glittered under the starlight. It would be a beautiful morning for the hunt.

He climbed back into bed and blew out his candle.

He heard the rustling of the Virginia creeper almost immediately. His hand slipped beneath his pillow to his constant companion, the small silver-mounted pistol. He lay very still, every muscle held in waiting, his ears straining into the darkness. The small scratching rustling sounds continued, drawing closer to the open window. Someone was climbing the thick ancient creeper clinging to the mellow brick walls of the Jacobean manor house.

His hand closed more firmly over the pistol and he hitched himself up on one elbow, his eyes on the square of the window, waiting.