Gervase shook his head. "I spoke with her last night and she told me she was still trying to determine the exact location and the time."

Nicholas sighed. "She told me the same thing, Your Grace."

"Then it is possible that she is deliberately delaying giving you the vital information that you need." Sir John said. "Just think, if she can hold you up until the day of the procession, you won't stand a chance of catching the assassin."

Gervase averted his gaze from Nicholas's anxious face and tried to ignore Sir John's gloating presence. "I need to think about how we should proceed. I don't want to alert Miss Waterstone to our suspicions. I will allow her the rest of the day to translate the code and then I will confront her."

Sir John bowed and left, a satisfied smile on his lips. Nicholas lingered as though he wished to speak, but after a quick glance at the duke's face, he quietly withdrew.

Gervase buried his face in his hands and tried to separate his tangled emotions for Elizabeth from the problem in hand. Perhaps she lied as well as Imelda after all. Images of Elizabeth in Jack Llewelyn's arms, confiding her secrets to him and laughing at the duke, kept intruding and ruining his sense of calm. He felt as though someone had taken his heart and was slowly squeezing it dry, draining his last hope, his last chance to believe in love.

Gervase let out a scathing curse and allowed himself to admit how tightly Elizabeth had woven herself into the fabric of his dreams and into his sense of self. Bitter experience had taught him that there were very few real coincidences in life and yet, here he was, still trying to make excuses for Elizabeth.

He was such a poor deluded fool that he had started to see her as his salvation, as his road out of the treacherous world he currently inhabited. Had he been a fool in bed and out of it? He got up and tugged on the bell cord to summon Standish. He needed to see Angelique.

*** *** ***

Elizabeth spent most of the day pretending to mull over the code whilst making sure that Sir John never got a good look at the altered pages. She had to assume he had obtained a key to her desk, so she allowed him to see her tucking the code into her reticule and taking it with her whenever she left the room.

As she quit the dining room after her solitary lunch, she met the duke in the hallway. After handing his rain-dampened hat and driving coat to Standish, he gave her a curt good afternoon, took her arm, and marched her into his study.

"Have you solved the code yet?"

"Not yet, Your Grace."

His expression grew distant and he stepped away from her, running his hand through his flattened hair. Conscious of the loss of his touch and the stretch of carpet he put between them, Elizabeth tried to think of a way to placate him.

"It is proving to be more difficult than I anticipated." With a sense of dread she stole a glance at him and went still.

He watched her with the hard, unamused eyes of a stranger. "A relative of mine, Lord Vincent Delacroix, arrived in London today. I intend to take him out this evening. You will accompany us."

The duke turned on his heel and headed into the hall without waiting for her agreement. She stared at his broad back as he mounted the stairs and she longed to call out to him and lay all her problems at his feet. Only the thought of his disbelief and contempt for her half-hatched suspicions gave her pause. She needed to be sure; he at least had taught her that.

She gathered her flounced skirt in her hand and trudged toward the study and the uninviting prospect of a long afternoon spent parrying Sir John's barbs and rebuffing Nicholas's ineffectual efforts to protect her.

*** *** ***

When Elizabeth retired to her room in the early evening she found a dress on her bed. She picked up the slippery purple and lace satin gown and regarded it doubtfully. It was not one that she recognized and, at first glance, it seemed a trifle gaudy for the duke's impeccable taste.

After a short struggle to lower the skimpy bodice and skirt over her head, she walked over to the mirror and brought her hand sharply to her mouth. The bodice was cut so low that her bosom threatened to fall out every time she breathed. Lace panels inserted vertically into the lush purple satin revealed glimpses of her skin. She rotated slowly, aware that the narrow skirt was so sheer that it displayed the shape of her legs. She doubted she would be able to fit a single petticoat under it.

Her skin flushed from the neck upwards as she smoothed her hands over the tight satin. The dress might as well have been painted on her flesh. Was it truly an evening gown or had the duke meant for her to wear it to bed? She looked like a common trollop. Was this how the duke saw her after their weekend of lovemaking?

For a fleeting second she considered defying him and changing into something more demure. Then the anger, which had begun to grow inside her since his withdrawal, coalesced into bravado. She would wear the gown the duke had chosen for her and watch him suffer the consequences.

*** *** ***

Gervase waited for her in the hallway, his face set in uncompromising lines as he consulted his pocket watch. Elizabeth arranged her cloak to cover the flimsy gown and met him with a civil smile.

"Am I late, Your Grace? You seem anxious to be off."

He barely glanced at her and the small kernel of doubt that had settled in her stomach began to flower in earnest.

"I intend to pick Angelique up. That is where we are headed now."

He held the carriage door open for her and slammed it shut as the coach took off at some speed into the rain-drenched night. Elizabeth stared out of the window and tried to ignore her feelings of unease. The duke was looking at her as though she was the enemy and, for once in her life, she didn't have the gumption to ask him why. She had too much at stake.

As she stared at his averted profile, it occurred to her that the duke might have known about her stepfather's possible involvement with the French from the start. If he had, his whole relationship with her could be viewed in a different light. She closed her eyes to shut out the sight of him. Had he been using her all along?

Angelique seemed subdued when she entered the coach, less than half an hour later, her fragile mood mirroring the duke's. Elizabeth gave up trying to understand the subtle cross-currents of tension filling the silent carriage and concentrated on her own problems. But by the time they pulled up to the theater, she was no closer to finding an adequate solution to her dilemma.

As soon as Elizabeth set foot on the wet flagged paving stones, she was swallowed up by a cluster of street vendors and theatergoers. The noisy throng seemed louder and more animated than the usual tonnish audience she had encountered there before. She looked up at the regal torch-lit façade of the Convent Garden Theater with rising apprehension.

From the miscellaneous apparel of the crowd flocking toward the entrance, Elizabeth deduced that a public masquerade ball was in progress. Despite her concerns, she couldn't help but be slightly curious. She had heard that behavior at masked balls could verge on the improper.

Angelique drew her into the shadow of the entranceway and handed her an embroidered purple half-mask. "You should wear this, Elizabeth. It will help to disguise you."

She helped Elizabeth tie the strings of the mask and Elizabeth reciprocated with the pink-feathered mask Angelique had chosen to wear. The duke disappeared whilst they were busy preening. He hadn't made the slightest effort to disguise himself. His jet black clothing, beaded waistcoat, and thick dark hair made him instantly recognizable.

While the duke was away, Elizabeth took the opportunity to study the assembled crowd. Her first impressions appeared to be correct. This wasn't a venue for the well brought-up ladies of the ton. She recognized several affluent gentlemen whose female companions, from their scanty and provocative attire, couldn't possibly be their wives.

She had heard whispers from her brothers as to the lewdness and revelry that occurred at such public balls, and now she could well imagine it. Every courtesan, rake, gambler, and actress in London seemed to be present, eager to push the boundaries of acceptable behavior beyond their limits. Elizabeth shivered and licked her lips as the scent of warm over-perfumed bodies and excitement swirled around her. She could almost taste the pent-up desire for licentious mischief.

Even Angelique seemed different as she shed her cloak and revealed the clinging low-cut rose gown beneath it. Although her blue eyes were all but concealed by her mask, she had painted her lips a deep crimson and had heavily rouged her cheeks.

Elizabeth clutched her cloak more tightly to her body as the duke returned, bringing a slight, dark-haired man with him.

Angelique simpered behind her fan and gave the stranger a low curtsey, which almost propelled her bosom out of her dress. "Who is this, Gervase, my love?" Angelique cooed and clung to the duke's arm when he gallantly raised her from her curtsey.

"This is my cousin, Lord Vincent Delacroix." The duke's casual wave took in Elizabeth as well. "Vincent, the blonde is Angelique and the brunette is Elizabeth."

Elizabeth was about to step forward but the duke's words stopped her. She glared at him for a dangerous second and then smiled and held out her gloved fingers.

"Good evening, my lord. My name is Mrs. Waterstone. It is a pleasure to meet you."