Rafe was in a somber mood when he returned to his rooms. In spite of Lucien and Maggie's fears, he had not truly believed that the battered nations of Europe might go to war again, but the incident at the playhouse had convinced him. He had the sense that stormclouds were gathering, and there was a very real risk of another cataclysm.

Lost in thought, Rafe entered his bedchamber. He was about to ring for his valet when a cool voice emerged from a shadowed corner.

"I'd like a word with you before you retire, your grace."

The voice was unmistakable-honey with a touch of gravel-and he identified his visitor even before his eyes had adjusted to the dim candlelight. Maggie was casually sprawled across a chair, dressed entirely in dark men's clothes, her bright hair covered by a knit cap and a black cloak tossed across the bed.

Rafe wondered how the devil she had gotten in, but refused to give her the satisfaction of asking. "Are you practicing to be a Shakespearean heroine-Viola, perhaps?"

She gave a peal of laughter. "Actually, I rather fancy myself as Rosalind."

He removed his coat and dropped it over the sofa. "I assume you have a reason for being here that is different from what a man usually expects on finding a woman in his bedchamber."

The remark was a mistake. Giving him a dagger look, she said, "You assume correctly. There are several matters we must discuss, and this seemed the quickest and most private way."

"Very well. Care to join me in some cognac?" When she nodded, he poured them each a glass, then took a chair at right angles to his visitor. "What have you discovered?"

She absently swirled the brandy around in her glass. "My sources indicate three principal suspects, and several minor ones. They are all prominent men, the sort usually considered above suspicion. Each of them has the ability and the motivation to plan this kind of conspiracy."

"I'm impressed by your efficiency." He took a sip of brandy. "Who are your suspects?"

"In no particular order, they are a Prussian, Colonel Karl von Fehrenbach, and two Frenchmen, the Count de Varenne and General Michel Roussaye."

"What would their motives be?"

"The Count de Varenne is an Ultra-Royalist, a close associate of King Louis's brother, the Count d'Artois. As I'm sure you know, d'Artois is a fanatic reactionary. He and his emigre friends want to wipe out every trace of revolutionary spirit in France and take it back to the ancien regime."

She made a Gallic gesture of exasperation. "Of course that is impossible-one might as well try to hold back the tide-but they won't accept that. Varenne has spent the last twenty years skulking around Europe on dubious royalist business. Some of his past projects qualify him for our list."

"I see." Her high cheekbones were impossibly dramatic in the candlelight, and strands of golden hair escaped from the hat to glow around her face, softening the starkness of her garb. With an effort, Rafe forced himself to concentrate on her words. "If this plot comes from the Ultra-Royalists, who do you think the target would be?"

"This may sound farfetched," she said hesitantly, "but perhaps Varenne might try to kill King Louis himself so that the Count d'Artois would take the throne."

Rafe whistled softly at the idea. It was an ugly thought, but given France's current instability, he supposed that anything was possible. "What about the other Frenchman?"

"Roussaye is a Bonapartist. He was born the son of a baker, and he fought his way up to being one of France's top generals. He's tough and brave, and dedicated to Napoleon and the revolution. Currently he is on Talleyrand's staff, dealing with questions relating to the French army."

"Who would be his most likely target?"

She shrugged. "From his point of view, almost any important Allied official would do, because that would result in a much harsher treaty. If anything happens to the leading voices of moderation, the radicals will get all the humiliation they want."

"And Europe might be at war again within a year or two." Rafe frowned. "Wellington would be the best target. Not only is he universally revered, but it's common knowledge that he won't take precautions because he thinks it would be cowardly to seem to value his life too much."

"Even a charmed life may eventually run out," Maggie said dryly. "If anything happens to him, Britain will be baying after France's blood as loudly as the Prussians are."

"Speaking of Prussians, what about Colonel von Fehrenbach?"

Maggie finished her cognac, then got up to refill their glasses. Rafe admired the way her skin-tight pantaloons clung to her shapely hips and legs. In the old days, when she had always dressed like a lady, he hadn't known how much he was missing.

Unaware of his scrutiny, Maggie sat down and said, "Von Fehrenbach is a typical Prussian, which means that he hates the French in a pure, uncomplicated way. Von Fehrenbach was an aide to Marshal Blucher, and is presently a military attache with the Prussian delegation."

"Do all Prussians feel such hatred for the French?"

"It's easier for the British to behave with restraint than the other Allies," she said obliquely. "Considering how horribly the nations of Europe have suffered, it's no wonder the Prussians and Russians and Austrians are determined to make France pay. France has sowed the wind, and now she is reaping the whirlwind."

Knowing her personal reasons for hatred, Rafe asked, "How do you think France should be treated?"

Maggie looked up, her gray eyes cool and steady. "If Napoleon stood before a firing squad, I would pull a trigger myself. But someone must stop the hating, or there will be no end to it. Castlereagh and Wellington are right: destroying France's pride and power will create another monster to rise up and fight again. If anything happens to either of them…" She shrugged eloquently.

Rafe took her meaning. "They and Tsar Alexander are all that stand between France and a vengeful Europe. Do you think von Fehrenbach might want to assassinate one of those three?"

"I think he would be more interested in striking at Talleyrand and Fouche," she answered. "They are Frenchman who served both the Revolution and the royalists, and now they are leading the French negotiations against the four Allies. An honest Prussian must despise them for being turncoats."

"Now that you've given me a lesson on the politics of the conference, what do we do about it?"

Maggie felt her stomach clench; what had seemed reasonable when she talked with Robin now looked like appalling idiocy. "Investigations are being made behind the scenes, but it's also necessary to observe our suspects more closely. I have a talent for spotting villains, so I might be able to guess which is our man if I can talk to each of them."

Surreptitiously she wiped a damp palm on her thigh. "Distasteful as the idea is, it's expedient for you and me to pretend to be having an affair. That way we can mingle with the diplomatic corps at the social events where so much of the unofficial negotiating takes place. You will be invited everywhere, and you can take me as your mistress."

His dark brows rose with unholy amusement. "That makes sense, but do you think you can bear so much of my company?"

"I can bear whatever is necessary," she said tersely, "no matter how distasteful I find it."

Her mood did not improve when he laughed aloud. "A palpable hit! But it illustrates my point. Do you think you can restrain yourself from sinking your claws into my unworthy flesh?"

She got to her feet, saying blandly, "In public, my behavior will be all one could expect of a brainless, infatuated female."

"That being the only kind that would be interested in me?" He stood also, a smile lurking in his gray eyes. "What will you be like in private?"

Maggie swore at herself for leaving such a wide opening. She had been trying to treat this interview as if they were both professional spies, with no past history, but that was no longer possible. She and Rafe had once known each other painfully well, and that awareness throbbed between them.

She wanted to bolt, for she knew that he was dangerous to her. Not physically, even though he stood only a yard away and towered over her; the damned man would never have had to use force in his life. All he had to do was smile that lazy, entrancing smile, exactly as he was doing now…

Refusing to back away, she said crisply, "There won't be any 'private.' This is strictly a business arrangement."

"If you think this is only business, you're a fool, and that I can't believe," he replied. "Like it or not, you're going to have to deal with the fact that there is this between us." He stepped forward and smoothly drew her into his arms.

Even when she realized that he was going to kiss her, she couldn't seem to move. Turbulent feelings surged through her when their lips met-an instinctive desire to run for her life, a deeper instinct to melt into his arms.

And in the back of her mind, a cool, rational voice said that Rafe was right; if they were going to be convincing lovers, they must seem comfortable with each other. That wouldn't be possible if she jumped like a frightened rabbit every time he touched her.

It was all the excuse she needed to kiss him back. She slid her arms around his neck and pressed close. Inspite of the years that had passed, the warmth and strength of his hard body were hauntingly familiar, as was the texture of his tongue and his faint, individual male scent. But then she had been an innocent and he had been a tender, protective young suitor. Now they were both adults, experienced in the ways of passion, and desire crackled like heat lightning.