When they were close enough, Maggie gushed, "Colonel von Fehrenbach! What a pleasure to see you again." Extending her hand, she said, "I am Countess Janos. We met at the last Russian review of troops, you'll recall."

The colonel didn't look as if he remembered, but he bowed politely over her hand. As he straightened and got a better look at the plunging coral neckline of her gown, his expression thawed a little. Rafe was glad to see that the man was human.

When Maggie introduced her companion, the colonel gave a slight, stiff bow. Rafe felt chilled when he looked into von Fehrenbach's pale blue eyes. The colonel looked as if he had gone into hell, and not come all the way back.

Maggie glanced across the room at Prince Blucher. "What a privilege it must be to serve the field marshal. We shall not see another like him."

Von Fehrenbach nodded gravely. "Indeed. He is the bravest and most honorable of men."

Artlessly she continued, "Such a pity that people do not fully appreciate the part he played at Waterloo. For all of Wellington's brilliance, who knows what might have happened if Marshal Bliicher hadn't arrived when he did?"

Rafe wondered if Maggie might be overdoing her enthusiasm, but von Fehrenbach was regarding her with definite approval.

"You're very perceptive, Countess. Wellington had never faced the emperor before, and it is not impossible that Napoleon might have turned defeat into victory."

Rafe felt a prickle of chauvinistic irritation. Wellington had never been defeated in his entire career, and the battle of Waterloo had already been won by the time Bliicher had arrived at seven in the evening. However, he wisely kept his mouth shut.

Still admiring, Maggie continued. "They say the marshal was told he would never reach Wellington in time, and that he should not even try."

"That is true," the colonel confirmed with signs of animation. "But the marshal refused to listen to such talk. Though ill, he led the march, swearing that he had given his word to Wellington, and nothing in heaven or hell would stop him."

"Were you with him?"

"I had that honor. The marshal was an inspiration, a true soldier and a man of complete integrity." Von Fehrenbach's eyes chilled. "Not like these wretched lying French."

Maggie gestured vaguely. "Surely not all the French are devoid of honor."

"No? With a king who fled his own capital and slunk back in the baggage train of the Allies? With turncoats like Talleyrand leading them?" The colonel's words began to spill out in an angry torrent. "France rose up behind the Corsican when he returned from Elba, and she deserves to be punished. Her lands should be divided and given to other nations, her people humiliated, her very name wiped from the map of Europe."

Rafe was startled by von Fehrenbach's intensity. The colonel was clearly a dangerous man, quite capable of destroying any Frenchmen that crossed his path.

Maggie said softly, "Have we not learned anything in two thousand years? Shall there be only vengeance, with no place for forgiveness?"

"You are a woman," the colonel said with a dismissive shrug. "It is not to be expected that you would understand such things."

Deciding that he had been silent long enough, Rafe interjected, "I do not suffer from the countess's failing in that regard, but I agree with her that vengeance may not be the best course. To humiliate a losing opponent is to make an implacable enemy. It's better to help him rise and keep his dignity."

The cold blue eyes shifted from Maggie to Rafe. "You English and your obsession with sportsmanship and fair play," he said with contempt. "That is all very well with boxing and games, but we are talking about war. It was the French who taught my people what we know about savagery and destruction, and it is a lesson we have learned well. Would you be so fair-minded if your lands had been burned, your family murdered?"

The other man's obvious anguish caused Rafe to back away from what he might have said. "I would like to think that I would try, but I don't know if I would be successful."

The tension eased and von Fehrenbach retreated behind his impassive mask. "I am glad to hear you admit doubt. Every other Briton in Paris seems to think he has all the answers."

It could have been taken as an insult, but Rafe let the comment pass. He touched the back of Maggie's right arm, silently questioning whether it was time they left.

Before either of the three could move, a woman joined them. She was small, with a sweetly pretty face framed in soft waves of brown hair. Her rounded body was more sensual than elegant, but her blue satin gown showed the unmistakable style of a Frenchwoman.

"Helene, my dear, you are looking very well. It has been too long," Maggie said warmly.

After a swift glance at the colonel, the newcomer kissed Maggie's cheek. "It's a pleasure to see you again, Magda. I've only just returned to the city." Her voice had the same sweetness as her face.

Maggie introduced her to the two men as Madame Sorel. After offering her hand to Rafe, the Frenchwoman turned to the Prussian. "Colonel von Fehrenbach and I are acquainted."

The colonel's face pokered up even more, if that was possible. In a voice that could only be described as forbidding, he said, "Indeed we are."

Sensing the tension, Rafe wondered if Maggie knew what lay between her friend and the Prussian.

Before Madame Sorel could reply, von Fehrenbach said, "If you will excuse me, I must attend Marshal Blucher. Ladies, your grace." He nodded, then made his escape.

As she watched the ramrod-straight back vanish into the crowd, Maggie exclaimed, "Good heavens, Helene, what did you do to that man to make him bolt like a cavalryman?"

Madame Sorel shrugged, the movement causing a charming ripple of curves. "Nothing. I have met him several times at various functions. He always glares at me as if I were Napoleon himself, then walks away.Who knows what might be on his mind? Except that he has no use for anything or anyone French."

Studying her friend with shrewdly narrowed eyes, Maggie said, "But he is a fine figure of a man, no?"

Helene said dryly, "He is not a man, he is a Prussian." After exchanging a few more remarks, she took her leave with a charming smile.

Rafe watched her swaying walk with male appreciation. When she was out of earshot, he asked, "What was going on there that I did not understand?"

"I'm not sure," Maggie said thoughtfully, "though I might hazard a guess." Glancing up at him, she said, "I'll be back in a few minutes."

As she headed for the ladies' retiring room, Rafe compared her walk with Madam Sorel's, and decided that while the Frenchwoman was well worth watching, it was amazing Maggie didn't have crowds of men following her down the street.

His pleasant thoughts were interrupted by the regrettable Oliver Northwood. "Congratulations, Candover, you're a fast worker. Three days in Paris and you've captured the countess." Northwood's words were jovial, but his beefy face was malicious. "Not that she's hard to capture, for a man who has the price."

Turning to give Northwood his most frigid stare, Rafe said, "I thought you were unacquainted with the lady."

"After you told me her name, I made inquiries. No one knows much except that she's a widow, she's received everywhere, and she has expensive tastes." He winked meaningfully. "She's very good at getting others to pay for her pleasures."

Rafe should have buried his fist in Northwood's gut. Instead, to his disgust, he found himself asking, "What else did you learn about her?"

"She's said to be worth every penny of her price, but then, you would know that better than I, wouldn't you?"

It was the vulgarity that disturbed him, Rafe decided. After all, Maggie was a spy, and what better way to get men to talk than over a pillow? She had to support herself, and it was doubtful that the British government paid her enough to maintain that house or that wardrobe. Behaving like any other highborn tart who expected jewels in return for her favors was a splendid way of concealing her deeper purposes.

Odd how it was easier to think Maggie was a whore than to believe she would betray her country.

Maggie was seated at one of the mirrored vanity tables when the only other lady in the retiring room said in English-accented French, "Isn't Candover a splendid lover?'

Maggie swiveled around in astonishment to stare at the young woman sitting at the neighboring vanity table. In her chilliest tone, she said, "I beg your pardon."

"I'm sorry, that was dreadfully forward of me," the girl said remorsefully. "But I saw you with Candover and it seemed from the way you were acting that, well…" She finished with a vague wave of her hand. Her face was flushed, as if she was only now realizing how outrageous her comment had been.

Amusement replaced Maggie's irritation. "I assume from your comment that you have personal experience of his grace's skills?"

The girl ducked her head in agreement. She must be at least twenty-five, not really a girl, but her guileless air made her seem younger. "My name is Cynthia Northwood. Rafe was… very kind to me earlier in my marriage, when I needed kindness."

Intrigued, Maggie asked, "And now your marriage is better and you longer need kindness?"

"No," Cynthia said, her wide brown eyes hardening, "now my marriage is nothing to me, and I have found kindness elsewhere."

Maggie sighed inwardly. It was one of the curses and blessings of her life that people felt compelled to tell her their innermost secrets. Even total strangers like this artless chit seemed to assume that she would offer good advice, or at least an understanding ear.