"Would you care to guess why von Fehrenbach reacted to her presence so vehemently?"

"I think the reason is very simple, and not at all political."

Rafe accepted that without comment. "If you're right about von Fehrenbach, one of the Frenchmen is the most likely villain."

"If I am right." Maggie's voice took on a note of bitterness. "But it's not unknown for me to be wrong."

Things can be done in the darkness that would be impossible in the light. Rafe impulsively reached across the seat to take her cool, tense hand in his own. He neither knew nor cared what memories brought that tone to her voice. All that mattered was that she had carried burdens too heavy for even the broadest of shoulders, and that she was feeling that weight.

Her fingers tightened convulsively around his, though she made no other acknowledgment. Her hand warmed, became more relaxed. For the first time, Rafe felt that the barriers between them had gone down. Perhaps they would get along better if they didn't talk to each other.

When they reached her house, Maggie released his clasp to pull her cashmere shawl about her shoulders. As Rafe helped her from the carriage, her mouth quirked up. "You see yourself as a fur muff?"

He smiled. "Or some other useless, ornamental object carried only for display." He turned and dismissed his carriage.

Maggie gave him a hard look when he followed her into the house. Before she could comment, he said, "If we are to maintain the illusion of an affair, I can't drop you at your doorstep and leave. After a suitable interval, I'll walk back to my hotel. It isn't far from here."

She accepted his reason with an unflattering lack of enthusiasm. "I suppose it's necessary."

They went into the salon and she poured brandy for them both. Then she kicked off her sandals and curled up on one of the sofas. "Should I have asked Cynthia Northwood how long you must stay to uphold your reputation? Perhaps I should make up a bed in one of the spare rooms, since no one would expect to see you before morning."

He refused to be drawn. "I'll slip out the back door in an hour or so. After all, it would be a blow to both our reputations if I left too soon."

Wandering across the room, he found an antique chess set on a small game table. The chess pieces were designed as a medieval court. The smooth enameled figures were about three inches high, and each was a sculpture with individual, hand-drawn features.

Rafe picked up the white queen, an exquisite golden-haired lady riding a white palfrey, then glanced at Maggie. The resemblance was undeniable. The queen, the most powerful figure on the board.

Setting the piece down, he lifted the black king from the opposite side of the board. His dark face arrogant and hawklike, the king brandished a sword from a rearing charger. Rafe studied the figure for a moment, wondering if he imagined its resemblance to himself. The kings were the ultimate objectives in chess, but had relatively little power themselves.

It was not unlike the game he and Maggie were playing, with the white queen in charge and the king standing by. But they were on the same side, weren't they?

He lifted the fair-haired white king. The face was cool and enigmatic, and it took little imagination to see the figure as Robert Anderson. If it was an omen, it was a disturbing one.

Rafe set down the white king. "Care for a game of chess? At the reception, you promised me better amusement at your home."

Maggie rose gracefully and joined him at the chess board. "If you wish. You'll find that my playing has improved a bit. Shall we toss a coin to see who plays white?"

Traditionally white moves first, an advantage, but Rafe picked up the white queen again, admired the proud chin, then handed it to Maggie. "She could only be yours."

They sat down and began. In younger days, Maggie had played with a wild brilliance that occasionally brought victory, but more often led to defeat against Rafe's more thoughtful style. Now they were evenly matched. He was interested to see that she still played boldly, but with a much keener eye for strategy.

An hour passed where the only words were an occasional compliment on a good move. When the clock struck eleven, Maggie looked up in surprise. "At the risk of seeming a poor hostess, I must ask you to leave. We can finish the game another day. I doubt that anyone is watching the house, but just in case, I'll show you to the rear door where you can slip out unobserved."

Rafe followed her through the halls, admiring the house. Though not exceptionally large, it had been designed to feel spacious and every detail was perfect. It was very much the home of a gentlewoman, reinforcing the idea that it was not supported on a spy's wages. He wondered acidly how many lovers were contributing to the establishment.

When Maggie turned to face him at the back door, Rafe was surprised to see how small she seemed in her stocking feet. The top of her head scarcely reached his chin. She looked young and soft and utterly desirable, and the air between them seemed charged with possibilities.

Once Margot Ashton had looked up at him with just such an expression in her eyes. For a moment Rafe's world tilted as the past and present crashed together. He desired her with all the passionate intensity of twenty-one; he wanted to bury his face in tangles of golden hair, to discover one by one the mysteries of Margot's laughing, elusive spirit and lush body.

It was a painful moment of disorientation, and his only salvation was that the present-day Maggie was unaware of it. A faint tremor went through him as he fought the desire to draw her into his arms. Experience told him that it would be better to play a waiting game. She desired him; allow time for her desire to grow. If he moved too quickly, she would become antagonistic instead.

He bid her a polite good night, and hoped that it was a trace of disappointment that he saw in her eyes. Then he walked down the steps, crossed the stable yard, and turned left into a narrow, deserted alley.

He was far too restless to retire tamely to his apartments. He considered going to the Palais Royale to find a card game or a woman, but the prospect did not appeal. Deciding to walk, he headed toward the Place Vendome.

Maggie was irresistibly on his mind. Even when she was eighteen her innocence had existed only in his mind, so it should be no surprise to learn that she had joined the company of women who collected expensive tributes in return for their favors. It was very common where women had greater beauty than fortune. He didn't think it would be fair to call her a courtesan; she had merely found a practical way to combine business and enjoyment.

At least she also had goals beyond her own pleasure. Presumably she chose her lovers both for wealth and for the information they could provide. In bed with a woman like Maggie, a man might say anything and not care, nor remember it later.

He entered the octagonal Place Vendome, which was nearly deserted at this hour. In the center was an enormously tall pillar that Napoleon had erected to commemorate the Battle of Austerlitz. The bronze spiral that twined up the column had been made by melting down the twelve hundred cannon Bonaparte had captured at that battle. Not surprisingly, the Prussians wanted to pull the column down.

His mouth twisted. It was hard to care about politics when his mind was disabled by lust. He might as well face the fact that he wanted Maggie for a mistress. Though it was true that he had bedded women that could be considered more beautiful, he had never known one who was so alluring.

In spite of her protests, she was not indifferent to him, and this evening her hostility seemed to have lessened. It was time for them to put aside the past and enjoy each other as they were now, without recriminations or complications.

Instead of sparring with her, he would make a straightforward offer. Perhaps part of the reason she had been so adamant about keeping her distance was because she didn't want to give away what usually was a source of profit.

Well, he was a reasonable man, and recognized that Maggie had to support herself. Though he had never paid for a mistress before, he was willing to make an exception in her case. In fact, he was prepared to be extremely generous. If she agreed to a long-term arrangement, he would even consider making a permanent financial settlement, so she would have some security for the future.

He turned decisively and headed back to the Boulevard des Capucines. Though it was late, he returned to the alley behind her house, hoping for some sign that she was still awake, perhaps as restless as he was himself.

As he scanned her windows, he saw a stealthy figure coming along the alley from the other direction. Rafe stepped farther back into the shadows so that he wouldn't be seen.

Instead of passing by, the other man stopped and looked around warily. Rafe flattened himself against the wall, glad that he was wearing dark clothing.

Apparently satisfied that he was unseen, the stranger climbed Maggie's back steps and knocked at the door. It swung open immediately. Maggie was standing inside, illuminated by a lamp in her hand. She had changed to a flowing dark robe and her bright hair was loose around her shoulders, like the white queen.

Her visitor bent to kiss her, and Rafe stayed to watch no more.

The stealthy newcomer was Robert Anderson, the white king himself. No wonder she had talked to him with such intensity at the reception; they had been setting up an assignation.

Rafe was coldly furious without quite understanding why. He knew that Maggie had lovers, so why should it anger him to see one entering? It certainly wasn't jealousy; he hadn't felt jealous about a woman since… since he was twenty-one, and Margot had betrayed him with Northwood.