Inside, Lady Castlereagh herself greeted them. Emily Stewart was not renowned for beauty or wit, but she was a kind woman, and she and her brilliant husband were devoted to each other. "Good evening, Candover, how charming to see you." She extended her hand. "I trust that Magda has been making you feel welcome in Paris?"

He bowed over her ladyship's hand. "She has indeed. The countess even found a theater riot for me this evening, so I should be well informed about the events in Paris."

"Unfair, your grace," Maggie said indignantly. "You chose the theater. I thought perhaps you arranged the riot as an alternative to the farce."

"Unfortunately, one needn't look far for disorders,"

Lady Castlereagh said wryly. "Nightly mobs in the Tuileries gardens, duels almost daily between French and Allied officers. There have been disturbances at each of the four theaters where I have boxes, and they are the staidest playhouses in Paris." She glanced at the door and saw another party arrive.

"I must excuse myself now, but I hope to speak more with you later. Was there anyone either of you particularly wished to meet? There's quite a crowd this evening."

"Is the Count de Varenne here, Emily?" Maggie asked.

A small line appeared between Lady Castlereagh's brows, but she said merely, "You're in luck, he arrived a few minutes ago. Over there, in the far corner, talking to the Russian officer." She nodded and left to attend to her hostess's duties.

The splendid reception room was crowded with people, and a dozen languages could be heard, though French predominated. Lord Castlereagh and the British ambassador, Sir Charles Stuart, were part of a group that included Prince Hardenburg, the Prussian foreign minister, and Francis I, Emperor of Austria.

Negotiations were at a critical phase now, and the key figures were striving night and day to reach agreement. With the support of Wellington, Lord Castlereagh's plan for an army of occupation was slowly coming to be accepted among the Allies.

Maggie's eyes lingered on Castlereagh for a moment. He was a tall, handsome man, reserved in public, but generous and unassuming in private. The foreign minister was known for both intelligence and irreproachable integrity, and his death would be a tremendous loss.

Her jaw tightened; he would not become a victim of political terror if she could do anything to prevent it. She glanced at her escort and found the duke also gazing at the British minister, thoughts similar to hers reflected in his face. Sensing her regard, he glanced down and for a moment their eyes met in perfect agreement.

There were a number of Britons present and Rafe knew them all, so it was easy to progress indirectly toward their quarry while they exchanged greetings with fellow guests. Maggie studied the count as they drew closer. He was in his late forties, a powerfully built man of middle height with great elegance and an air of authority.

Mentally she reviewed what she knew of him. The last of an ancient family, he had been involved in royalist attempts to regain control of France ever since the Revolution. Circumstances had made him a dangerous and devious man, and he unquestionably had the knowledge to organize a conspiracy.

For the last decade he had been governor of a Russian province for the tsar. Napoleon's defeat had brought the count home, and he was now in the process of restoring his estate outside of Paris to its former splendor. As one of the most influential Ultra-Royalists, he was thought likely to be chosen soon for an important government post.

As they drew nearer to the count, Maggie was pleased to see that the Russian he conversed with was Prince Orkov, whom she had met several times before. Tucking her hand firmly in Rafe's elbow, she drew him up to their quarry at a lull in the conversation, cooing, "Prince Orkov, so delightful to see you again. Surely the last time we met was at Baroness Krudener's?"

Prince Orkov's eyes lit up with uncomplicated male pleasure. "It has been too long, Countess," he said as he bowed over her extended hand.

Introductions were performed all around, but Maggie's bright social smile froze when her eyes met those of the Count de Varenne. Most men stared at her with obvious physical appreciation. Occasionally that was a nuisance, but lust was normal and passion was warming. Varenne's gaze was pure ice, the cold, dispassionate evaluation of a buyer contemplating a possible acquisition.

For a moment she was off-balance. She could deal with any variety of passion, whether love or anger or hatred-she had liked Rafe better in the days when he had had emotions-but the count seemed like a man who stood apart from such human weakness.

Though uncertain of the best way to question him, she plunged in with a smile. "I have heard of you, Monsieur le Comte. It must give you great pleasure to be restored to your country and your estates after so many years of exile."

He paused, his black eyes flatly opaque, then said in a dark, whispery voice, "Satisfaction, certainly. Pleasure may be too strong a word."

She nodded sympathetically. "France must seem sadly changed, but now you and your royalist compatriots have the chance to rebuild that which was destroyed."

His mouth twisted. "We shall never be entirely successful with that, for too much has changed in the last twenty-six years. The misguided idealism of the radicals has wrecked France. Jumped-up bourgeois pretend to be aristocrats, the true nobility had been decimated or impoverished. Even the king himself is only a shadow of his distinguished ancestors. Who could look at Louis the Eighteenth and see the Sun King?"

His soft voice was peculiarly commanding, and Maggie wondered if she imagined the undertone of threat. "You seem very pessimistic for a man of the ruling party. Do you think matters are truly so desperate?"

"Difficult, Countess, but not desperate. We have waited a long time to reclaim our patrimony. We shall not lose it again." His gaze ran over her again, coolly dismissive. "If you will excuse me, I am expected elsewhere." With a polite nod to the others, he left the group.

Rafe and Prince Orkov had been discussing horses, that topic of universal and unending interest to the male half of the species. When she turned back to them, Rafe said, "The prince has invited us to a ball he is giving two days hence. Are we free to accept?"

Assuming that someone on the guest list would be of particular interest, Maggie said cordially, "We accept with pleasure, Your Highness. Your entertainments are legendary."

The prince took her hand and caressed it in a way that warned Maggie not to let him get her alone. "Your presence will add to its luster, Countess."

With some difficulty, Maggie extricated her hand and she and Rafe departed. They chatted with several more guests so that they would not appear to have lost interest after talking to Varenne, but within half an hour they were on their way back to the Boulevard des Capucines.

As soon as they were alone, Rafe asked, "What is your judgment on the count?"

"I'm glad that the choice of targets rules him out as our conspirator, because he seemed utterly ruthless, as dangerous as his reputation." Remembering that black gaze, she repressed a shiver. "Who will be at Orkov's ball?"

"General Roussaye, our Bonapartist suspect." Rafe gave her a lazy smile. "Wear that green gown unless it would ruin your reputation to be seen in it again too soon."

"I think my credit will stand it," she replied. "I am only a poor Magyar widow. People will make allowances."

Rafe accompanied her into her house, this time without dismissing his carriage. For a moment there was uncertainty in the air, as if he were considering a kiss.

Not daring to find out, Maggie hastily turned away and led him to the chessboard, where they continued the game in progress. She wondered if anyone in Paris would believe that she spent private moments with Rafe playing chess. She had trouble believing it herself.

The game devolved into long pauses and steely contemplation, and ended in stalemate. She thought the symbolism was appropriate, since it was the story of their relationship.

When the game was finished, Rafe got to his feet. "I'm off to the Palais Royal to see if I can find the mysterious conspirator. The conversation was heard at the Cafe Mazarin?"

Maggie nodded and followed him to the front door. Rafe towered over her, strong, confident, and utterly in control. He would undoubtedly feel insulted if she betrayed a lack of faith in his abilities. Nonetheless, she had the most absurd desire to tell him to be careful.

Uncannily, Rafe seemed to be aware of her thoughts. "Never fear, I shan't stir the hornets up." He lifted her right hand and kissed it, not with a light, formal brush of his mouth, but seriously, his lips warm and sensuous against her fingers.

Then he was gone. Maggie involuntarily curled her hand into a fist, as if to ward off the tingles of pleasure his kiss had sent up her arm. Just that light caress revived the desire that had almost overwhelmed her earlier in the carriage.

Acidly she reminded herself that he probably had to cut notches in his bedposts in order to keep track of the women he had bedded. By now the posts must be whittled away to nothing.

Face tight, she headed upstairs to her chamber.

Where Rafe was concerned, her sense of humor wasn't giving her any perspective or amusement at all.

The Palais Royal had a long and checkered past. Cardinal Richelieu had built part of it, and sundry royal relatives had lived there. Shortly before the Revolution, the Duc de Chartres had built a huge addition around the gardens, renting out the lower levels as shops and the upper as apartments.