Cynthia's momentary shock swiftly turned to embarrassment. "Perhaps it was, without my being aware of it." Her expression became withdrawn as she thought about what her hostess had said. "Perhaps he is concealing something. He seemed to change when he joined the Foreign Office, and it has become more pronounced since we came to Paris. He has had more money since then, too. More than can be accounted for by his salary, I mean."

"Do you suppose he could be taking bribes?"

"He hasn't much influence to sell," Cynthia said doubtfully.

"He might pretend to more than he has," Maggie said. Bribery was common, and many people would accept bribes who would never consider spying against their country. Northwood might be one of those. Nonetheless, the possibility was worth further investigation.

Cynthia said slowly, "Several weeks ago when I was writing letters, I ran out of paper and looked in Oliver's desk for more. He happened to come in then, and became outraged when he saw what I was doing. In fact, he struck me. At the time I didn't think much about it since he is often unpredictable, but ever since then he has made a point of locking up all his papers. Do you think that's significant?"

"Possibly, possibly not. Some men are naturally furtive. But if he has some guilty secret that you could discover, it might give you ammunition to defend yourself." Maggie caught Cynthia's gaze and said soberly, "It is not a nice thing that we are talking about. Are you willing to behave so dishonorably?"

Cynthia took a deep breath, but her gaze was unwavering. "Yes. We women have few weapons at our disposal, and I would be foolish to waste one. Perhaps I can stop some greater tragedy, like a duel. I don't think Oliver would dare challenge Michael, but I could be wrong." She trembled as if a cold draft had touched her. "I couldn't bear to be the cause of Michael risking his life."

Satisfied, Maggie said, "If you are sure. Do you think you could unlock your husband's desk and study his private papers?"

Cynthia bit her lip, but nodded her head.

"You must be extremely cautious, not only in acting when he is away, but in leaving no traces of your search. Your husband has a violent temper, and if he suspects you, he could do you a serious injury. You have not only your own life to consider." Maggie put as much earnestness in her voice as she could. Though she was not particularly proud of herself for setting a wife to spy on her husband, the opportunity was too good to pass up. Moreover, if Oliver Northwood really was a spy, that fact might make it easier for Cynthia to escape him.

"I promise I will be careful." Her mouth twisted. "I know better than anyone what Oliver might do."

"If you discover anything suspicious, bring it to me first," Maggie said. "I have considerable experience of the world, and I might better understand what you have found."

Cynthia nodded again as she stood. "I can't thank you enough, Countess. Talking to you has helped enormously."

Maggie rose also. "Perhaps you should call me Magda since we are going to be conspirators. Or Maggie, if you prefer."

"Thank you, Maggie. And please, call me Cynthia." Leaning forward, she gave the older woman a heartfelt hug.

After again cautioning Cynthia to be extremely careful, Maggie showed her guest out. Then she sat back to think about what she had learned.

Quite apart from her dislike of Oliver Northwood, her instinct said that he was capable of treachery. She did not rule out the possibility that he was innocent, or guilty of no more than minor corruption. However, given the volatile situation in Paris, information was tremendously valuable. A weak man might easily succumb to temptation.

The next question was whether to tell Rafe. She frowned. While Rafe and Northwood were not close friends, they had known each other forever, and had been part of the same circle when they were young men about town. Rafe would have trouble believing that someone from that group of bluff, honest Englishmen was a traitor. It was much easier to suspect a stranger than an acquaintance.

Maggie decided that she would not tell Rafe of her suspicions unless Cynthia discovered some concrete proof. For all of their sakes, she hoped that would happen, and soon.

That evening Rafe went to the Salon des Strangers, the closest thing to a gentlemen's club in Paris. It was a rendezvous for confirmed gamblers, and many of the richest and most influential men in Paris were regular customers. Though he had visited several times in the hope of hearing something useful, so far he had had no success. Still, it felt better to be doing something than nothing.

Standing at the entrance to the main gambling room, he surveyed the crowd for familiar faces. The Salon was larger and far grander than the modest Cafe Mazarin, but the signs of gambling fever were the same.

The proprietor, the Marquis de Livry, came forward. The marquis bore a remarkable resemblance to the Prince Regent, both in girth and grandeur of manner. Smiling graciously, he said, "How delightful to see you this evening, your grace. What is your preference?"

"I'll wait to see what table calls me," Rafe said.

The marquis nodded, accustomed to gamblers who looked for magical signs- that fortune favored them. After urging Rafe to enjoy himself, Livry left to greet a party of Austrians.

Taking a glass of excellent burgundy from a footman, Rafe strolled through the crowd. With a feeling of inevitability, he saw Robert Anderson sitting at a faro table. The blond man had a talent for turning up in unexpected places. It seemed highly probable that Anderson was also involved in the murky shadows of intelligence gathering.

But if so, for whom did he work? The logical answer was that he kept his ears open on behalf of the British delegation. Yet Rafe had his doubts.

Shielded by a Corinthian column, he sipped his wine and studied the younger man. Again he felt that tantalizing sense of near-recognition, but could not identify it.

His attempts to remember were interrupted by a jovial greeting. "Evening, Candover. Good to see you again."

Rafe turned without enthusiasm to greet Oliver Northwood. He was surprised to find his old acquaintance at a place where the play was so deep, for men of much greater fortune than Northwood had been ruined in the Salon des Etrangers.

As the men exchanged idle talk, Rafe watched Anderson push half the counters in front of him across the table after losing a bet, as imperturbable in defeat as in victory. The man looked as blond and angelic as a choirboy. Was that what Maggie saw in him, that handsome face? Or did she fancy herself in love with him? What the hell did Anderson have that he himself didn't?

Rafe was shocked by the violent jealousy that surged through him. It was an unfamiliar emotion, and not one that he liked. He had always been willing to bid a graceful farewell to women who developed other preferences-except where Margot was concerned. Even thirteen years later, he bitterly resented Northwood's intimacy with her, and the anger he felt at the memory of Anderson slipping in Maggie's back door was a serious blow to his view of himself as a civilized man.

In an effort to control his primitive emotions, Rafe reminded himself that Anderson was just one of the men in Maggie's life. There was no point in being jealous merely because the bastard was the only one of her lovers Rafe knew.

The reflection was a singular failure at calming him.

Deciding that he might as well take advantage of the opportunity to learn more about his rival, Rafe said,

"Your colleague Anderson reminds me of someone, but I can't remember who. What's his background?"

"Hasn't any." Northwood drained his glass of wine. "Fellow just appeared in Paris in July, and Castlereagh took him into the delegation. Must have had letters of recommendation, but I don't know from whom. Says he isn't related to any Andersons I know." He hailed a footman and exchanged his empty glass for a full one. "Comes here often."

"Really? Then whatever Andersons he comes from must be well off."

Northwood frowned, giving the appearance of a man coming to a decision. "Perhaps I shouldn't say this, Candover, but there's something dashed smoky about Anderson. Sprang from nowhere, always poking into things that don't concern him, then disappears like a bloody alley cat. And he has more money than he should."

"Interesting." Rafe tried to suppress his unworthy excitement. "Have you spoken to Castlereagh about your suspicions?"

After looking around to assure that no one was within listening distance, Northwood said quietly, "I've talked to Castlereagh, all right. That's why I'm here-the foreign minister asked me to keep an eye on Anderson. Informally, you know." At Rafe's questioning look, he added, "To see if he talks to anyone suspicious. Shouldn't be telling you this, but I know you can be trusted, and want to put you on your guard. You know what the situation is here in Paris. Can't be too careful."

Northwood looked as if he were weighing whether to continue, then added in an almost inaudible voice, "Confidential information has been getting out of the British delegation. Don't want to slander an innocent man-but we're watching Anderson very closely."

Rafe had never seen Northwood so serious, and he wondered if he had misjudged his old schoolmate. Perhaps the hail-fellow-well-met demeanor was a disguise. He studied the other man, trying to be objective.

Though Rafe could not like Northwood's vulgarity of manner, he had no reason to distrust the man. Had jealousy been coloring Rafe's judgment? Undoubtedly.