Rafe said, "I'm Candover. Has Lord Castlereagh's horse always been this wild?"

The young groom gave him a worried glance. Like all of the embassy staff, he was British, and he answered in a broad West Country accent. "Nay, your grace. Samson is spirited, but a better-tempered beast you never saw. Is his lordship hurt bad?"

"We won't know until the physician has examined him, but I think the chances are good that he'll recover."

"Will… will they destroy Samson, your grace?"

"I don't know." Rafe saw that there was blood in the foam around the gelding's mouth. Swinging open the door of the stall, he entered and quietly approached the beast. "I'll look at him more closely."

Remembering all the Gypsy lore he had learned from his friend Nicholas, Rafe made himself utterly calm, from the inside out. As Samson jerked his head back and flattened his ears, Rafe murmured a string of nonsense words. The horse began to relax, and soon allowed its neck to be stroked.

After several minutes of stroking, Rafe breathed into Samson's nostrils, another Gypsy trick. The horse's rough breathing slowed and it stood still. Rafe had brought a handful of oats into the stall, and soon Samson was literally eating out of his hand.

After the horse finished the oats, Rafe cautiously removed the bridle. He found what he had suspected: the bridle had a cruel cutting bit, and the least pressure against Samson's tender mouth would have caused the horse considerable pain.

The young groom looked at the bit, then at Rafe, his eyes wide with questions. "Why would anyone do that to a good-tempered horse, your grace? A cutting bit is a nasty thing to use even with a rogue."

"I can guess, but I won't." Rafe studied the gelding again. "The bit explains why Samson reared in the first place, but something more must have been required to make him kick like that. Let's see what else we can find."

Cautiously he uncinched the girth, then lifted off the saddle and cloth. Samson stirred fretfully, so Rafe ran one hand down the sweaty neck until the horse relaxed again.

Rafe examined the area that had been under the saddlecloth, and was unsurprised to find a small metal object lodged in Samson's hide. The horse jerked when it was removed, and a line of blood trickled sluggishly down the brown flank.

The object Rafe pulled from the wound had four spikes joined in the center, rather like a miniature version of the caltrops that were used to cripple horses in warfare. He showed it to the groom, who had gone beyond surprise to anger.

"Someone wanted to hurt his lordship." The boy's mouth was hard. The lad was no fool, and he must know something of the tense political situation in Paris.

"Who usually handles Lord Castlereagh's horse?"

"The head groom, Mr. Anthony, but he's not here now. He had to go to Saint Denis this morning."

"Do you know who would have saddled Samson today?"

The groom thought, then shook his head again. "Not exactly, sir. I was cleaning tack and didn't see who it was. Didn't know nothing was wrong until I heard Samson screaming."

"Could you make a guess? Has there been anyone suspicious about the stables?"

"I can't swear it was him for sure, but there's been a Frenchy groom working here 'cause we're short-handed," the boy replied. "One of the regular grooms had to go back to England 'cause his father died, and another was beat up in a street fight and can't work for a few days. Probably it was the Frenchy that saddled up Samson and took him out."

"What does he look like?"

"Medium height, dark, a scar on his face." The lad thought again. "Brown eyes, I think. He kept to hisself, and I never really talked to him. His name was Jean Blanc."

The description fit Captain Henri Lemercier. Rafe looked hard at the young groom to impress him with his seriousness. "Don't be surprised if you don't see Jean Blanc again. Also, don't tell anybody what we have found. I'll talk to Lord Castlereagh myself. Is that clear?"

The boy nodded, and Rafe left the stables and joined Maggie and Lady Castlereagh.

It took an hour to get the physician's verdict on the foreign minister, but the news was good. Though Castlereagh had several cracked ribs and a mild concussion, he was conscious, and already planning to hold meetings in his bedchamber, to his wife's exasperation.

Lady Castlereagh gave Maggie and Rafe her heartfelt thanks for their part in preventing the accident from being more serious. Then Rafe took his dusty and bedraggled ladybird back to his carriage.

Maggie didn't speak at first; she simply lay back against the cushioned seat with her eyes closed. They were halfway home before she opened her eyes and said, "He could have been killed right in front of us."

"I know," Rafe said bleakly. "It speaks poorly for our abilities as spies and bodyguards."

"What did you discover in the stables?"

Rafe described the cutting bit, the spike in Samson's side, and the mysterious French groom, Jean Blanc.

"I suppose Blanc jerked on the bridle, cutting Samson's mouth," Maggie said. "When the horse reared, Blanc slammed his hand onto the saddlecloth, driving the spike in. Then he ran away."

"He might have run because we were there and things weren't going according to plan," Rafe said. "If Castlereagh had been trampled, he could have been killed outright. There would have been such an uproar that Blanc could have stayed around long enough to remove the cutting bit and the spike, and the death would have seemed like an accident."

"I thought something looked wrong about that groom." Maggie tried to remember her brief glimpse of the man. "He didn't have the look of a servant. He carried himself like a soldier, though that may not mean much since so many Frenchmen served in the emperor's army."

"I didn't see him myself, but from the description I was given, he could be one of your secondary suspects, Captain Henri Lemercier. I met Lemercier the night I went to the Cafe Mazarin."

Maggie said icily, "And you didn't mention that to me, even though we had a report of an assassination being discussed there?"

Rafe hadn't mentioned the meeting because Lemercier had ended the evening with Robert Anderson, but that was a topic he wanted to avoid. Unless Rafe had undisputable evidence of Anderson's guilt, there was no point in confronting Maggie about the man. He said mildly, "I didn't tell you because Lemercier was drunk and said nothing of interest."

Maggie was regarding him suspiciously, but she did not pursue the point. Rafe wished he knew what thoughts were passing behind those wide, smoky gray eyes. Her golden hair was tangled after the incident in the stable yard, and her low-cut gown caressed the sensual body that was so incredibly good at distorting a man's judgment. If she were really his mistress, he would take her right here in the carriage.

Instead, he forced himself to reevaluate what he knew. The near-disaster had shaken Rafe badly, and brought home to him the dangers of this business as nothing else had.

It was time to question his assumptions about Maggie's professional loyalties, for her association with Anderson was damning evidence against her. The blond, bland Anderson, who looked like a choirboy or Lucifer fallen, was almost certainly an agent of Britain's enemies. Had Anderson been arranging Castlereagh's "accident" that night he met Lemercier at the Cafe Mazarin? And what had he and General Roussaye discussed when they met in the Salon des Etrangers?

Most important of all, was Maggie Anderson's dupe, or his accomplice? Though she had helped save Castlereagh this afternoon, that didn't mean she wasn't selling information or plotting against her country. There were too many hidden years lying between Margot Ashton and Magda Janos to take her on trust anylonger. She might be a mercenary, working for whomever would pay her, or Anderson may have persuaded her to work against Britain's interests.

Yet in one sense, it didn't matter. Rafe wanted her, no matter what she was or what she was doing. If he exposed the conspiracy and Maggie proved to be a traitor, she might have to choose between accepting him or going to the gallows. He would prefer that she came to him willingly, but if necessary, he would take her by any means short of violence.

It was not a thought he was proud of.

The Englishman was becoming accustomed to these trips to Le Serpent and no longer worried as he had the first time. Still, on entering the darkened room where his master waited, he reflected that his blond hair would make him a clear target even in this dimness. Had he known the shadowy paths he would be treading, he would have had the foresight to be born dark.

The failure of Le Serpent's attempt on Lord Castlereagh had made the masked man seem less fearsome. The Englishman couldn't help thinking that there were surer ways of killing a man than with a horse. He made the mistake of saying that to his dark host.

"You presume to criticize me? You, who have no idea who I am or what my objectives are? You're a fool." The sibilant voice hissed like wind over ice. With a ghost of cool humor, he continued, "You should be pleased, mon Anglais, to learn that the next plan will have less element of chance.

"As of tomorrow, the important diplomatic sessions will be held in Castlereagh's bedchamber because of his injury. I will need complete floor plans of that part of the embassy. Every room, every corridor, every closet, with accurate measurements of each. Plus, information on the staff and their movements."

"Is that all?" the Englishman asked with veiled sarcasm.