By the time he raised his gaze, she had expertly reloaded and trained her weapon on him again. "As you can see, I haven't forgotten my marksmanship," she said grimly. "If you try anything, the next ball will go into you."

He weighed the odds of trying to take the pistol away from her, but there was a wide expanse of salon between them, and murder in Maggie's eyes. He damned himself for the idiotic folly of attacking Anderson as he had. It would have been difficult to convince her of her lover's duplicity under the best of circumstances. By muddying the evidence with his jealousy, he had lost any chance of changing Maggie's mind.

Nonetheless, with as much calm and conviction as he could muster, he tried. "For your own sake, Maggie, don't trust Anderson. Though I may be a jealous fool,I told you the truth about him. Do you want Castlereagh, and perhaps others, to die because you're too stubborn to see Anderson for what he is? He's the only lead to the conspiracy that we have, and we should get Wellington to detain him for questioning."

"You haven't convinced me, your grace," she said, her smoky gray eyes as hostile as her words. "As I said, spies must talk to everyone, especially suspects like Lemercier and Roussaye. As for the money-you may be too rich to realize it, but most of the world must be practical about such sordid things. Selling the same information to more than one of Napoleon's enemies might be simply good business, not treason."

"But you're not sure, are you?" Rafe said softly, sensing the bravado that fueled Maggie's defense of Anderson.

At his words, she tensed, and he wondered how light the trigger was on her pistol. He felt a flicker of cool amusement at the thought that the noble Duke of Candover might be killed in a vulgar lover's quarrel- with the added irony that they were not even lovers.

Breasts rising and falling with agitation, she said, "You could produce iron-clad evidence and a dozen unimpeachable witnesses that Robin was a traitor and I might possibly-just possibly-believe you, but I would still not come to your bed. Will you leave on your own, or shall I ring for my servants to throw you out?"

Despairingly, Rafe saw that he had failed, and his failure had made everything worse. Though Maggie was wrongheaded in her loyalty to Anderson, it was still impossible to believe she would condone an assassination plot. Now that Rafe had challenged her, she would be even more hell-bent on exposing the conspiracy, if only to prove that he was wrong about Anderson. That might put her into grave danger, and he wouldn't be there to protect her.

The pistol tracked him without wavering as he crossed the room to the door. Pausing with one hand on the knob, he looked back. Even the fact that she had a gun aimed at his heart did not alter his desire. "I'm not leaving Paris until this is over," he said quietly. "If you need help at any time, for any reason, you know where to find me."

Then he left, the paneled door swinging silently shut behind him.

Maggie set her gun on the pier table, then sank to the floor when her knees gave way beneath her. As the horrible scene replayed in her mind, she wrapped her arms around her midriff and fought her nausea.

She had often wondered what lay beneath Rafe's cool detachment. Now she knew, and wished that she didn't. While he had always made it clear that he desired her, she had not suspected that he felt such violent jealousy. Of course, he had behaved much the same way thirteen years earlier. At the time she had thought it was from love, but apparently the real source had been pride and possessiveness.

Could he have been lying about Robin? Though Rafe's information was disconcerting, it was hardly evidence of double-dealing. Admittedly Robin hadn't mentioned meeting with either Roussaye or Lemercier, but that meant nothing, for he seldom discussed his activities in detail. By the same token, she didn't inform him of all that she did.

It was much harder to shrug off Rafe's revelations about the money. While Maggie had not lived lavishly for most of these last years, Robin had given her thousands of pounds more than the amount Strathmore said she had been paid. Some had gone to her informants, some for living expenses, and the rest was invested in Zurich, where it drew enough interest to allow her to retire to England.

She had never questioned the amount of money that she received, assuming that it was the normal rate for spying. Could Robin really have been serving more than one master? He had always implied that all of the money was British.

She forced herself to consider the question of Robin's nationality. When they first met, he had said that he was English, but he had never spoken of his early life. Uneasily she realized that he could have grown up anywhere, for he had the same unerring talent for languages that she did. In fact, it was Robin who had taught her the tricks of listening that enabled her to perfect an accent.

Though much of his life was a mystery, Maggie had never once doubted that he was honest with her about things that mattered. Now she could no longer be sure. A bare fortnight earlier he had told her never to trust anyone, not even him. At the time she had dismissed his comment as teasing, but now it haunted her.

Shakily she pulled herself to her feet, then went to the cabinet for the decanter of brandy. After pouring a glass, she downed half of it at a gulp. It warmed her, but gave no clues about what to believe.

Rafe might be mad with frustrated lust or wounded pride, but she would wager that he believed what he had told her. Yet how could she mistrust Robin, her best friend, who had saved her life and sanity?

Blindly she finished the brandy, oblivious to the way it burned her throat. Strange how much Rafe could affect her, in spite of past crimes and betrayals. He could arouse depths of emotion in her quite different from the solid, warm friendship she shared with Robin.

What a pity that Rafe used that power only to hurt her.

The Englishman provided Le Serpent with the requested information about the British embassy, acquired at no small risk. Twice he had nearly been caught by other members of the staff, and he thought he had seen suspicion at his presence in places where he didn't belong. Still, no one had asked awkward questions, and he had been paid a handsome price for his risks.

The light was a little brighter this time so that Le Serpent could review the sketched floor plans. After several minutes, he gave a grunt of triumph. "Perfect, absolutely perfect. Le bon Dieu must have designed it for my purposes."

Having no desire to know more of the plan, the Englishman straightened up to leave. "If you have no more need for me…"

Le Serpent straightened also, his eyes a hard gleam behind his mask. "I have not dismissed you, mon petit Anglais. My plan requires your willing participation. Do you see that closet there?" A blunt finger tapped the floor plans.

The Englishman glanced down. "Yes. What of it?"

"It is directly underneath Castlereagh's bedchamber. You told me that it is seldom used, and always kept locked. If it is packed with gunpowder and ignited, it will blow that end of the embassy to rubble."

"You're mad!" the Englishman gasped, understanding why Le Serpent had wanted to know who was attending the different meetings. If the right day was chosen, Wellington and all the chief Allied ministers could be destroyed along with Castlereagh.

"Not in the least," the hooded man said calmly. "My plan is audacious, but wholly workable. The most difficult part will be getting the gunpowder into the embassy, but since you are on the staff, that presents no insurmountable problems."

"How do you intend to set the explosion?" the Englishman asked, horribly sure that he knew the answer.

"A candle will do the trick nicely. A slow-burning, hard wax candle will take hours to melt down. You will have plenty of time to get safely out of the way, and no one will suspect you."

"I want no part of this madness! If the Allied leaders are killed, there will be a manhunt such as France has never seen."

"Oh, there will be an uproar, but the Allies will be like beheaded chickens with their leaders gone. By the time the dust settles"-Le Serpent paused dramatically before finishing-"there will be a new order in France."

"What do I care about France? I'll not put my neck in the noose for it!"

The Englishman tried to move away, but Le Serpent reached out and seized his wrist with an iron grip. In a voice from a nightmare, he hissed, "I will tell you once more, mon ami, you have no choice. To defy me means death. On the other hand, your cooperation is vital for this particular project, and I reward my underlings very generously."

He let those words sink in, then continued softly, "Notice I make no attempt to buy your loyalty, because I know you have none. Greed is the best lever with creatures such as you, so I make you a promise: help me to success, and you will be rich and powerful beyond your wildest dreams."

The Englishman was unsure whether it was better to work with Le Serpent, expose the bastard, or fly from France. He was uneasily aware that he would have to choose sides within the next few days, and if he chose wrong he was dead.

Of course, he would die anyway if he betrayed Le, Serpent, or if the British discovered his treachery. Cooperation was his best, and most profitable course. Harshly he said, "Once more I find the brilliance of your logic convincing."

"Very good." Le Serpent released his grip. "I like a man who learns quickly. Now sit, I have more questions for you. There are several British agents sniffing at my heels, and it will be necessary to remove them from my path. Tell me everything you know about the people in question."