Helene made no attempt to close the distance between them. Standing before the bookcase, she was a small, gently rounded figure. Soft, yet unyielding. "I can never be pleased at another's pain. I became involved in spying to make what small contribution I could to peace. I did have brothers, Colonel. One died in the retreat from Moscow, the other under torture by Spanish partisans. I was told it took him two days to die. That was my younger brother, Pierre, who wished to be a painter.

"And I had a husband, too, killed at Wagram two months before my younger daughter was born. You fought at Wagram, Colonel. It might have been your troops that killed him."

"Splendid, Madame Sorel, we have both suffered." His voice was a lash of bitterness. "You have my permission to hate the Prussians as much as I hate the French. Will that satisfy you?"

"No!" she cried, her pain finally overcoming the hard-won serenity she had learned in a lifetime of loss. "I want to see an end to hating. If Prussia had been the aggressor rather than France, would my husband be any less dead? I want my daughters to live in a world where their husbands will grow old with them, where boys like my brother can paint flowers and pretty girls and write silly love poetry, instead of dying screaming."

She looked at him pleadingly, wondering how to melt the ice around his heart. "As a Christian, I have been taught to hate the sin but love the sinner. I hate war and the unspeakable evil it brings-and if we cannot learn to love one another, we are doomed to fight and die again and again."

"And you think that if I could love you, that would put an end to war?" Though his voice held scorn, there was also a thread of yearning to believe.

"I don't know if we can love one another, perhaps there is nothing between us but physical attraction," Helene said, tears flowing down her face. Though she saw that her words affected him, she feared that it was not enough. He had lived in his agony for too long to risk life again. Voice breaking, she continued, "If two individuals cannot even try, there is no hope for mankind. We will be condemned to suffer our mistakes forever."

Von Fehrenbach began pacing about the room, his broad shoulders rigid. He stopped by a table where a miniature portrait in a silver frame stood next to a closed Bible. The painting was of a lovely blond woman holding a child in her arms.

Looking down at the portrait, he said huskily, "You are a brave woman. Perhaps women have more courage than men. If a body is injured badly enough it dies, but with an injured heart one survives to suffer pain without end."

Gently he touched the face of the woman in the portrait, then looked up at Helene, his face deeply sad. "You ask too much, Madame Sorel. My strength is not equal to the task."

She had failed. Blinking back her tears, she said sorrowfully, "It is not that women are braver, Colonel, but that we are more foolish."

Turning away, she fumbled in her reticule until she found a handkerchief. The mundane business of blotting her tears and blowing her nose gave her a chance to establish a fragile self-control. Then she crossed the drawing room to the vestibule.

His words followed her. "What will you tell your masters about me?"

"I will say that I think you are not involved in any way. You will be closely watched until the conference is over, so even if I am wrong, your opportunities for villainy will be reduced." She put her hand on the doorknob. "Farewell, Colonel von Fehrenbach. I don't think that we shall meet again."

To her surprise, he crossed the room and looked searchingly into her face, as if trying to memorize her appearance. "You are a very brave woman indeed." Then he lifted her hand and kissed it, not romantically, but with a kind of sad respect.

As the colonel held the door, Helene managed to walk out with her head high, but after it closed she leaned against the paneled wall. She was so incredibly weary…

Finally she straightened and walked to the door at the end of the hall and opened it. Four soldiers were engaged in a friendly card game on the floor. They scrambled hastily to their feet as Helene appeared. They seemed so very young. She smiled at them, and the gangling young lieutenant blushed and bobbed his head.

His dark face registering relief that she was safe, Rafe asked, "Did your meeting go well, Madame Sorel?"

Sighing, she said, "As well as can be expected."

Inside the austere apartment, Karl von Fehrenbach moved around restlessly, picking objects up and setting them down, pulling out a book by Fichte and replacing it unread, then opening a volume of Virgil at random. Looking down, he read, "Omnia vincit Amor: et nos cedamus Amori." Love conquers all: let us too surrender to Love.

He slammed the book shut and reshelved it so violently that he dented the leather binding.

Leaning his head against the books, he thought with anguish of Helene Sorel standing where he stood now, small and sweetly feminine. Was she an angel come from heaven to redeem him, or a demon from hell sent to seduce him out of what was left of his immortal soul? Whatever else the woman might be, she had courage, to expose herself to such rejection.

He went to the portrait of Elke and Erik and lifted it to study their beloved faces. His wife, who had had the gift of laughter, and his son, who had inherited his father's height and his mother's sunny nature. Elke had sent the picture three months before she and Erik were killed. The house had been burned around them. Von Fehrenbach prayed they had died of the smoke rather than the flames.

Unbearable grief welled up in him, dissolving all the defenses he had built to dam the pain. In desperation he flipped open his Bible and glanced in, hoping for guidance.

The verse that leaped out at him read, '"Her sins, which are many, are forgiven, for she has loved much.'"

If it was a message from God, it was one too painful to be borne. He sank onto his knees by the brocade-covered Louis Quinze armchair, burying his head in his arms and giving way to the gut-wrenching sobs of a man who had never learned to cry.

Chapter 18

This visit to Le Serpent was a short one. The Englishman no longer cared that his dread host was masked; he knew now whom he served, and at the right time he would reveal that knowledge.

Le Serpent said curdy, "The gunpowder is now secured in the closet?"

"Yes, I brought it in over several days, and it's unlikely anyone will discover it by chance. Even if someone looks in the closet, the powder is in boxes that should arouse no suspicion."

"Very good." The masked man nodded with satisfaction. "Thursday is the day."

"The day after tomorrow?" The Englishman was startled; all of a sudden, it seemed too close.

"Exactly. The gunpowder must go off as close to four o'clock as possible. The candle I gave you should burn for eight hours, so light it at eight in the morning. I trust that will present no problems."

The Englishman considered. "It could be difficult. I've been playing least-in-sight the last few days, and it might seem suspicious if I'm at the embassy, and so early."

"I am not interested in the complications that your personal life is causing you," Le Serpent said coldly. "I pay you for results. Once the candle is lit you can run as far as you wish, but the explosion must take place on Thursday. That's the only day the king himself will join the other ministers in Castlereagh's bedchamber. Castlereagh will be on his feet again soon, and there may never be another time when everyone is gathered in one accessible place."

"Don't worry, I'll manage." The Englishman was awed at the scope of the destruction that would be caused. Yes, he must certainly cast his lot in with Le Serpent. The conspirator's boldness of vision and strength of will could take him to the very top during the chaos that would follow the explosion, and those who had assisted would go with him.

It was an intoxicating prospect. But he wished to inquire about another subject, not vital in the long run, but of great personal interest. "About the British spies…"

Le Serpent looked up impatiently from his desk. "They are being dealt with. Do not concern yourself."

"I'm interested in the woman, Countess Janos."

The masked man leaned back and laced his fingers across his ribs. "Do you want her for yourself, mon petit Anglais?" he said with amusement. "She's a handsome wench, I admit."

"Yes, I want her-at least, for a while."

"Since you have done your job well, I will let you have her as a bonus. Now, leave me, there is much to be done."

The Englishman was seething with anticipation as he left. He had never forgiven Margot Ashton for scorning him. Now she would pay for that and every other humiliation a woman had ever given him. She would pay, and pay, and pay.

Helene and Rafe returned to Maggie's house, and the three of them talked for hours. After discussing the Frenchwoman's meeting with the Prussian colonel, they tried to decide what needed to be done next. All of them felt that the situation was critical, and that they must behave more brashly than spies usually did.

During the course of the evening, Maggie sent a note to an informant, and received quick confirmation that Roussaye had been nicknamed Le Serpent. She bit her lip when she read the reply, for she had half hoped that von Fehrenbach had fabricated the story. If Robin had been paying surreptitious visits to Roussaye, it seemed likely that both men were conspirators. The general might be considered a patriot, albeit a misguided one, but it was hard to judge Robin's collaboration as anything other than treason. Maggie's emotions fought that conclusion, but her mind could not deny the mounting evidence against him.