"I pray that he is successful," Helene said grimly. "We have no other leads, do we?"

Succumbing to morbid curiosity about how Margot did her work, Rafe asked, "Not unless you can utilize the same sources that Maggie did. Is that possible?"

"Not really. She knows hundreds of women throughout the city-laundresses, maids, street peddlers. All across Europe, actually. I was merely one of them, except that we became friends. We each needed a friend."

Rafe stopped and stared in astonishment. "She got all her information from women?"

Helene clicked her tongue in disgust. "You're as bad as Colonel von Fehrenbach. Why do men always assume that the only way a female spy can work is on her back? Think about it, your grace. Women are everywhere, yet they are often treated as if they are invisible. Men speak of secret plans in front of maids, throw vital papers in the trash, boast of their achievements to prostitutes. Maggie's genius was in collecting so many pieces of information, then making sense of them."

She bit her lip for a moment before continuing. "I suppose that somewhere there might be a list of Maggie's informants, but it would be well hidden, and certainly in some kind of code. Even if we could find and decipher such a list, most of her women would not talk to a stranger. Our loyalty is to Maggie's cause, and to her personally. Money was secondary."

Rafe drummed his fingers on the mantelpiece while he thought about Helene's revelation. In his jealousy, he had assumed that Margot traded her body for information, with the cynical connivance of Anderson. Bloody hell, had he been right about anything?

Interrupting his thoughts, Helene asked, "What will you do now, go to Wellington?"

"No, as I told Roussaye, all Wellington could do is lend some troops, and without knowing where to search, that would do no good. I've sent an urgent message to the man in London who sent me here. I'm sure he'll have some useful suggestions, but it will be several days before I can expect to hear from him."

"And in the meantime?"

Rafe grimaced. "If Roussaye is successful at discovering Lemercier's employer, we may be able to go right to the source of the conspiracy. Apart from that, damned if I know. I'll go back to the Hotel de la Paix and rack my brains. Write down your direction, and I'll contact you if I come up with anything."

Helene went to the escritoire for pen and paper and ink. After writing her address, she said, "I, too, shall see if I can think of anything else. There must be someone who could help, if I can only think who it would be."

The two exchanged a bleak look, then Rafe left.

It was on the carriage ride home that he decided that it was worth talking to Count de Varenne. If, as Roussaye had said, the count had been active in royalist spy work during his exile, he might still have useful information sources.

Rafe stopped at his hotel only long enough to change to riding clothes and to ask the concierge for directions to Chanteuil. Then he set off on the bay gelding he had bought the first week in Paris. Not only would riding be faster than his carriage, but he desperately needed the physical release of being on horseback.

His route led west past the imperial palace of Malmaison, which Josephine Bonaparte had bought as a quiet country retreat. Josephine had retired and died there after the emperor divorced her for failing to produce an heir. It was said that Malmaison was where Bonaparte had spent his last free hours on French soil, for he had wanted to be near the spirit of the woman he had never stopped loving.

It was a romantic story, and as Rafe passed the estate he felt a twinge of sympathy for the Butcher of Corsica, who had continued to love where it was neither wise nor expedient. It was perhaps the only thing they had in common.

It took Rafe less than an hour to reach Chanteuil. The iron gates were rusted but solid enough, as was the gray stone wall that protected the estate. An ancient gatekeeper examined Rafe with deep suspicion before allowing him entrance.

Once inside the grounds, Rafe saw that the castle was as dramatic as Varenne had claimed. The original fortress had been on a rocky upthrust that towered above the surrounding countryside. Since it lay within a bend of the Seine, there was water on three sides. Over the centuries, new buildings and wide formal gardens had spread below the turreted keep, but the overall effect was still menacingly medieval.

As he cantered up the long gravel drive, Rafe had the fleeting thought that Chanteuil looked like a setting for one of Mrs. Radcliffe's lurid melodramas. The estate showed the effects of years of neglect. The gardens were jungles of unkempt vegetation, and most of the outbuildings were in a poor state of repair. Though attempts were being made to return Chanteuil to its former grandeur, it would take Varenne several years and a substantial fortune to finish the task.

When Rafe reined in before the main entrance and dismounted, a servant appeared to take his horse. Impatient with the sense of valuable time slipping away, Rafe took the steps two at a time and wielded the massive knocker vigorously while he prayed that the visit would produce something of value.

After subjecting Rafe to another scrutiny, the elderly butler who admitted him consented to take a card to the master. At least, thank God, Varenne was at home. It was about time something went right.

The Count de Varenne was working in his library amidst the musty odor of ancient books when the card was presented to him. The sight made him smile with deep satisfaction. Surely the gods were on his side. Who would have dreamed that the next fly would walk right into the web and offer the spider a card? And this fly was solid gold. He asked the butler, "Is the duke alone?"

"Yes, milord."

Varenne glanced at the wizened clerk who was his companion in the library. "Grimod, go up to the gun room in the west turret and bring down another shotgun and ammunition." Turning back to the butler, he said, "Fetch Lavisse, then wait ten minutes and bring up Candover."

The vast hall where Rafe waited was cold and drafty even in the last days of summer. As he watched a mouse scamper across the uneven flagstones, he wondered what it would be like in winter, with cold wind and river damp. Damned uncomfortable was his guess. Varenne would have his hands full making this dank medieval fortress habitable.

Eventually the old butler shuffled back and gestured for the visitor to follow. After a long, slow journey through uneven stone passages and up narrow stairs, the butler opened a door and waved Rafe through. "The library, milord," he wheezed.

As soon as Rafe stepped into the room, hard metallic objects were jammed into his sides. "Put your hands up in the air, Candover," an amiable voice said. "Those are fowling pieces. At point blank range, the shot will rip you to shreds."

Rafe saw that two men had been waiting by the door with shotguns. Knowing that it would be suicidal to reach for his pistol, he slowly raised his hands. What a damned fool he had been; what a bloody damned fool.

He stood still while a servant searched him, removing the pistol. When the servant was finished, Rafe said dryly, "I assume that one could say that I've found Countess Janos, in a manner of speaking."

"So you have," Varenne replied, "and I assure you that she is quite well. Adjusting to her captivity with remarkable speed, in fact." The count gestured for Rafe to take one of the chairs in front of the desk. The guards remained near the door, their shotguns trained on the duke.

Varenne continued, "Your fraudulent countess is quite the little survivor. Did you know that she is as English as you are, without an aristocratic bone in her delightful body?"

Taking Rafe's stony face for shock, the count gave a malicious chuckle. "Don't be too hard on yourself, Candover, I didn't guess either. But that's enough about that little doxy-I'm more interested in you. Does anyone know that you're here?"

Rafe considered lying and saying yes, but he hesitated too long. Varenne seized on the pause and interpreted it correctly. "Good, you didn't tell anyone you were coming. This close to the critical hour, I would not like to waste my men's time in hunting down whomever you told."

So the plot was on the verge of execution, and Rafe and Margot couldn't do a blasted thing about it. "Satisfy my curiosity, Varenne. What are you up to? If I'm going to die, I'd like to know why."

The count looked shocked. "Going to die? Whatever made you think that I would unnecessarily eliminate a man of your wealth? That would be profligate, and I did not get where I am by wasting my opportunities. That brings me to another question. You are said to be worth about eighty thousand pounds a year. Is that correct?"

Rafe shrugged. "Near enough. It varies some depending on how different business interests are doing."

"Splendid!" The count positively beamed, his dark eyes sparkling like agates. "Since I have a few minutes to spare, I will satisfy your curiosity, or at least part of it. Care to join me in a glass of burgundy? This is a rather fine vintage."

Rafe felt as if he had wandered into Bedlam, but he nodded his agreement; he could use a drink. A few minutes were spent in ordering glasses and pouring the wine. Rafe took a sip, and conceded that the vintage was excellent.

After a sip of his own wine, the count said pensively, "You wondered what I am about. It is quite simple-France needs strong leadership, and she will not get it from the decadent dregs of the House of Bourbon. After my plan is executed, there will be chaos, and I am prepared to step in to sort it out. I have royal blood in my veins-some of it even legitimate. The royalists will greet me with open arms. After all, I have served my time in exile, I am one of them."