"What!" Maggie exclaimed. "Why the devil should I waste time dealing with an amateur? If there is a conspiracy afoot, time is critical. At the risk of insulting your grace's consequence, you would only get in the way."

Rafe's lips tightened, but he kept his voice level. "Lucien suspects that someone in the British delegation is either careless or treacherous, and this matter is too important to take chances. He wants you to report to me. We've set up a temporary courier service between here and London to keep him informed. If events warrant it, I'll go directly to Castlereagh or Wellington."

"How nice to know that Strathmore trusts them," she said with heavy sarcasm. "However, I prefer to work in my own way."

"I am not in a position to compel you," Rafe said gently, "but for the sake of the task at hand, do you think you could manage to choke down your repugnance and work with me? It won't be for very long."

Maggie glared at him, suppressing the desire to pour the rest of her wine over his head to see if that would disturb his impenetrable calm. Unfortunately, there was no compelling reason not to work with him except for her personal distaste, and like it or not, she was under a heavy obligation to him. Through slightly gritted teeth, she said, "Very well, I will let you know whatever I find."

After she set down her wineglass and opened the door to leave, he said, "Let me give you my direction."

She smiled at him wickedly. "No need. I already know where you are staying, the names of your groom and valet, and the number of pieces of luggage you brought." Having finally managed to produce a surprised look on the Duke of Candover's face, she added sweetly, "Remember, information is my business."

Maggie felt rather pleased as she left. At least she had gotten the last word for tonight.

A pity it wouldn't be the last word with him forever.

Chapter 3

After Maggie swept from the room, Rafe released a long, exhausted breath. For years he had cherished romantic memories of the girl he had loved and lost, with occasional speculations about what might have been. It was jarring to have that nostalgia shattered by the very real presence of the former beloved, now alive, impudent, and dismayingly competent.

He finished his wine, then set the glass on the sideboard. For all the haunting flashes of Margot Ashton, this woman was a stranger, hardened and unpredictable in ways he would never understand. The girl he had loved no longer existed, and he wasn't at all sure he liked this Maggie with her cool, polished surface and her prickliness. She acted as if he had been the one to betray her so many years ago, not vice versa.

He sighed and stood up. Most truths had more than one aspect; perhaps her memories of the incident were different from his. It didn't matter now. It takes youth to risk the appalling dangers of total love, and Rafe knew that he was no longer capable of that.

But he had been wrong on one point; he had thought no woman could be as desirable as his memories of Margot. As it turned out, she was even more alluring than he remembered. It had been difficult to keep his hands to himself even when she was spitting insults.

As he stepped into the corridor to return to the ball, he reminded himself that he was not in Paris to romance her, reminisce with her, or to make childish taunts, no matter how great the provocation. What mattered was the conference, and the lives of the men who were trying to build a lasting peace.

Before proceeding to her next rendezvous, Maggie stepped into a dark side passage for a moment to regroup her forces. Leaning against the wall and closing her eyes, she mentally went through the profanity that she knew fluently in five languages.

Damn Robin for talking her into meeting the Duke of Candover, damn Rafe Whitbourne both for his impenetrable coolness, and for that shattering kiss that proved that Margot was not as dead as Maggie had thought. Most of all, she damned herself for the faint, irrepressible anticipation she felt at the thought of seeing him again.

She reminded herself furiously that a kiss meant nothing to him. He must have participated in hundreds over the years. Probably not hundreds but thousands.

Which was why he was so very good at kissing…

The thought revived her fury. She was all the way down to Slovakian curses before she could laugh at herself and resume her journey. Her destination was another assignation room, a near-twin of the one she had just left. She entered without knocking and found Robin sprawled on the sofa with a glass of wine in his hand, for all the world like a lover eagerly awaiting a lady. Which was, after all, more or less the truth.

He started to rise, but she waved him back. "No need to get up." She moved his feet from the sofa so she could sit down next to him, wanting the comfort of his familiar presence.

As he interpreted her expression, the look of fatuous vacuity he cultivated changed to amused intelligence. "Dare I ask how your confrontation with the duke came out?"

She sighed. "You and he win. I'll be staying through the end of the peace conference, no matter how long it takes."

Robin gave a soft whistle of surprise. "How did Candover accomplish that? If he has found some miraculous technique to persuade you, I should ask him what it is."

Maggie chuckled and patted his hand. "Don't bother, my dear. His method was not one that anyone else could use." Her brief amusement faded. "He happened to be in France when my father and Willis were killed, and he arranged to take the bodies back to England. They have been buried at my uncle's estate the last dozen years."

Robin looked at her narrowly. While it was good that she was staying, this new fact suggested a myriad of interesting questions. How well had Maggie known the duke, and were there implications here that might affect his own plans? Keeping those thoughts to himself, he asked, "Is it possible that he lied about that, to convince you to stay here?"

Maggie was startled by the question; it had never occurred to her to doubt Rafe's word. She did not pause to reconsider before shaking her head. "No, he's one of your proper English gentlemen, without enough imagination to lie."

Robin grinned, looking irresistibly boyish. "Haven't I convinced you yet that not all Englishmen are gentlemen?"

"You, Robin, are sui generis, absolutely one of a kind. The fact that you are English is a mere accident of birth." Maggie smiled at him affectionately. In spite of all his strenuous objections to the contrary, Robin was completely a gentleman, more so than Rafe Whitbourne had proved to be.

Over the years she had often wondered about Robin's background. She suspected that he was the illegitimate son of a noble house, raised and educated among gentlemen but forever an outsider in the ranks of polite society. That would explain why he showed no desire to return to his native land. But she had never asked for confirmation, and Robin had never volunteered. Though in many ways they were very close, some subjects were not discussed.

"Your suggestion to tantalize the duke with my irresistible body was a dead loss, by the way," she added wryly. "It wouldn't have mattered if I were as beautiful as Helen of Troy, or as ugly as Madame de Stael. The duke's noble mind is above such crass matters as lust, at least when he is engaged on His Britannic Majesty's business." His kiss, after all, had only been a way to confirm her identity.

"He merely has superhuman control. Seeing you in that gown tempts me to lock the door and overpower you with kisses myself."

Maggie glanced away, not wanting to deal with what lay beneath his teasing tone. "Before I return to England, I'm going to acquire an entire wardrobe of gowns that come up to my throat. It's tedious to have men always talking to one's chest rather than one's face."

Serious again, Robin said, "Why did Candover do something as extraordinary as returning your father's body to England? It must have been very difficult to arrange."

"I imagine it was." Maggie was reluctant to tell even Robin her history with the duke. Choosing part of the truth, she said, "He and my father were friends." Before Robin could inquire further, she went on, "For your sins, you can now learn about the urgent project Candover dropped onto our plates."

Succinctly she outlined what Rafe had said about a possible plot hidden in Parisian diplomatic circles. At the end, she produced the paper Lord Strathmore had sent, and she and Robin read it together.

"If Strathmore is right, this is deadly serious," Robin said soberly. "There have been other conspiracies, but always by insignificant people far from the centers of power. This plot looks different."

"I know," she said thoughtfully. "I can already think of several names to put behind this conspiracy."

"So can I, all men who will be impossible to accuse without rock-solid proof, even if we were sure ourselves."

"After you and I have both checked with our informants, it may reduce the number of possibilities."

"Or it may increase them. All we can do is get to work and hope for the best." He glanced at the letter again. "You're disobeying orders-according to this, you should have nothing to do with anyone in the delegation save Castlereagh and Wellington. What if I'm Strathmore's weak link?"

"Nonsense," she retorted. "He means the regular delegation, not you. You've worked with Strathmore longer than I have."

As Robin got to his feet, he shook his head with mock sorrow. "I see that all my lessons have been wasted. How many times have I told you not to trust anyone, even me?"