“She has a knife in her sleeve,” Doyle said. “She’s got another under her dress. She’s been in worse places, with less—so has Sévie, for that matter—and we got five men wandering around, armed to the teeth. I’ve seen pitched battles with less weaponry.”

That was an exaggeration. “It only takes one bullet.”

“Which our Caché is not going to contribute unless she’s stuffed a gun down her titties.” Doyle shook his head. “You’re staring at Justine again. I taught you better than that.”

“I’m keeping track of an operation.”

“You’re staring. This is why I never put a husband and wife in the field together.”

“We’re not married.”

“I don’t put lovers together, either.” Doyle nodded to a man Hawker didn’t know. When they were out of earshot, Doyle murmured, “Richard Shaw, Justice of the Peace, up from the country. Rabid Tory. Probably trying for an introduction to Liverpool.”

Liverpool, the Prime Minister, was standing in an alcove on the far side of the room. Eight or ten men had gathered in close, basking in the glow of power, chatting. A respectful distance cleared around them.

“Castlereagh, Granville, and Melbourne.” Doyle named them.

“Liverpool is knee deep in Whig politicians.”

“Diplomatic business, since it’s Castlereagh. Probably the Prussian tariffs.” Doyle said, “Cummings is busy.”

Lord Cummings had wedged himself into a place on Liverpool’s right hand. He was taller than the other men around Liverpool, gray-haired and distinguished, but he seemed flimsy next to the others.

“Small fish for that pond.” Lordship or no, Cummings wasn’t the equal of the other men in Liverpool’s circle. “He’s talking nineteen to the dozen. I wonder what he’s up to.”

“At a guess, he’s mending bridges. Military Intelligence is unpopular in England. Liverpool’s being criticized in the newspapers, and he doesn’t like it. He’s not cozy with Cummings lately.”

“Who shall blame Liverpool? Let us go trolling for a Caché.”

The ton parted to let them through—diplomats, MPs, bankers and bishops, staid country gentry, the aristocracy of Europe. They moved aside for the boy from the rookeries of St. Giles.

There’d been a time when his greatest ambition was to be a gentleman. Gentlemen—he was sure of this—ate all the sausages and eel pie they wanted. They kept coal fires burning on every grate. They wore silk nightshirts to bed and they pissed in gold chamber pots.

He’d set out to make himself a nob. He’d succeeded. Trouble was, it had stopped being an act years ago. Somebody named Sir Adrian had crawled into his skin and set up housekeeping. The boy from St. Giles wasn’t quite comfortable in there anymore.

“Hawkhurst. I thought you were out of town.”

“Jeremy.” Greet a friend. Shake hands. Promise to talk when they met for cards next week at Mortimer’s house. Walk on.

For all he was a friend, Jeremy knew Sir Adrian. He didn’t know Hawker. In St. Giles, men knew Hawker but not Sir Adrian. Sometimes, it felt like neither half of him was the real one.

“You’re watching her again,” Doyle said.

“I like watching her.” He kept his eye on Owl as she slipped along, inconspicuous, looking at faces. A flock of women milled around her, fluttering, gesturing. Any one of them could be carrying a knife.

For a decade, she’d kept herself alive on battlefields and in back alleys. She was watching her back. He had to believe she could survive one night at the Pickerings.

Besides, Pax was following her, ten paces behind.

He turned away, casual-like, so he didn’t have to notice Mrs. Gaite-Hartwick waving cheerily in his direction. The Gaite-Hartwicks weren’t the only family making it clear they’d overlook any amount of Hawkhurst mysterious origin as long as he owned a snug little manor near Oxford, part of a shipping company, and considerable London property.

Doyle said, “If I were her husband, I’d drink. Let’s get out of the main thoroughfare.”

“Suits me. Looks like Owl’s about finished.”

“Let’s go down and take inventory of the latecomers in the lobby. Terrington party next. Anybody who wasn’t here is going to be there. It’ll be larger than this.”

“Always a silver lining.”

“There’s more of a foreign contingent at the Terringtons’. Our Caché may have gone back to being French.” Doyle narrowed his eyes. “Cummings is whispering in Liverpool’s ear, and they’re both looking this way.”

“Have we done anything to irritate Liverpool in the last little space of time?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Let us hope Cummings is annoying him with the antics of the Yorkshire Luddites. Ah . . . Reams comes this way, being impolite to all the nice old ladies in his path. How very direct the military is.”

Colonel Reams arrived in all the glory of his scarlet coat, dress sword at his side, a big, red-coated slab of aging muscle. He wouldn’t think of himself as a messenger boy, but that was his role. “Liverpool wants to talk to you.”

Reams might as well have capered in triumph. Cummings had something clever planned, and Reams knew what it was. The Prime Minister was involved.

Interesting.

Nothing like walking into a trap to set the blood pumping. Plots and machinations littered the ground like caltrops. The game was in play.

He signaled Pax to move in closer to Owl. “Keep an eye on things,” he told Doyle.

“I’ll keep an eye on you instead.” Doyle slipped a thumb into his fob pocket and turned to be at his side.

Reams blocked the way. “I was told to bring Hawkhurst, not you.”

Doyle didn’t twitch a muscle. He just transformed from a large, indolent gentleman enjoying himself at a party into Lord William Doyle Markham, Viscount Markham, heir to the Earl of Dunmott, cousin, in one degree or other, to everybody important in the room, and married into one of the great aristocratic houses of Europe.

And him . . . he let himself be Sir Adrian Hawkhurst, who was God knew what, from God knew where, but rich, powerful, and at home in this ballroom.

Possibly Reams recalled the reputation for deadliness hovering over the men he confronted.

It was time to behave like an aristocrat. Time to be damn-your-eyes arrogant. He said, “Get the hell out of my way.” He and Doyle walked past Reams like a jackass in uniform didn’t even exist.

They didn’t hurry. Reams got left in their wake anyhow.

Liverpool beckoned when they got close, inviting them in. “Hawkhurst. Markham. Sorry to interrupt your evening.”

“Sir.” The Head of the British Intelligence Service met fairly often with the Prime Minister. So far, they’d dealt well. Liverpool liked to get reports face-to-face. Liked to ask questions. He understood there was just a startling flock of secrets that never got set down on paper.

Nods exchanged all around the circle. He knew these men, some better than others. On every face, he saw the kind of avid curiosity given to carriage wrecks.

The Prime Minister was an amiable man in private, pig-stubborn politically, and nobody’s fool. He was not pleased at the moment, which was likely to be bad news for somebody. His big twitchy eyebrows drew together. “Tell me about these two dead Frenchmen.”

Cummings made placating gestures. “I’m not accusing Hawkhurst. I am entirely convinced of his integrity. I merely raise the question of whether he should temporarily step down from his position until—”

Liverpool interrupted, “I want to hear what he has to say. Well, Hawkhurst?”

Cummings planted his cane on the marble floor, set both hands to the head of it, and gloated in a genteel manner.

Well, well, well. This was the duel. This was facing an enemy, weapons drawn. Him against Cummings. High stakes. He couldn’t grin and rub his hands. Instead, he drew himself up, stiff and offended. “What do you mean, ‘step down?’ ”

Cummings gave an elegant tilt to the cane. “In light of certain allegations that have been brought against you, it would be wisest if the government replaced you with someone outside your—” Cummings didn’t get to finish.

“Tell me about the dead men,” Liverpool said.

The Head of the British Service played political games as well the Great Game of spying. This was the cross-and-jostle work of British politics. He let himself look exasperated, with a dash of mysterious spicing it up. “There have been two deaths, both French émigrés. They’re being investigated by Bow Street. The first murder—”

“The stabbings are the work of the same man,” Cummings said quickly. “He—”

Liverpool snapped, “Let him talk.”

Good. Liverpool wasn’t on Cummings’s side. Not necessarily on his side, either, but not on Cummings’s.

“Stabbed. Yes. We know a good bit about the circumstances.” He paused. The circle of men leaned forward, listening. Nothing like murder to entertain the nobility. “There’s more to it than brutal murder.”

“What do you mean?” That was Castlereagh. You could be foreign secretary and still hungry for the details of violent death.

Time to lift the corner of the curtain and reveal some shadow. Damn, he should have been a street performer. “The same method was used in both cases. One stroke to the heart.” He jerked his fist upward, suddenly. “It takes timing and skill and—I hate to say it—practice. We’re dealing with an expert.”

Castlereagh muttered, “Cowardly. Cowardly work.”

“In London, you say?” That was an MP from Suffolk.

“What’s the world coming to when there’s bloody murder in London?”

Men die worse than that in London every day, in Whitechapel and St. Giles. “Bow Street called us in because of the connection with France. We’ve learned that both the dead men were former French Secret Police. They left France during the Revolution, changed their names, and set up in London as shopkeepers.”