Jane, thought Geoff irritably, was altogether too sure of herself sometimes.

Not to mention that she didn't know Letty Alsworthy. Not like he did. She didn't know that Letty's wide blue eyes hid a mind as cunning as Bonaparte's, that her self-effacing air masked a will stronger than Caesar's, and that her modest black dress cloaked a bust that would put Cleopatra's to shame. Geoff realized that his gaze was most improperly fastened on that last-mentioned attribute and hastily rearranged his features into their accustomed blandness. The larger the bosom, he reminded himself, the more room for asps to nest there. Or something along those lines. At worst, the addition of Letty Alsworthy spelled trouble. At best…Geoff was having a great deal of difficulty thinking of a best.

Jane smiled apologetically at Letty. "I am afraid you will have to be Mrs. Alsdale for some little bit longer."

"I don't mind," said Letty.

"I do," muttered Geoff.

"In fact," said Jane to Letty, "you might even be of some use to us."

"I would be glad to," said Letty, just as Geoff demanded, "What sort of use?"

Miss Gwen, watching both of them, emitted the harsh chuckle that served her for a laugh. Geoff saw nothing at all humorous about the situation. But, then, he had always suspected that Miss Gwen's sense of humor ran to watching matadors gored by bulls.

"Nothing like that," said Jane soothingly.

Geoff remained unconvinced. He wouldn't have put it past Jane to hand Letty an armful of explosives if she thought it would best serve her purposes at the time. As for Letty…he didn't like to think what she might do with an armful of explosives. She was dangerous enough armed with adjectives.

"This isn't a game," he said flatly.

"Of course not!" harrumphed Miss Gwen. "Games are for amateurs."

"Nor," added Geoff, with a quelling look at Letty, "is this a church fete."

"I didn't think it was," said Letty.

"What I mean"—Geoff drummed his fingers against the polished tabletop, wishing the War Office provided guidelines for situations such as this, with handy subheadings like "Unwanted wives, for the removal of"—"is that you can't just pitch in and help. It's not as though you're lending a hand with flower arrangements. The situation is deadly serious. Do you know anything of what is happening in Ireland?"

Letty looked like she wanted to claim that she did. Her head tilted, her mouth opened—and then closed again.

"No," she admitted.

"My point exactly." Geoff turned to Jane. "The idea is ridiculous."

"How much does she need to know?" demanded Miss Gwen, whom Geoff was quite sure was championing Letty's cause merely to be contrary. It was, she had informed Geoff in an unusually mellow moment after their successful raid on the opera house, one of her great pleasures in life.

As for her other great pleasure, Geoff could only be glad her parasol was safely tucked away in a corner of the room, well out of reach.

Miss Gwen turned to Letty. "The Irish are revolting and the French are invading. We're here to stop them. There," she said triumphantly to Geoff. "She knows all she needs to know."

Geoff didn't groan out loud. But he wanted to.

Working alone, that was the way to do it. There was a reason that Beowulf had gone into Grendel's cave alone. Otherwise, you wound up with too many cooks throwing unwanted impediments who happened to be married to you into the broth.

"That's only the very tip of it," he told Letty, whose eyes had gone round at the mention of revolt, and even rounder at invasion. Her eyes were a paler blue than her sister's, with a peculiar depth to them, like the sky after a rain, or the endless expanse of a sunlit sea.

"Rebellion?" Letty swallowed hard. "Here?"

Her gesture encompassed the peaceful parlor, the square patches of sunshine on the carpet, the leaves of a tree brushing against the windowpanes.

"Here," Geoff confirmed. "The United Irishmen have been planning rebellion ever since their last attempt failed in 'ninety-eight. They've had five years to figure out what went wrong last time and to try to fix it. Last time, they mustered fifty thousand men—no small number—and their French friends arrived with eleven hundred troops. We were lucky that they arrived late. It gave us time to mop up the local rebellion first. That was last time."

"And this time?"

"This time"—Geoff didn't need to exaggerate; the facts alone were grim enough—"our garrison has been reduced from seventy-five thousand to thirty thousand. Less than half."

"We are all acquainted with basic mathematics," interrupted Miss Gwen.

"This time," Geoff raised his voice, "Bonaparte is in a more generous frame of mind. We know his minister of war recently met with the United Irishmen's agent in Paris. They are talking of a full-scale invasion before the end of the summer. We don't have the men to fight them off. We don't even have enough men to counter a well-organized local rebellion. Within weeks, Ireland could blow up like a powder keg."

"Oh," said Letty. It was, she realized, an inadequate response, but she didn't know what else to say. Given where her tongue had led her before, it was probably safer not to say much of anything at all. For a very long time.

"If Ireland goes"—Lord Pinchingdale's tone was calm, almost conversational, but something about its very stillness made the hairs stand up on Letty's arms—"the way to England lies open."

"You mean…"

"Invasion."

"What can I do?" she asked, feeling more ineffectual than she had ever felt in her life. Guns and rebels and French troops…they weren't the sort of problem one could order to their room, or organize out of existence by rearranging a few numbers in a ledger.

"You can keep out of the way." Letty bristled at the brusque words, and, in a slightly gentler tone, Lord Pinchingdale went on, "Do whatever you would ordinarily do. Take tea with friends. Go shopping. Leave us to our work, and I'll take you back to London at the end of it."

Letty wondered if that was meant as a bribe. If she didn't leave him to his work, what then? Internment in an Irish cloister? Or, she realized with a sudden chill, death at the hands of a rebel mob? Letty had never seen a mob herself—farmers celebrating the harvest didn't count, even after a few too many kegs of ale—but she was old enough to remember the reports from France ten years before. Mobs ravaging the countryside, heads paraded on pikes…It was a strong argument for good behavior.

"I think we can muster something more interesting than that," said Jane. "Nothing dangerous, of course."

"What did you have in mind?" asked Lord Pinchingdale.

"You can't possibly object to a little jaunt to a historic site, can you?"

"That depends on which historic site."

"What could be more benign—or beneficial to the soul—than a house of worship?"

"It might even put you in mind of your vows," cackled Miss Gwen. "Till death, aren't they?"

Lord Pinchingdale ignored her. "You refer to St. Werburgh's," he said to Jane.

"The very one," replied Jane.

"Saint who?" enquired Letty, leaning forward.

"She's a very minor sort of saint," said Miss Gwen dismissively, giving the impression that she wouldn't stoop to dealings with any but the more major martyrs.

"It is the parish church of Dublin Castle," Geoff supplied, before Miss Gwen could say more. "More important, Saint Werburgh's houses the grave of Lord Edward Fitzgerald."

"Who, I take it," said Letty, trying to sound brighter than she felt, "is not a saint, minor or otherwise."

"It depends on whom you ask," said Geoff. "To the United Irishmen, he's the next thing to it."

"Lord Edward died of wounds he sustained during the rising in 'ninety-eight," explained Jane from the head of the table.

"A martyr to the cause." Letty turned the phrase over on her tongue, her head spinning with spies and rebels and minor sorts of saints.

They were all as far out of her ken as the figures of athletes on a Grecian urn or the intrigues of a Turkish harem, the sort of characters one read about from the safety of one's study, but never expected to encounter. And yet she had somehow, improbably, landed among them, like Cortez washed up upon the shores of the new world.

"But what," asked Letty, feeling as though she were wading very slowly through a South American swamp, "has a grave—even the grave of a martyr—to do with whatever the rebels are doing now?" A gruesome thought struck her, accompanied by images of medieval monks carrying saints' bodies in solemn procession. "They aren't planning to use his bones as a rallying point, are they?"

"I knew I liked her," pronounced Miss Gwen, to no one in particular.

"Nothing so macabre as that," said Geoff, with a quirk of his lip that might have been a smile if allowed to grow up. Letty found herself hoping it would, and oddly pleased that she had put it there. "But it does provide a convenient meeting place. One with symbolic weight."

"Surely, they wouldn't meet there during the day, would they?" asked Letty, whose impressions of spies had a good deal to do with cloaks, masks, and shuttered lanterns. It did strike her as more logical to meet in daylight, under the guise of ordinary activities, rather than skulking about at night, but spies—at least from the accounts in the illustrated papers—didn't seem to be a particularly logical group of people.

"More likely during the day than at night," replied Geoff. "But we're not hoping to surprise a meeting. We have reason to believe that devout pilgrims have been leaving an unusual sort of offering at Lord Edward's grave."