“I will sleep as the mouse sleeps beside the cat. Do not lie to me, English. I have no patience with it.”

“I don’t have a hell of a lot of patience myself right now. So unless you’re offering me a poke at this…” The deep vee of her shirt flipped open. Cool air rushed in. “…experienced, devious little body, get into that nightgown and get to bed.”

“Monsieur, do not do this to me.”

“Not a damn thing’s going to happen to you if you behave. You follow orders, and you’ll be treated well. Fight me one more time, and I swear I’ll tie you to the bedpost. Accept it.”

Accept it, he said. But he lied to her and to himself, too, if he thought he would lay her down in that soft bed and not take her.

He was no monster. He would not force her. But he wanted her fiercely, and he thought she was of light morals, and willing. Tonight, in the long quiet hours, he would put his hands upon her and confuse her until she made the answers he wished, softly, in the intimacy of the covers. In the end he might make her want what he did to her. She was not strong and sensible when it came to this man.

That was yet another reason she must escape.

When all other weapons are gone, one must depend upon cunning and lies and terrible schemes. Vauban had taught her that. Maman had taught her. René and Françoise and wise, cynical old Soulier had taught her that—all her old friends in the spying Game. She had known this since she was a child. Sometimes one must do things one does not exactly like.

She could not commit despicable acts as Annique. She must be someone of greater resolution. There were roles within her…She took a steadying breath and chose. She would be the Worldly Courtesan. Had she not played this role often in Vienna?

She crossed her arms over her breasts and bowed her head and let the role of the Courtesan settle across her spirit. It wrapped round her like a thick, protective cloak. The Worldly Courtesan was years older than Annique, knowing and cynical. She did not give a fig whatsoever about an enemy English. The Courtesan would not worry about wearing that obscene scrap of cloth…or whatever else it might become necessary to do.

She raised her chin. The Courtesan was not dismayed because a man desired her. It gave her power.

She shrugged. “You have won this futile small victory of yours.” Being the Courtesan, she could push past Grey, impatient and contemptuous, and saunter across the room. It was three long steps from the window to the table; she had counted after dinner. She turned her back on him and tossed the slippery silk of the nightgown across the table, next to the candlestick. She touched that one last time. Her bones and muscles would remember where it was when all was in disorder. The scene was set. Everything was prepared.

“Go away. I will dress in this vulgar garment. But I will not strip naked in front of you.” Her voice was cool and patrician, heavy with ennui. The Courtesan’s voice. She set two fingers on the tabletop to keep her body oriented exactly as she wanted it. “Whatever you think, I am not a woman of light amusements with strangers.”

“It’s too dark to see much. Do it now, before I strip you down and toss you into bed myself.”

“How alluring you make it sound.” The Courtesan she had molded around her mind could say that. “With the women of England you are a great success with such methods, no?” Playing the Courtesan, she could reach nonchalantly for the hem of the shirt, as if she undressed every night in some man’s company. “If you will not leave, at least turn your back.”

“To preserve your modesty?”

“It is not such a large favor to ask. I am less accustomed to humiliation than you seem to think.” The shell of her role cracked, and a quaver of her shame and fear showed through. She could not have done better if she’d practiced a week.

“That much I can do.”

She heard the rustle of his movement. Now she must undress. It was hard, playing the whore, the first of several difficult acts. She lifted the shirt up over her head and revealed her nakedness. Perhaps the room was dark enough that he would see nothing. Perhaps he had turned his back as he said. If not, she must hope he would be distracted, as men always were by her body, and not notice exactly what she was doing.

Now. No more delay. Now.

One. Two. Three. She tossed the shirt onto the table. Under cover of that, she picked up the heavy brass candlestick. She flipped it to be a club. Spun toward Grey. Lunged toward the sound of his breathing and swung.

Missed.

She staggered, off balance. Where was he? She tried to hear him. Where?

A whisper of air. Pain exploded in her wrist. She dropped her weapon. He’d kicked her wrist. Hit the bone of it. The candlestick rolled clattering on the floor.

“Sapristi!” Such pain. This was disaster. She had made a miscalculation of great magnitude. She backed away quickly, unarmed and naked before him, shaking her hand out to get feeling back within it. “You are fast, monsieur.”

“Fast enough.”

Another step back. Here was the table. Thank le bon Dieu. She scurried for the other side, plucking across the wood till she touched silk. The nightgown. “You did not look away. That was deceitful.”

“Let’s talk about deceit, shall we?”

“That is a problem between us, I agree.”

Feverishly, she grappled with the nightgown, one-handed and clumsy. It was vital she get this on. She got it right side up and pulled it around her and pushed one arm into the sleeve, then the other. Here was the cord. Good. Very good. Fumbling, she tied it.

He made his way around the table, edging her ahead of him by slow, deliberate footfalls. She was not stupid enough to think she could escape. It was no surprise to feel his hands close on her, gentle and insistent, as if he held a sack of rebellious eggs. He was being careful with her. His hunger for her vibrated between them like discordant music. His touch was perfectly impersonal. She was totally unnerved by this.

He said, “You’ve decided then. I tie you up. It’s simpler this way.”

“Undoubtedly.” Her voice was ragged in her ears. “But I would much rather you did not.”

“At last. You’ve said something I believe.” He backed her toward the bed, step by step. Not roughly. Gradually. A little pressure was all he needed. “Prudent of you to put on the nightgown, even if it’s too late. Were you planning to kill me with that candlestick?”

“I would not kill you on purpose, but I am clumsy these days and might have misjudged. Is there anything at all I can say to keep you from doing this to me?” She was trembling badly.

“Nothing I can think of, right off.”

“What if I promise not to try to escape again, not at all, till we reach England?”

“No.” He was most chillingly ordinary and calm. “I have extra bandages I don’t need for Adrian. I’ll use those. They’re nice and soft.” How provident of him. Perhaps he took prisoners frequently. How would she know what the British did? “It won’t be too uncomfortable. You may even get some sleep.”

“I am harmless, really. You should reconsider.”

“You don’t have to be afraid,” he said. “I don’t hurt women. Not even women like you.”

More of his incomprehensible insults. As if he did not have his dozens of women agents working for his Service. It was illogical that he should despise her.

The mattress bumped against her thigh. He twisted the hold upon her shoulder shrewdly, and she lost her balance and fell downward onto the bed. Coverlets flapped and clung as she scrambled away from him through the treacherous softness, to the wall. That was as far as she could flee. Her back pressed to the cold plaster. Silk slicked against her skin. She drew herself together and set her face to her knees. The Fox Cub was cornered at last.

All her clever roles had deserted her. No one was left to deal with this situation but Annique. And Annique was afraid. Afraid.

She listened to him cross the room. The leather valise creaked. Small sounds told her he searched within it. Then his steps returned toward her.

“Grey…monsieur…I will promise not to attack you again. I will swear it by whatever you like.”

The bed sagged as he sat next to her. “You could offer me a couple French secrets. Maybe the ones you were discussing with Leblanc.”

“The Albion plans.” She made herself say it lightly. “Leblanc obsesses himself with them lately.”

“I’m obsessed with them myself. We’re going to talk about the Albion plans for a good long time, you and I.”

She was cold inside. Cold and sick. “But this is foolish. I am a small player in the Game. I do not make the grand political intrigues. You will be disappointed if you expect important secrets from me.”

“You won’t disappoint me.” There were many nuances in his voice.

The bed jiggled as he worked with something in his hands. That would be the linen bandages he spoke of—the ones he would tie her with. He was preparing them. Soon she would be helpless and all chance of escape gone.

“I do not wish to be tied up,” she whispered.

“I don’t think you can convince me. You could try, though. Offer me just a small secret, and we’ll see.”

Not secrets. Something else. She had known, deep in her heart, that it would come to this.

One last plan. There is always a last plan one has hoped not to use. She gathered the silken nightdress about her and crawled toward him, to his side, till she was close. Till she could almost feel the heat from his body. She made herself kneel on the bed, her knees apart. She had seen prostitutes do this in the whorehouse her mother kept for a time in Paris. Doubtless Monsieur Grey had visited many whore-houses and would recognize what she offered.