Sir Andrew hovered at the window, watching darkness settle over the narrow road outside the inconspicuous inn where the five of them shared the largest room.

�I think we�ve been followed,� he muttered very low, more to himself than the others. In the fading light, he was certain he saw menacing shapes moving among the trees. �The sooner we get away from here the better I�ll like it.�

Glynde, a shade more perceptive than Hastings, was frowning. He moved to the window and looked out, studying the road and trees, then shrugged and went back to where Hastings was interrogating the doctor.

"Fine,� Andrew scowled. �Now I�m seeing things.� Was it his fault his nerves were on the raw?

�What if you take me back part of the way to Paris, and leave me on the road?� the doctor said. Hastings didn't respond at once, shifting his gaze between their faces. Finally he said, �I must confer with the others."

Glynde concentrated on pounding his right fist into his left palm. Clearly he had no response. Andrew shrugged and said, �Whatever. If you wish to be abandoned on the road, I�d suggest we drop you about two leagues from the city gates. We�ll have passed through by the time you get there so it won�t matter what you say to the authorities as we�re all marked men anyway.� He paused and then added, with an enigmatic smile, �I would suggest that once we reach Paris we head in the direction of Le Crayon Rouge and enjoy a hell of a bang-up supper since it�s liable to be our last. It will take Chauvelin less than two hours to mark our presence and then he�ll pick us up at his leisure.�

Ffoulkes unbuckled his sword belt and tossed it into a corner. �I certainly won�t get the opportunity to use that. I say, Hastings, you do carry small arms, don�t you?� Andrew shifted his weight and with a sleight-of-hand movement suddenly held a razor sharp dagger in his hand. �This baby has saved my life at least a dozen times.�

Andrew turned from the window, where he was sitting cross-legged, and turned his attention to the tankard of local beer left over from supper. �If you think you might get a shot or two before you�re disarmed, by all means keep your pistol,� he said after a deep swallow. �I�m leaving my sword and you should leave your musket because they�ll fall to the French and there�s no point in arming your enemies.�

Andrew laughed and added, �It would be a gross joke to be killed with your own weapon.�

He enjoyed Hastings�s self-assurance rather more than young Tony�s blustering arrogance and didn�t bother to consider how similar the traits were. In truth he was simply not taken by Lord Tony whose family was rich and powerful. When Ffoulkes looked at Tony, all he saw was a spoiled boy. There was no trouble his papa could not buy him out of. It didn�t matter that Andrew knew Tony to be an accurate shot as well as possessing a strong and steady wrist when using a sword; the very idea of Exeter and all the family stood for, the way Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, minor Scottish baronet, felt ill at ease when invited to any of their several ostentatious homes, sealed the fate on what could have been a great friendship. Only their mutual love of Blakeney held them together.

Andrew got to his feet and retrieved the sword he�d tossed aside. �As a matter of fact, I�m going to ask the inn keeper to keep this for me � pay him a little gift so he�s less inclined to sell it � and pray that I live to retrieve it.� He couldn�t simply give away a valuable sword like that. It had set him back several hundred pounds!

The desultory conversation yielded nothing useful and finally each man looked to his bed. Glynde had dropped onto the small pallet, which meant he was sleeping alone, while Ffoulkes eyed the large bed and Hastings with distaste.

"You don't snore, do you?" he asked, remembering sleepless nights spent next to Blakeney.

The night felt like Scotland - cold for the end of August. For all the day had been warm, the night held a definite chill and Andrew stripped to his shirt quickly. He pulled the blanket up to his chin, then felt himself sliding toward the middle of the mattress as Hastings took his place. Now, there was the one advantage in all the world to sharing a bed with Dewhurst . . . he didn't take up more than his half and he didn't weigh down the mattress so that Andrew felt as if he were perched on the edge all night long.

Dawn broke early - too early for Sir Andrew who'd slept badly, dreaming over and over again about holes that opened up in the road and faceless demons that leapt from behind sinister-looking trees.

He shaved with the last of the cold water, eyeing Hastings's bland and bored __expression with distaste. "Since you'll get to the dining room before me," he called to Lord John as he opened the door, "do me a favour and save me an orange at least."

Hastings shrugged.

"And a cup of black coffee."

In the inn's drive, their coach looked as haggard as he felt - mud-spattered and sullen. He climbed inside, gratefully assuming Dewhurst's seat next to the window. In the light of day he discovered why it had turned cold so quickly. There had been a lot of rain - now that the growing season was over and the meagre crops harvested - and each river they drove across was running high and fast. Paris. Not so long ago Andrew's pulse had quickened at the very mention of its name; now he felt only dread with each kilometre they gained. Damn Percy to hell for insisting on returning to that God-cursed city! Surely it was tempting fate to reappear on Chauvelin's doorstep. Hastings has slumped into the seat and dozed off. Ffoulkes elbowed him. "Sir John?" There was a faint stirring; Andrew tried again. "Hastings." As the eyelids raised over blurred brown eyes, Andrew asked, "Are you dreaming a way we can get into La Force unseen, and get Percy out?"

Sir Edward had had Ffoulkes�s attention until he said, � . . . yes, I�m considering Lady Blakeney a hostage until we know otherwise,� then he lost Ffoulkes to introspection. Lady Blakeney � a hostage? Sir Andrew blinked at Hastings in surprise. Was the poor man daft?

� . . . and we have to get them all at once or the odds will be worse . . .�

�Wait a minute,� Andrew interrupted, but Hastings continued outlining his plan, forcing Andrew to remain silent, which he managed to do, until Hastings surprised him once more.

�Our first priority is finding hide-outs and communicating with the others what the situations is��

�Others?�

�The rest of the league . . .�

Hope welled to the surface so quickly that Andrew felt dizzy with the effect. Damnation, he�d forgotten about Percy�s order returning all the members of the league both in Paris and along the road to Calais in a string of precious pearls to guard the road and relay messages.

�Goddamn,� he muttered, �perhaps there is a chance after all.�

Hastings mentioned Glynde. Yes, Glynde was the most resourceful of men . . . and, too, there was Bathurst. For all that Lord Bathurst�s name weighed more than the man�s thoughts, he was ever-useful at forcing unmovable objects . . . and Chauvelin was not too big to be pushed � not by Bathurst. Briefly, Andrew grinned at the thought of the irrepressible Lord John dangling the compact body of querulous Chauvelin out a 3rd storey window � by his ankle.

�A spy?� Andrew said, catching the last of Hastings�s words. �Yes � there are a few good fellows we can tap in that capacity. Blakeney was ever good at winning the confidence of small men and minor players. Or, instead of a man, perhaps a boy. Less obtrusive. I know of just the fellow for such a job.�

The boy . . . he�d nearly forgotten about the child! It was nearly 6 months ago, when they�d been hurrying along the bank of the Seine toward a smithy, needing assistance for a carriage horse that had thrown a shoe.

�You can exchange him for another horse,� Ffoulkes had said, but Blakeney had glared at him as if he�d said cursed his friend�s mother.

�Buttercup is mine and I won�t leave her in a poxy French stable. They eat horses in this country, don�t y�know.�

So, they�d trudged through the biting wind racing off the river until they found a smith who was willing to send his apprentice to shoe a horse on the fly. Outside the smithy there�d been a wretched coffee-seller, a hunched fellow carrying an urn on his back.

�Hot coffee?� he croaked, too cold to sing out his wares in the usual way. Ffoulkes�s ears, red-tipped from cold had perked up and he�d stopped at once. Blakeney hesitated a little before joining him, as if his presence was required at a shoeing. As the old man juggled the urn and produced a cup, a lad who looked about 9 crept out from behind him. He had a small, pointed face filled with eyes as large and green as a starving cat�s and he shivered with cold while the man poured out the coffee. Blakeney had dropped another silver coin into the man�s hand and jerked his chin at the lad. �I want to buy one for the lad as well.�

�Jer�me?� the coffee-seller asked.

�That�s right. For your boy. He�s nearly frozen solid, poor lad. Needs warming up, same as us.�

The old man pocketed the coin willingly enough, but paused over pouring out the cup. Blakeney, who had been in a hurry to follow the smith, now stood patiently waiting, watching that the coffee was poured and given to the boy, and that the boy drank it down.

Sir Andrew had watched the boy pass the cup back, a grateful grin on his face for Blakeney, who had winked at him before turning back toward the road.

�I�ll bet I could find him parked within walking distance of the Pont Neuf,� Andrew said . . . then skewered Hastings with a quizzical look and demanded, �What plan B?�

Chauvelin had a daughter? Ffoulkes laughed aloud at that. "Unbelievable! He looks the type to eat his own young. A novel thought, Monsieur Chauvelin as pater familias. If she's so adored, I would imagine she has a nanny with a stiletto concealed in her apron keeping her safe during these troubled times. How do you suppose we might grab this child?" But no sooner had Andrew asked the question than he saw the answer in his mind . . .

"If we knew where Chauvelin resided, I'll bet I could get the child."

Sir Andrew knew everything about disguise. He stared out the window, not seeing the passing scenery, seeing instead a day last winter when a watery sun attempted to warm Blakeney's cold back parlour. He and Sir Percy were sitting in overstuffed armchairs, one on each side of the crackling fire with their backs to the long window.

"There are endless ways to trick the eye," Percy had said. "I confounded Chauvelin disguised as a peg-legged sailor because he knew it was impossible. He looked at that peg, then stared into my face and convinced himself I had to be someone else, though I'd altered my appearance with nothin' more than 2 days' worth of beard."

"But . . ."

Seeing Andrew's protest taking shape, Percy forestalled it by asking, "When you look at me, what do you see?"

Andrew fidgeted in his seat, struggling to come up with an answer.

"Look at me, man," Percy entreated. "How can you tell me what you see if you won't bloody look?"

Exasperated, Percy strode across to Andrew, clamped down upon his friend's wrist, pulled him out of his chair and stood him before the gilt-framed mirror decorating the wall beside the hearth. Percy stood behind Andrew, holding him by the shoulders, their faces reflected mere inches apart as they faced the glass.

"Look at yourself then," Percy said, "and I will tell you what I see."

Uncertainly, Andrew watched Percy's lazy gaze rove over his reflected face.

"I know you're 26, but if I didn't, I'd guess you to be 22 because . . ." Percy long palm caressed Andrew's square chin.

"Not much beard, d'you see? If you were fresh-shaved, there'd be no trace at all, and you could pass for a lad of 16."

He was unnerved when Percy abruptly tugged at the ribbon securing his queue and freed his hair.

"What?" Andrew croaked and watched as his own light blue eyes in the mirror iced over while Percy pushed the tresses of finespun silk forward over Andrew's shoulders.

"You could play the part of a footman, a ploughboy, a schoolboy, or a rather dreamy lookin' cleric . . . or you could be a girl" - and the room blurred for Andrew in a dazzling blaze of misted sunlight. For a moment he wasn't sure he'd heard the words, perhaps he'd merely thought them, for Percy's tone had dropped to a whisper.

"Not a woman - you're too thin for that - but a girl of about fifteen . . ."

"I . . . I'm t-too tall for a lass," Andrew stammered.

"But you would be accepted despite that because the eye tricks the viewer into believing he is seeing a very tall girl."

Andrew turned toward Percy. "You think to turn me into a molly?" Andrew mouthed, his voice nearly strangled with emotion.

Percy shook his head emphatically. "No, not a molly. A girl."

"But a man who dresses . . ."

"Forget being a man," Percy interrupted. "Think yourself into the part and try to be a girl."

"I couldn't!"

"You're just unwilling to see the possibilities. Very well," Percy sighed. "But, if you ever find yourself in a sprung trap, shave close, primp up your hair and don a dress. No one would find Sir Andrew Ffoukes in your appearance."

Irresistibly, Andrew imagined himself powdering his cheeks and dabbing rouge onto his lips, and something about the picture set him shivering in fascinated horror.

"Oh, and make certain to wear shoes," Percy added nonchalantly, tossing Andrew's hair ribbon to him as he walked away. "Your feet would give you away as a man more surely than your face would."

At that moment, Frank had barged in with an urgent message and the discussion had never come up again; for himself, Andrew was certain he never wished to experience such a revolting thought ever again, yet the idea lingered like a festering sore, and on far too many mornings he had stared at his freshly shaved cheeks and wondered . . .

"This is that trap Percy warned me of," he muttered to the window. "Am I willing to go this far to save my best friend's life?"

After a rough ride over rutted roads, Andrew wearily trudged up the narrow back stairs of a thoroughly disreputably looking rooming house. Small, dirty windows dotted the length of the wall, most outlined by the flicker of candlelight that showed off their grubby interiors, and Andrew�s spirits sank. What wouldn�t he give for a bed with clean sheets? His belly grumbled and he hoped there was some chance of a meal in whatever passed for a common dining room in this unlikely hole.

Glynde opened the door with a flourish; the rest entered in despondent silence. The room was small and shabby, but the window had unbroken glass and there were four beds with sagging mattresses filling most of the floor space. Andrew moved to the window where Hastings�s bulk was shadowed by the sickle moon�s faint light, and glanced out. Andrew gazed down at the dismal alley stretching below, then at the grimy brick wall facing him. In a city as dazzling as Paris, surely Glynde had had to really work to find such an unappetizing location. What could be worse? Then a drop of rain smacked the glass, followed by a second, and a third, drawing streaky runnels as they raced down toward the sill.

�Rain,� he muttered. �That will limit our options!� Andrew leaned close to Hastings, and speaking very low, asked, �Have you ever wondered how Glynde finds these places? This one stinks like La Force�s antechamber.�

�Around that corner there is the entrance to the prison,� Hastings said, stabbing the glass with his finger and Ffloukes perked up, showing some interest.

�Really? You have me turned round, then. I thought that � � he pointed in the opposite direction, � � was the . . . oh. Of course. Steeple, prison, river. So the Seine is out there?� He waved into the far corner of the room and Hastings nodded. �Those mudlarks are always there, noticed them when Bathurst and I were getting information on Armand and Lady Blakeney,� Hastings said in his controlled delivery. Ffoulkes looked up into Lord Timothy�s eyes and blinked. Damn it, the man was enjoying himself! �If one or two of us could infiltrate that pack, we could watch the place relatively unnoticed.�

�Certainly, but who would wish himself into that company?� And as Hastings shrugged, Sir Andrew knew precisely who would be called upon to do the job. �It�s me, isn�t it?� he asked pointlessly. �Because you don�t have enough French to do more than buy a strumpet, and Glynde would scare them away with his ugly mug.�

Ffoulkes sighed heavily. �More dust and grime. If there was any light coming in through this window you�d be able to see how nasty my complexion�s become since I�m always covered in soot and ash. I�ve got more pimples now than I did when I was 15!�

Hastings backed away, joining Glynde in the corner where a stovepipe snaked up the wall. �Good work, old chap,� Hastings clapped Glynde on the back. �Now we need to round up the others and put a tail on Chauvelin.�

�That�s right; keep all the plum jobs for yourselves,� Andrew muttered to himself. God, he was becoming as whiny as Dewhurst!

�Oh, by all means, anyone, feel free to spell me a break!� Andrew said and Hastings gave him a look that suggested it would be a very long time before Lord Edward Hastings was spelling Sir Andrew Ffoulkes.

�Fine, then,� Ffoulkes said, tilting his chin higher. �Might we take a moment to consider supper? Sitting ducks in Paris, it could well be our last supper.� That he was tense was not surprising, but that he was letting it show so blatantly, was.

They meandered through cobbled streets led by Ffoulkes as if he knew where he was going and before long they stumbled upon a crooked step where an equally crooked door stood ajar. An inn of brick and stone with the familiar blue slates on the roof glimmering dully in the slanting late-day sun. A skeletal man of all work met them at the doorway, creeping past to light the lantern marking the door as darkness dropped over the city like a blanket.

Glynde's sword rattled as he dropped his hand to its hilt. Obviously he'd seen too many street brawls, fended off more than his share of would-be robbers.

It was a small and rather dim tap-room; the innkeeper tried his broken English on them - at the sight of Hastings, Sir Andrew supposed. It was that damnable hat he wore with the curled feather - no one wore such ostentatious fashions in Paris these days.

"Weesh you dreenk? Beer, yes?"

"Oui, mon brave," Sir Andrew said. "Forgive my English friend - he is a tourist." Ffoulkes passed a few coins to the innkeeper and in short order they found themselves seated at a corner table. A buxom maid made a show of wiping down the gouged and grimed surface with a too-broad grin that suggested tuppence would purchase a great deal of friendliness on her part. Andrew watched Glynde drink up her invitation and sighed. Hastings made much of winking and squinting at the board on which the menu was written; he watched for a while, then decided to give his friend a hand. "It says there's soup. Pea or bean. The difference is that pea soup has carrots in it and bean soup has squash."

As soon as the tray of glasses arrived, Glynde drained his ale cup far too swiftly for one who hadn't eaten since noon. Ffloulks signaled to the serving maid to leave the flagon on their table.

"It usually comes with bread - well, it used to. Who knows if there's any bread in Paris these days."

Hastings shrugged and concentrated on his beer.

"Pitiful, I say, for bean soup to be my last supper. Say, I really hope you fellows are determined to get out of here - Paris I mean - because I finally have a reason for staying alive. Little girl I left back home. Want to get back to her in one piece." Ffoulkes glanced pensively at his companions. "Does it seem to quiet to you, Glynde?" he asked

Glynde looked around quickly.