The black stallion's lathered sides heaved as he trotted into the stable yard at Blakeney Manor. Percy's arms ached with holding the reins. Home. The view of this land through the windswept hair of Sultan's coarse black mane was the best view in all of England.

His thigh muscles sang and burned from clinging to the saddle. His throat was dry from the dusty road and swallowing gulps of cold air. Despite his fatigue, Sir Percy Blakeney felt better than he had all day as his eyes roved the buildings of his estate. He passed the house with scarcely a glance, centering instead on the trees leading down the drive toward the stables. Leaves of russet and brown drooped from gnarled branches of beech and oak and cluttered the lush grass. The last of his roses were dropping petals of red and yellow onto the black soil. A squirrel darted across the drive and Sultan tossed his head in protest.

Percy soothed the horse's mobile shoulder, then his hand lowered to rest on the pommel. He stretched his back, felt the muscles scream in protest, and sighed with pleasure. Surely he would sleep tonight! Every sinew had been exercised to the end of Percy's endurance. By god, he would sleep tonight.

As he approached the stable, Percy was greeted by a chorus of barks - a couple of sleek hounds, a yappy beagle, and the high-pitched welcome of a floppy-eared spaniel. As he dismounted, Wilms, the headman, trotted forward to take Sultan's reins.

"Welcome home Sir Percy," he said, hunkering his shoulders as a manner of bowing to his lord.

"Thank you..." Percy began, then he saw the stable lad running toward him. Toby.

Percy had set Toby a special task and, judging by the boy's expression, he had carried it out to the letter.

"I seed 'im Sir Percy. The li'l Frenchie! He was drove here in a curr'cle, jus like you said."

"Good lad." Percy ruffled the boy's hair, then hunkered down so he could face the boy eye to eye - feeling the stretch of thigh muscles protesting the effort.

"What colour horses, Toby?" He began with the topic that would have interested Toby the most.

"Grey. Middlin' grey. Black manes and tails. One had a white sock on the left rear."

"Excellent! You are a tremendous help, Toby. So, tell me, what was the time when this Frenchie arrived?"

"It was ten past eleven, sir. Baines said ten past, and I had to run all the way to the kitchen to find 'im..."

"So Chauvelin arrived at about eleven." Percy nodded.

"An' he left at eleven fifty. Baines was there to let 'im out. We checked it together and he showed me the number on his watch."

Toby glowed with excitement. It had been a tremendous privilege to watch Baines pull the watch from his pocket and open the shell-lid. Baines had pointed out the numbers to Toby after the lad had explained his task and how important it was to the master.

'I'll just bet it is,' Baines had said, and winked at the boy.

Percy stood up, reaching into his pocket. "I promised you a shilling, as I recall."

"Yes sir!"

"You did an outstanding job, Toby. Times just right. Remembered correctly..."

"Baines - he made me say them over and over. I bin sayin' 'em all day."

The shilling passed from one hand to the other, resting in Toby's sweaty palm as if it were a solid gold doubloon from a pirate's treasure chest.

"What d'you remember about the Frenchie, Toby?" Percy asked as if in passing. He leaned against a post and pretended to be more interested in the way Wilms was undoing the saddle girth.

"I was a-chasin' Bowser out of the hedge (very important job, that) when I saw the curr'cle come up the drive. I knew it were the Frenchie b'cause of his hat. Bunched." Toby described it with a blocking motion using both hands.

Percy chuckled. "It is a funny lookin' hat, ain't it? But they were 'em that way in Paris. Did you notice if he had a little coloured flower in the hat band?"

Toby's little face crunched sadly. "I dint look at 'im close-up. I just ran for the back door so I could find Baines fast-like."

"It's fine - fine, Toby. It was just a small thought. You did well to go for Baines directly. I was wondering if you noticed the way Chauvelin looked. Y'see, Toby, he wouldn't wear a sword like Sir Andrew Ffoulkes. I was wondering if you noticed if he had a pistol. Did his coat bulge at the waist?"

But Toby hadn't noticed. That was a question Percy would have to put to Baines, the butler.

Inside the house, Percy confronted Baines, who presented himself at once. "You have seen young Toby, sir?" he asked as he took Percy's hat from him.

"I did. Your assistance is appreciated. You were kind to him."

"He's a good lad," Baines offered, and Percy grinned. Baines's dislike of children was near legendary.

"Monsieur Chauvelin didn't stay long, I hear." Not long enough to start a revolution at Blakeney manor. Percy's voice dropped as he asked, "Did Lady Blakeney receive him in the parlour?"

Had he been received in the drawing room, there would, as a matter of course, have been a footman standing at the door. It was a matter of form, surely Margot wouldn't have dismissed a footman from his post. But the parlour, smaller and more intimate, would prove problematical. No footman required in a tiny room like that, unless refreshments were offered, which was unlikely for a visit of forty minutes.

"The foreigner was admitted by Henshaw, sir, as I was occupied elsewhere. Henshaw took him to the drawing room, but when Lady Blakeney was informed she had him moved to the library."

Percy frowned. Not only would there have been no servant in the room, there was not likely a soul nearby. What had she been thinking?

"Did you get a good look at him when he left, Baines? His coat - was he carrying a pistol in his belt?" A pistol would bulge and the handle would stick up, spoiling the line of a coat - not that much could spoil the type of wardrobe Chauvelin favoured.

Baines shook his head. "No. I saw nothing like that, sir."

Marguerite had spent forty minutes alone with Chauvelin. He hadn't concealed a pistol to use to threaten her with and he didn't wear a sword. Unless he had concealed a knife in his boot, it was unlikely he'd come to threaten her, then.

"What was his mood when he left? Hurried? Distracted? Angry?"

"Scowling."

"That tells me nothing. Scowling is Chauvelin's usual appearance." Percy sighed. He had done his best and still he had nothing. Marguerite was protected by six burly footmen who she dismissed at a whim. How could he keep her safe if she consorted with the enemy right under their noses?

As he trudged up the stairs to his bedchamber, Frank jogged down to the landing. "Your clothes are laid out sir."

"What clothes?"

"Your appointment, Sir Percy. You accepted Lady Shipwash's invitation to supper this evening."

Percy's shoulders slumped. "Damnation! I desperately wanted a hot bath and a bottle of cognac tonight. Now you tell me it'll be another evening of stifling rooms and boring chit-chat. Dancing. How dreary!"

Frank lowered his eyes, sucked in his cheeks, then said, "There is a consolation, sir. I have laid out your new grey suit."

As expected, Percy perked up a bit at that.

"Did you? It's arrived? Splendid!"

"And Hatton's sent your boots, sir."

Oh, it would be wonderful! The suit was medium grey with silver threads that glowed in the light. The boots had been specially made out of a light grey calfskin that gleamed like silver.

"I must have a quick bath - my hair is coated in dust."

"Certainly, Sir Percy."

"Oh, Frank - my wife. Do you know if she's attending this soiree?"

"I'm afraid I haven't seen Lady Blakeney today, sir. Davies says she's stuck to her room all day."

Percy, overcome by the glory of his new clothes, postponed thinking about Marguerite until he stepped into his bath. Then the thought returned. Marguerite in her room all day. It was unlike her to brood. He'd never known her to brood when she'd been in Paris. She was sickening from marriage, he thought guiltily. Losing her joy of life. If only he could trust her, she would have the run of London , but... he couldn't trust her. She lied to him. Lied right to his face. Broke his heart, the little vixen. Slammed her door in his face. Cried veils of tears and called him every black word she could hurl at him. Did she imagine he didn't know the gutter words - lord, he hadn't known she could say such things! Kindness was winning him nothing but further grief. He would have to be stricter with her in the future.

"Frank, send a message to Mrs. Davis, to instruct Lady Blakeney that we are going out tonight. Tell Davis I want to see my wife in her green gown and that she is to be ready to leave in two hours. Two hours! Painted, powdered, brushed, beribboned and dressed as the lady she is. I like that green gown. Yes, tell her that's what I want."

Luxuriating in the miracle of 18th century life - hot water delivered to his bedroom - Sir Percy lie back in his bathtub relaxing in the heat while Frank rang water out of his long hair. In his grandfather's day baths were almost never done and even his father shunned the use of the metallic oval tub because water was known to carry disease...

"Forgive me, sir. There seems to be someone at the door." Frank left the dressingroom where Percy remained with eyes closed, buried in his own thoughts. He shook his head sadly over these old fashioned notions; today people were enlightened. Water could be brought in by the bucket and heated in a cauldron over the fire. Three strong footmen could carry it up to the master's bedchamber and Frank - wonderful Frank - was a genius with sponges and such. Percy's finger and toenails were washed white, rare oils were massaged into the skin until he felt himself the soul of refinement.

Percy heard rather than saw Frank return to the dressing room. That he didn't kneel next to the tub to resume his task alerted Percy to the change in mood. "What is it, Frank? Is there an urgent message for me?"

"Uh... no, sir. It is not urgent." Frank paused, wondering how to deliver the message, then cleared his throat. "It is a - message from Lady Blakeney - about the green gown you demanded she wear."

"Oh, my wife is a touch rebellious, is she?"

"I'd say she is most compliant, Sir Percy. She has sent the gown to you by Mrs. Davis's hand along with a question... allow me to read it to you. "And ask Sir Percy whether he will have need of the stays?"

Percy opened his eyes. Sat up in the tub. Craned his neck over his shoulder toward the door. "Stays?" he asked feeling numb. "I will have need..." Then he took in the appearance of Frank in the door, his navy coat fully obscured by the mound of green silk in his arms. He couldn't imagine what to make of the situation, and, judging by Frank's long face, neither did he.

"I shall expect you to keep your eyes open," Percy was saying to Henshaw. "Everyone knows - no one better than I - the opportunity for flirtation at a party of this size, but I beg you, Henshaw, my wife's life is in the balance. You know that spy Chauvelin has been visiting Blakeney Manor. You know why I've held her under lock and key. Don't fail me now!"

The footman looked grave, sketching a neat bow. Both men were alerted by a scraping noise at the top of the stairs - Lady Blakeney. "She must know nothing, Henshaw, you hear me?" Percy begged in an undertone even as his eyes rose to meet those of his wife - the beautiful, incomparable Lady Blakeney.

Richard Henshaw, tall, broad-shouldered, but young withal, nodded his understanding as his eyes took in their fill of his master's incredibly lovely wife. He was proud to serve her, proud to brag to his friends that Lady Blakeney looked his way, smiled at him, and offered him all manner of invitations with her wonderful green eyes. He bragged about how she flirted reservedly, but he held his ground manfully; how he was loyal to his master despite the green-eyed hoyden his employer had wed ... oh, but if only he were to find himself alone with her...

Percy took in the vision that was Marguerite in blue silk. Her marvellous golden red hair formed a perfect curl against a shoulder powdered to alabaster. A goddess - she was Aphrodite in fact. Damn! Why had he imagined wedding this vision was the answer to his dreams? As his lover she was his alone, but as his wife she was on display to every rake, villain and reprobate Lady Shipwash may deem acceptable company in her fine house. It was too much to imagine between himself and Henshaw they would keep Marguerite safe - Percy recalled his youth and felt tears wash his eyes. Who could match the deviousness of a man determined to have a sweet wench he desired? If only he could share with dear Margot his feelings - but that would never work, not now!

"See Washburn before we leave," Percy muttered tersely. "I want you to have shot in that pistol of yours - and I expect you to use it if necessary." His tone was dark with venom - with jealousy. The tone said everything about a man who had not bedded his wife and feared someone else would.

Percy gave Marguerite a startled look. What could he say? Every question was a potential trap. "Of course this was the reason for my haste... this and a further little errand. A wager I won... but no matter."

As he spoke, Percy led his wife toward the library and privacy, marshalling her past half a dozen downstairs maids with dusters stilled while they gaped. One of the Blakeney manor footmen was standing at the library door - just as Percy had ordered. How ridiculous it looked now, Percy thought as he shooed Marguerite into the library. With both he and Margot away for the night did he really need to have his staff on alert as if Robespierre and his henchmen were poised to break down the door?

"Has it not been made clear to you, my dear," Percy asked, leaning against the closed doors, "that a woman in your position does not need to go into town for anything she may desire. A note sent by hand to any merchant in London will see him arrive at Blakeney Manor hot foot with everything you could possibly desire."

Marguerite's fierce eyes pinned him to the door and he felt a shiver of fear go through him. Her anger was a physical thing. His expression hardened and he said, "As it is, you're right; Mrs. Davis has done an admirable job - you are perfection."

In any other household an honest compliment would diffuse this tension, Percy knew, but here? It was true, she was perfection - only Margot's scornful look marred her beauty. Oh, if only he knew whether she was bait for the trap, or the unwary victim. As it was, in her anger she was eager to leap into any mischief just the vex him.

"I'm sure you will enjoy this evening," Percy said in an attempt to dissolve the tension. "New people. There will be a few friends, I'm sure, although I haven't heard a word about who is expected to attend. You don't know Lady Shipwash, unfortunately, but she's one of those at the peak of society - like Lady Melbourne. Hiding any discretion a lady may commit until the best time to air such a secret descends... more than a few reputations have been ruined on a night such as this."

Marguerite's lips trembled as she said, 'What have I done to provoke such mistrust in you?' Percy was shocked that she dared continue this charade. Her full, pouting lips had thinned to a querulous line. Of all the nerve!

"How can you..." dare to ask me that? He broke off before saying too much, biting his tongue. This was no time to provoke an argument and he refused to be baited by her. He took in her lying expression and was chilled. Oh actress! Damnation, why had he thought himself equal to the task of living with a hell-sprite such as Marguerite Saint-Just? He recalled clearly those early days when he'd watched dismal Chauvelin trailing her skirts looking whipped and mournful. Now, Percy felt sorry for the revolutionary. Who wore that expression now? The man who had fallen into the traitorous eyes of the saucy actress and drowned there.

With effort, Percy suppressed his fears. There was nothing to be done now. Better to provoke fate and her henchmen and get the whole thing behind them so he could fight the devil one on one. He felt certain he would soon know - possibly tonight - exactly what was lurking in the shadows. "I'm sure Mrs. Davis has your cloak ready my dear. We mustn't keep her waiting."

Marguerite's eyes were as cold as polished stones as Percy flung open the library door (the footman leapt backward in alarm) and she found herself standing before Mrs. Davis, cloak held loosely in her arms. Mrs. Davis was dressed in travelling coat and no-nonsense bonnet of navy with only the thinnest of white ribbons to tie it. Lady Blakeney stopped, froze, then turned slowly to her husband, the unasked question filling her eyes.

"Surely you understand, my dear," Percy said measuringly, "that a lady is always accompanied by her lady-in-waiting. We've had this discussion before, Margot." Percy tied his cloak, then reached toward Henshaw for his hat. "Come now, we're liable to be very late if we don't start at once!"

He wheeled on his heel, leading the way to the door, Henshaw following. Mrs. Davis nudged Marguerite into motion. A footman had flung wide the great door where a polished carriage could be seen waiting at the steps.