Lord Tony, good lad, had chosen a showy hotel favoured by the English nobility called, typically, L'Hotel Anglaises. It had two flagpoles on its roof and a carved sign on its gate that said "We serve English-style tea", which didn't mean what it said at all. What it meant was that it served cream buns with Indian tea, and Andrew smirked as the coach drew to a halt outside.

Percy couldn't have done a better job had he written down the address - up and down the street were shops with signs in French and English, which meant the prices were massively inflated since they were posted in livres and guineas. And... look at the women! Lord, every other lady was a fair-haired Anglo-Saxon beauty and glittering with diamonds. Andrew licked his lips appreciatively. There was one wearing a cool mauve silk whose waist was as narrow as the stem of a wine glass, leaning on the arm of a man as wide as a milk pitcher. Andrew could imagine the dear young thing, foot-sore after all her shopping (the footman dragging behind was buried in boxes). She'd be in need of... diversion... while her protector snored exhaustedly, and he knew a few tricks that would keep her amused.

The other Exeter footman nearly beaned Sir Andrew with a trunk as he stood in the street, admiring Miss Mauve and dreaming his lascivious dreams; he awoke to reality quickly. He didn't have a hope of so much as a good-day from the likes of that one while sporting the Exeter livery - and, he had work to do. Dewhurst had gone inside, was signing the register and making his request that they feed his footmen better than they deserved. Ffoulkes clenched and unclenched his hands, well aware of the blisters that had begun to sprout in his palms. He was thirsty, hungry and bone-weary, but his day was far from over. Once Dewhurst was safely ensconced within and choosing his company for the evening, Ffoulkes was expected to change from his warm footman's greatcoat into a light silk valet's jacket. He would exchange his tall hat for a heavily powdered wig and lay out young Lord Dewhurst's evening clothes.

Great joker, Sir Percy; grand fun indeed to make Sir Andrew play valet to spoiled young Dewhurst. He could picture the little cretin forcing him down onto his knees to button milord's knee buckles and, nose to the floor, fasten his shoes. He'd get Percy for this - somehow.

Standing at the entrance to the hotel, Sir Andrew watched Dewhurst lead two bellhops up the wide central stairway as they strained under the weight of his trunks. Ffoulkes gazed at the man behind the desk, saw him beckon, raising his hand and offering the key.

"Room 62," he said.

"Sixty - what?"

"Your room is in the attic, along with the other servants."

Damn! Andrew puffed out a hot breath, shouldered his trunk, and followed the rest of the retinue up the stairs. Twenty minutes later, he had hurriedly dumped most of his things out of the trunk and dropped them all onto the bed as he hurriedly searched for what he would need. Now he was wearing a neat silk jacket over clean white breeches, and adjusting a wig over his own flattened hair. Not bad for a quick-change, Andrew thought.

He ran down the stairs to Dewhurst's suite on the second floor. It was glorious - palatial - especially compared to the cheese-box sized room Ffoulkes had been assigned.

"Here," he said to Dewhurst as the clock struck seven. "I've laid your evening suit on the sofa. Shoes by the chair. I don't have time to help you dress. Damn it! I have to get to the Palais Royal and meet this woman... Madame Richaud. Apparently she's a cleaner at the Maison de l'Liberte, which, I understand, is where Chauvelin lives. I wonder what she's heard about the chief inspector while scrubbing the hallway floor and stairs, hmm?" He gazed at Tony, who looked a little bewildered. "Remember; I'll be back early tomorrow. You have to meet Plancher at his shop as soon as he opens at ten. Don't stay out too late!"

Ffoulkes slammed the door and raced back upstairs, taking the steps two at a time. In his room, he ripped off the silk jacket, dropped the white breeches, and changed into a suit of sober grey. He plunked a neat tricorne on his head and looked at his lean face in the small mirror next to the window. He had the beginning of stubble on his square chin and the dark smudges under his eyes added a couple of years to his appearance. He adjusted the hat to shade his eyes, then stalked out of the room and down the stairs. He had to walk to the Palais Royal - it would draw too much attention for him to arrive in a carriage. How convenient that Dewhurst had chosen a hotel in the centre of town!

Ffoulkes stopped short at the sound of Lord Tony's somewhat bleary tone. "You fool," he hissed. "You've wasted a whole night. While you've been catching up on your beauty rest, I've been skulking around Paris trying to find out if anyone's heard a word as to the whereabouts of Marguerite Saint-Just's young brother."

Dewhurst looked chagrined, but only for a moment. He was used to having to scrap for his place among older brothers and Percy's friends.

"As to the hot liaison - she had very little to provide. Chauvelin's daughter is back at home, but the inspector has yet to be seen. I made hints that he could be spending the night with his mistress, but the char doubts he has one. She says he gives both his trust and his heart with caution."

Sir Andrew flopped down into the most comfortable chair in Lord Tony's suite. "God, I'm tired!" he yawned. "But, I can tell you that everything is going according to plan. I saw Percy last night - didn't speak to him, but saw him. Plying a guard with liquor just outside the Hotel de Ville and flashing money as if he wanted to be robbed. There were at least three guardsmen who noted him - three that I saw. I just slipped by as if I didn't know him."

Andrew lifted his feet up onto a table, laid his head back, then shot forward, ripped off his wig and scratched his head. "I'd like to throw this damnable thing out the window!" He laid back in the chair once more, shut his eyes and slid his hands palms downward into the waistband of his breeches. "I could sleep for a week," he said at the end of a jaw-breaking yawn. "As it is, I'll just catch a few minutes while you get dressed. We're off to Plancher's shop - or have you forgotten?"

He was hungry. Listening to hungry children cry, he was embarrassed at the growling of his own belly, but he, too, was hungry; there was no getting away from a young appetite that had been catered to all his life. The stink of the cold smoke of a recently extinguished fire stung his nostrils and worked its way into his mouth where it transformed into the taste of crisp skin, seared black. Strong teeth rip away the brittle skin to expose the tender flesh of a fowl cooked over an open flame.

Andrew moaned in his sleep. His fingers warmed against the heat of his belly and the scene in his mind shifted to a crimson bed. The sheets were stained crimson with blood pumping from the exposed heart of a woman whose skin was turning blue-white in death. He twitched. Felt a hand clamp down hard on his shoulder, and he flinched once more... then came roaring awake, shoving Tony aside as he leapt to his feet.

He was bewildered for a moment, staring round with wild eyes. "Flies," he muttered, nearly incoherent. "Everywhere, damn flies. I'm sick to death of them!" He scrubbed his face with his hands, rubbing hard, kneading his eyes. The sparse stubble on his square chin bristled against his palms. The effects of the dream were fading; his presence in Dewhurst's room growing more concrete. He focused on Lord Tony who had been surprised into silence by Andrew's outburst. Wary, with arms at this sides, but hands tensed, Dewhurst held all his attention on Sir Andrew. Ffoulkes breathed out deeply. The lad had grown cautious over time, he thought, concentrating on Tony's presence in the room - and the absence of the dead woman. When had Tony lost his sapling look and his constant uncertainty? Now, he knew how to act. How to react. He was ready for anything.

"We'd best be on our way," Ffoulkes said, pretending an alacrity he didn't feel. He tugged his uniform jacket into place, looked himself up and down from polished boots to navy breeches to form-fitting coat and lemon facings. Gold buttons.

"Pass me that disgusting horsehair wig, will you?" He eased it on, unable to control a shiver - and watched Dewhurst's mouth twitch. "You find it funny? I'm doing you a favour, lad. You don't have the patience to endure the torture of it - and he could have chosen you, you know. So, do me a tremendous favour and take it easy on your old footman today, will you? Maybe I'll remember it when it's your turn to wear a servant's clothes."

As they made their way down the stairs to the lobby, Sir Andrew whispered to Dewhurst, "Percy's plan is that you are seen tripping around Paris as if it's 1787 and you have nothing better to do than update your wardrobe. Hopefully Plancher has come up with news on Armand's whereabouts. If Blakeney's had any luck he'll have found something and passed the word to Plancher. After Plancher's, you can go anywhere you like. Burn a tremendous hole in your papa's stash of gold."

For a moment a shadow darkened his friend's eyes; then he gave a crooked grin.

"Oh," Ffoulkes said, "I nearly forgot. You should think of a couple of places to visit this evening. Write some letters and wangle invitations. Be seen. Ladies know everything - odd are your supper companion knows Armand's whereabouts all the way to the number of his cell."

Lord Tony pushed the door open, they stepped out into a grey, misty dawn.

"Lord save us, it's too cold!" Andrew shoved his hands into his pockets, then recalled that Dewhurst would ride inside the coach, while he would cling like a crab on the back... in the light and steady rain.

The appearance of a well-sprung coach was not unusual in this street, but its effect was something Andrew had never before seen. Up and down the street faces appeared at windows, first one, then three, then a crowd. Who dared to be seen driving a coach and four these days when all wealth was suspect? Can you decipher the coat of arms on the door? Foreign! Obviously it's a foreigner - no one in all France is stupid enough to advertise themselves in this way.

Well-dressed couples paused to glance with interest, eager to see who was stopping at Plancher's, certain it would be someone they knew. Sure enough, as Ffoulkes set the steps and Dewhurst descended, Andrew noted the play of conversation among the watchers. Exeter's son, they said, marking him as desirable and passing the word.

Meanwhile, a crowd gathered around the coach, the humble and the hungry. These were the unemployed who loitered all over they city; picking themselves up and hobbling over to extend their dirty palms. Beggars. If Dewhurst noticed them, he evaded them all - but it was not likely that he saw, not with the way he descended the steps with his nose in the air. Ffoulkes sighed. Dewhurst couldn't even play the role of wealthy nobleman without hamming it up. The man couldn't act his way out of an unlocked closet. Sir Andrew bent to fold the steps away as the beggars drifted back to their cubbies and corners. For a moment Ffoulkes felt himself appraised by the keen eyes of a lady's maid. Sharp, dark and knowing, her gaze burned up his boots from ankle to knee and up his thigh to the giant lemon buttons at the waist of his frock coat. He grinned at her. Winked. Watched a blush steal up her cheeks. She was walking a step behind Lady MacNamara - Ffoulkes knew the family, as did everyone in the ton. Banking money. Judging by the heavily laden footman, MacNamara was further upsetting the balance of foreign trade between England and France. Sir Andrew entered Plancher's shop, eager to speak to Dewhurst, to demand he send a note to Lady MacNamara inviting himself to supper. Thoughts of the dark-eyed maid blossomed in Andrew's mind. Not young - certainly past twenty - and probably as celibate as a nun. Lady's maids worked from before dawn until their mistresses were tucked in for the night with warming pan and hot posset. She wouldn't have time for a lot of kissing, she'd be straight to the point, or, that was what her hungry eyes hinted as she'd measured the length of his leg and the strength of his back, anticipating his endurance.

But inside the shop, Dewhurst was having a tantrum, shouting, "Don't you know who I am?" Reubens... yes, that must be the tailor, Reubens - Percy's contact. Short. Weasel-faced. He did resembled Chauvelin, which is how Percy had described him. Reubens trembled against the volume of Lord Tony's complaints, folding in on himself as he bowed and crept away.

Dewhurst's real footman stood like a sentry at the door, but Ffoulkes crept after Reubens. Lord Tony could visit with Plancher, see what he knew about the weather and the gossip; Andrew would pump the assistant.

There was a small kitchen at the back of the shop, a place where the fire was built up and where a kettle whistled above the clatter of a fat laundress who was heating irons in the fire.

"...and stay clear of me or you'll get your hand burned!" The laundress picked up the hot iron and continued pressing without looking up.

"Just making tea for one of Monsieur's customers." Reubens scuttled across the room to reach into a low cabinet. "English, I'll wager. Poxy English! Why can't they just have champagne like everyone else?"

The laundress spat on the iron, it sizzled and smoked.

"Came in with two footmen. Gold buttons. Plancher nearly spit out his teeth when I said it was Milord Dewhurst a-waiting him."

"Ah, Monsieur Reubens," Andrew said from the door. "I bring news from a friend." Andrew extended his palm on which glimmered a solid gold louis. Reubens abandoned the teapot on the table, and left the kettle to whistle on in his haste to secure the coin.

"This tall, English friend of mine informs me that you are known at the bar near St. Lazar. I need the assistance of three revolutionary guards and the use of a sealed coach. Perhaps you could acquire them for me at this bar."

Reuben pocketed the louis. "I can help you; there are many whose first loyalty is to genuine currency. Families cannot eat Danton's paper money."

"No, I'm sure they can't. And Robespierre - he's a patron of this shop." It was not a question. Reuben looked up into Sir Andrew's face, his expression growing sober.

"Yes, he's expected at 3:00 today for a fitting."

"Excellent. Commend him for his diligence in clearing the city of anyone who is not a true patriot. The jails are full to bursting. Ask him if he intends to hire more investigators to speed up the trials, or whether decent citizens will continue to feed those useless traitors while they rot in the prisons. I'll meet you at 11:00 tonight outside St. Lazar and I'm keen to hear his answers."

Reubens compressed his lips, then nodded tightly.

"Oh, and these guards who come with a carriage - a closed carriage, remember! There's a gold louis for each of them. Tell them. A gold louis for the men who help me rescue a patriot and see him safely out of the city."

Sir Andrew was getting antsy, waiting and watching as Plancher wielded his tape. Dewhurst was speaking in lofty terms about silk thread and brocade until Ffoulkes wanted to scream. They were going to be stuck in this tailor's shop f-o-r-e-v-e-r!! Andrew wandered to the window and looked out as if he imagined the flirtatious lady's maid might still be outside, and of course she wasn't.

How was it that he was doomed to listen to Lord Tony puzzle over medium blue or light blue, over white lace or gold? There were other things in the world beyond clothes. Like removal of same, in chop-chop fashion when a pretty woman awaited. Andrew was the master of the zippy-quick unbutton maneuver - he could twist open three of those neat little pearl buttons down the back of a fashionable gown with each twist of his fist. He didn't have to look, he could perform this magic feat with closed eyes and busy tongue.

He paced busily back to the chair which should have been filled by Dewhurst's square buttocks and eyed it longingly, but it was inappropriate for a footman to be seated. Andrew continued to pace the circuit from the service desk, under which resided Plancher's locked cash box, to the oak door, to the window overlooking the street.

"Is your footman afraid your coach will be stolen right out from under his nose, Lord Dewhurst," Plancher asked conversationally.

It seemed that this was to be nothing more than a legitimate appointment with a tailor fitting a suit for a customer; Plancher had nothing of interest to pass on the Dewhurst. He remained focused on the measurements, the fabric, discussing the width of the lapels and the height of the collar. Plancher knew nothing. That meant Percy hadn't discovered anything he needed Lord Tony to know, which meant that Percy was having more difficulty in discovering Armand's whereabouts.

At least I've done my bit, Andrew congratulated himself, and it had been easier than he'd anticipated. Money truly did buy everything - everything! - in Paris.

Ffoulkes was bone-tired by the time the coach pulled up outside the Hotel Anglaises. His back ached as he bent once again to lower the steps and he sighed aloud as she stood up. God be praised, he thought, that his father had been born a nobleman. Andrew fancied himself extremely fit, but the hours of mind-numbing, back-breaking work of a footman was making him miserable. He climbed all the way up to his room on the 6th floor and collapsed on his bed in boots, hat, everything. Closed his eyes, felt his swollen feet pinched in his boots, and moaned. He dared not lie there for more than a minute - his disguise would be ruined if he fell asleep. Slowly he sat up, swung his feet over the side of the bed and struggled to stand upright once more.

He clumped down the stairs and presented himself at Dewhurst's room.

'Shut the door,' Dewhurst commanded, 'and sit down, man, you look beat!'

Tony waved a hand full of cards at Sir Andrew and his eyes glazed over. Dancing, music, drinking and cards... Ffoulkes would be happy if he finally got a plateful of food that he could eat at his leisure. Then he would find a closet to crawl into and sleep, sleep, sleep.

Lady Hamilton, Dewhurst said... something about a fling with her daughter. "What was her name? Lydia?"

"No, it was Diana - Lydia was her younger sister," Ffoulkes replied, remembering vividly. "Diana," he said again as if to erase his embarrassment.

"I was sure I heard something about a contretemps involving the one called Lydia. My sister had it whispered to her that Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had ruined a lass of sixteen and I said to her I really wasn't surprised," Tony said, winking.

"I swear to you, Tony, it wasn't that way. I'd followed her into the library to ask her a favour... not that!" Andrew shouted. "Little hellion grabbed me round the neck and kissed me. I mean really kissed me. Not the sort of kiss you'd expect to get from a lady, let alone from a child. Well, you know how it goes.... one kiss led to three and then..." He hung his head, embarrassed to say the words.

"You want me to believe *she* led you astray?" Tony hooted with disbelief.

"Don't believe me; why should you? Thing was, I'd just come from Diana.. ."

Tony hooted again, slapping his knee and looking shocked.

"I'd asked her to marry me. She said she would. I approached her father and he told me, basically, there wasn't a well deep enough to drop me down. Diana came to me after dinner and said she would run away with me if I could arrange it. I'd gone in search of Lydia, intending to beg her to help us elope. After that I couldn't speak to either sister."

"Whoo!" Tony hooted once more. "Well, that settles it, we can't go there, in case you are recognised!" He held out the remaining cards from the Baron de Batz, the Countess Carmoigne and the third... "I can't make this out. I think it says McMillan."

Sir Andrew ripped the card out of Lord Tony's hand. "McMillan! It's MacNamara you fool. You know, Sebastian MacNamara's new wife. I know you've seen her, we were at her wedding. Mousy little thing."

Andrew had come alive at the sight of the name on the card. Lady MacNamara... and her flirtatious little maid. Andrew forgot his fatigue. "Says they're staying at the Hotel Bordeau on Rue Richelieu. Shall I polish your dancing shoes?"

Sir Andrew dragged himself back onto his feet and clumped down the stairs to the kitchen. His thoughts were soured by the memory of a conversation he'd had with Sir Percy who had said that the people of India believed after a man died, he returned to earth and relived his miserable existence over and over again. Could it be true? Could he die, return to earth and be condemned to the life of a footman forever??

As he stood in the kitchen awaiting Lord Dewhurst's tray, Andrew tried to recall the groomsmen, gardeners, foresters and fishers who had worked on his father's estate in Scotland. Thought about how, as a boy, they'd all looked the same to him. Whippet-thin, dressed in quilted brown homespun, their faces would turn down whenever one of their employer's family members approached.

"You get your master to sign this-ere paper and bring it back, y'hear?" the cook said as she passed him the heavily laden tray. "Thas the bill, that is!"

Andrew snarled as he turned and thumped back up the stairs. For a moment he'd been thinking like a revolutionary - hunger was driving him mad. Or was it these clothes? Did the constant wearing of an itchy periwig drive a man to the level of desperation that had flamed through Paris the last couple of summers?

Inside Tony's room, Andrew deposited the tray on the big table - Tony leapt up and began organising the dishes.

"Here," Tony said, pushing the overfilled plate across to Andrew. "Eat. Everything."

Then Tony plunked down on the seat opposite Andrew, reached across and picked a piece of potato off the top of the pile and popped it in his mouth. "Now, what did you find out from Plancher's man?"

"He knows someone who will bring a closed carriage," Andrew explained. "He has 3 friends in the guards who are willing to work for a price. This is how Percy expects to get Armand out of whatever prison Chauvelin's got him locked away in..." Andrew paused to drink, then added, "... and Percy was explicit that he is not to be rescued at the same time. He said, 'Don't make a move for Armand until after you hear I've been taken."

Dewhurst shook his head and sucked gravy off his fingers. "I don't like it," he muttered.

"I'm surprised that's the worst you can find to say. In my opinion you look like bait on the hook. I know Percy doesn't believe Chauvelin will touch you, but he could, you know? He's a wily devil, old Chauvelin."

Andrew watched faint lines furrow Dewhurst's brow and snapped, "The one thing I can't endure, is watching you think. You are so deucedly poor at it. Have you decided to attend Lady MacNamara? I'm nearly finished this meal - thank you, by the way, I thought I was going to die of starvation - if you want to be underway."

While Andrew did find it aggravating in the extreme to watch Tony look perplexed and pretend to think, he had to admit he felt better with a full stomach and after the opportunity to sit down.

"What sort of conversation would one hear at an English party? Would it be better to visit someone French?" He caught a somewhat startled glance from Tony and explained, "Sometimes the visitors know more than the residents in a city like this. Consider the ambassador. If the guests have been briefed, they may know more than we do."

"...and you will...?" Tony asked hopefully.

Andrew glanced at his friend and couldn't suppress his grin. "Oh, work," he said evasively. "Plunging the depths, figuring the path. You know...work."

He laughed at Tony's blank expression. "Look, Dewhurst, the plan is so deuced simple it amazes me how you can't keep it tacked inside your skull.

Andrew ignored Tony's burning glance. Dewhurst had been raised with impeccable manners and wouldn't interrupt, not even one of Ffoulkes's humiliating tirades.

"While you're absorbing all the tattle about what the National Assembly is doing, who Danton is sleeping with, who Chauvelin is spying on, what the topic of conversation was at Madame Roland's salon, I'm going to ferret out whatever I can from the servants' sitting room. Hopefully one of the maids is dating a captain of the guards who's assignment has been changed by order of Chauvelin."

Andrew didn't feel the need to spell out how he intended to wheedle this information; he winked at Dewhurst and pushed the last of the wine across the table towards Lord Tony.

Andrew looked Tony square in the face. "I shan't do a thing to jeopardise my chances, no. You don't honestly imagine Suzanne would get wind of a little slap and tickle with a maid? Who would tell her? Not the woman, certainly; maids don't go knocking on the ambassador's door."

Tony didn't look the least convinced. In fact, he looked not condemning so much as disappointed.

Andrew continued to justify himself. "It's easy for you to warn me off, you can do whatever you wish with whomever you please. I'm dying by inches. Suffering. We're miles away, I can't see her. When I do see her, I'm supposed to keep my hands strictly in my pockets. There are times I think the countess is going to slap me just for looking at her previous daughter - I swear that woman's a witch. She reads every lustful thought in my head and then she looks at me as if she wants to wash my brain with lye soap."

Andrew chuckled weakly. "Too true. C'mon, we've got to get moving." He looked into his friend's face and a moment of understanding passed between them, then Ffoulkes popped his hat atop his stiff wig and held the door open for Tony.

"Milord," he said grandly. Lustful thoughts written on his face, he thought. Was there a way a man could erase his inner yearnings from his outer countenance? Or was he the only one who felt turned inside out by every flashing eye, every winsome smile, every lace-edged bodice he saw?

He leaped onto the back of the coach as the vehicle lurched into traffic. What would dinner with the ambassador bring? He had to find out something useful - time was running out!

A page led Ffoulkes and the coachman across the front of the house to a narrow gateway and through, then along a grassy passage until they came to a wooden door heavily reinforced with a bar and lock.

"The kitchen?" Andrew asked in amazement.

"Certainly. The master is so besieged by beggars that he will only open the door at specific hours to give scraps and despite his generosity, the house has been broken into so often, this lock became necessary."

"How useful can it be to have the bar on the outside?" Ffoulkes asked.

"It is a deterrent, see? They see the bar, the lock, and they can imagine the door is likewise bolted within... as it is, see?"

Andrew noted that the page was inordinately proud of the house and the ambassador. They passed a tall footman sporting burgundy and grey as they shoved inside. The hall was packed! There must be a hundred servants wearing every conceivable colour combination. The reek of stale sweat, fetid breath and filthy clothes combined in the confined space to make him gag. Andrew's heart sank. How would he find a likely someone to talk to in this mob? And, how would he find the friendly maid?

Then a short man all in black with a wealth of large gold buttons and braid on his coat whistled and clapped his hands over his head.

"Please, I beg you. Those who have already dined, please move along so the others can get inside. The parlour is that way!"

Andrew tugged at the young page's sleeve; the boy looked annoyed to see the foreign valet trailing him.

"You said your master has had his door broken in, was anything of value taken?"

"They want food," the youth explained irritably. "They are starving."

"Surely then the ambassador is aware of not only the situation of the people, but also what the government intends to do about it."

"What government? You mean the assembly? The will do nothing. My papa says now that the king is imprisoned there is no hope for anyone."

The page looked very young, very much the boy that he was. Andrew patted his shoulder. "I'm sure your father is right, but there are some men who want to improve the situation. People like Monsieur Chauvelin ... have you heard of him?"

The boy nodded. "My uncle is in the assembly," the page said importantly. "Chauvelin is going to save all France."

"I pray you're right."

"He will. Maman said that her brother is the bravest man alive. Chauvelin has given him special duty."

Andrew couldn't breathe. It was as if he'd ordered the occasion to be painted as a memorial. "A special duty? At the prison?"

The boy nodded.

"D'you know which prison? Not the Conciergerie?"

"No. La Force. A very important state prisoner. Papa is guarding him from midnight till morning and at the end of the month he will have a bonus and we will..."

All of a sudden the boy looked confused. Andrew could just imagine that the plan was for the family to emigrate. Anyone who could come up with the money chose to emigrate."

"I'm mighty pleased to hear that someone has seized the moment," Ffoulkes said, patting the boy's shoulder again. "It puts me in mind that I could do more were I not condemned to this life of servitude."

"You could. My uncle was a groomsman before he turned soldier. You could, too, if you wish it."

"Would you know who I should see? Or would you take me to your maman; I'm sure she would know."

Andrew watched the thoughts shift through the boy's eyes. If the boy knew who scheduled the soldiers at La Force, perhaps instead of bribing a guard to lead him to Armand, Andrew could be disguised as a guard and rescue St. Just himself.

The mob-scene that was the Embassy party faded before Ffoulkes's eyes as he saw the direction he must take. Blakeney, bless his hide, was wrong. All wrong. Tickling a trout like Chauvelin would only get him wet; no, the only solution was to move quickly and precisely. He was going to have to defy Percy's orders and take the initiative, or Armand would surely die. He must find Dewhurst and let him know his footman was deserting him, and he must move quickly.

With heart pounding in his chest, Sir Andrew shoved his way through the press of liveried servants in the hall toward the party, emerging into an area both open and bright. He breathed in the smell of beeswax candles and imported perfume, taking a minute to get his bearings. In the servants' hall the colours were vivid, but uniform: a regiment of green serge, blue velvet, and red-gold brocade; here the tone was more refined and bright with the glitter of jewels, jewels, jewels. Everywhere diamonds sparkled, rubies glowed and emeralds sizzled with brilliance. Every bouffant coiffeur sported exotic feathers and every powdered bosom revealed a wealth of heirloom stones. Andrew stared in fascination at a particularly voluptuous bosom garnished with nothing more splendid than a few seed pearls. Oh, but she didn't need jewels to attract notice! He licked his lips and felt his blood heating, then recalled that he was supposed to be looking for Lord Tony. Reluctantly, he tore his gaze away and tried to concentrate on the golden head he sought.

Scanning the crowd, he was diverted by a heavy-set man who scratched his belly with slow intent as he chatted with the Duke of Dorset. Dorset - could he help the League? Probably not, the man was paid by the crown after all, and the King would not be in a position to support a league of reprobate spies (according to the French Liaison) for all that he admired their pluck.

Finally, he recognised Dewhurst hovering uncertainly between two conversations and Andrew grinned with the thought that the poor lad was listening to both, the right ear absorbing one and the other seeping into the left. Forcefully Ffoulkes shoved in that direction, but came upon the fat man, who was now scratching his bottom with blind nonchalance. He lowered his head and buffaloed past, coming to a stop directly before he trod on Dewhurst's feet.

"Dismiss me," Andrew hissed.

Tony's jaw dropped open.

Andrew hopped from one foot to the other. "Curse at me, damn it, and I'll storm out; just let me go!"

The blast from Dewhurst, unexpectedly severe, nearly knocked Ffoulkes off his feet. As he fled the embassy Andrew realised he had to re-evaluate his opinion of Blakeney's young cousin. Usually Tony was all affability and Andrew was sure his toughness was bravado - or that it had been.

Ffoulkes was half-way to the stable when Tony grabbed him by the arm and spun him around.

"What the . . .?"

Andrew didn't give him time to ask. "I know where Armand is and let me tell you, Percy's dead wrong about there being any set up. Chauvelin isn't planning to trap Blakeney, he's not using Armand as bait; he wants to pick up every member of the League and get rid of the whole lot of us."

What?" Tony asked. Andrew felt a shudder go through Dewhurst and the lad's face was white with fear.

"Look, I know it's complicated and I don't have time to explain it all to you now."

Andrew tried to move away, but Tony clung fast. "Where are you going?" Dewurst looked electrified at the very thought Ffoulkes might be taking the initiative - might be doing something Percy would not condone.

"There's a watch rotation at La Force where Armand is being held. I'm going to see Plancher; surely he knows someone who has been a National Guard who'd be willing to spend his watch with a willing wench and a bottle of wine - and I will take his shift at the prison to boot."

Everywhere there were horses, carriages, coachmen and grooms hustling, arguing and generally creating a traffic jam. Dewhurst grabbed Ffoulkes's arm and dragged him toward their coach. 'I have a horrible suspicion that I know exactly what Chauvelin's trap is,' Dewhurst said. At the sound of his voice the coachman whirled around, recognised his employer and bowed.

"I really don't think Percy would approve of . . ." Andrew began, but Tony, eyes flaming with passion overrode him. 'If we're caught up in that... God help us all!'

Ffoulkes looked uncertain. It was his plan, he knew the risks; Dewhurst was a kid, barely twenty, and there would be hell to pay if anything happened to him. Conversation rippled all around them, Andrew had no time to argue. "Fine," he said abruptly. "But you stick with me. Don't go off getting yourself killed or something, okay?"

As Ffoulkes climbed up onto the back of the carriage he knew - he just knew - letting Tony tag along was the wrong thing to do.

The carriage crept out of the Ambassador's courtyard slowly - so slowly - and Sir Andrew looked at various people milling about without seeing any of them until he saw a young girl wearing a clean white apron carried a basket filled with fresh grapes. At the same moment, he identified the scent in the air - a cake baking. He couldn't tell what kind it was, not really, but his imagination painted a glorious picture of a thick, buttery crust filled with grapes and custard and topped with cream. Oh, he would roll over and die for a piece of warm fruit flan! A shame he hadn't had so much as a bite of dinner at the ambassador's.

The coach rolled over a bump, the wheels crashed down and Ffoulkes was nearly flung from the back. He looked down at the deadly cobbles and gripped the hand-holds tighter. At the same moment, the coach cleared the drive, veered onto the road and picked up speed.

Andrew glanced up toward the clouds and estimated the time to be somewhat after three . . . the slow part of the day. Were they in London it would be the ideal time to visit Plancher's shop since most of his customers would have appeared for fittings in the morning.

The coach pulled up before Plancher's door - an understated door in a quietly prosperous street. Ffoulkes leapt from his perch and opened to door for Dewhurst who nearly fell out of the coach in his eagerness to be risking his neck in Sir Percy's service. Sir Andrew shook his head, following sedately behind, carrying Lord Dewhurst's gloves which had tumbled to the ground as he exited.

Inside Plancher's, he observed the tailor kissing Lord Tony's cheeks with more enthusiasm than etiquette required and beaming at him as fondly as if the old fart were the lad's mother - heaven forfend!

"I have it! It's finished! You must see . . ." Off he went into the back of his shop, and Tony turned a glassy-eyed look on Andrew at the same moment Reubens appeared. He took in the young lordling, then Sir Andrew in livery, and moved purposefully towards the door. Andrew followed a few paces behind, leaning his back against the doorframe and made a show of skinning the layer of mud off the bottoms of his boots.

"All bets are off," Reubens said. "There's a riot in the making. Can't say where. Everyone in the prisons is slated to die." With that Reubens buggered off and for a moment Andrew felt as if he'd dreamed the exchange, except this corroborated what he already knew.

Plancher was back with a coat in mint green all a-glitter with silver braid. He twittered like a bird as he helped Tony into it, boldly running his hands along Dewhurst's shoulder blades (straightening the back) his arms (smoothing the sleeves) and looking lovingly at Dewhurst's square bottom in his breeches.

"The latest fashion in breeches, Lord Dewhurst is much snugger than those." He grabbed a fistful of fabric at Lord Tony's thigh and pulled. Plancher's voice rose an octave as he said, "So smooth they look p-painted on. You must allow me to make you some."

Sir Andrew took in his young friend's stricken look and wished he could either say something constructive or laugh at his discomfort.

Ffoulkes watched Tony squirm out of the lecherous tailor's clutches, suppressing a giggle at his friend's scowling countenance. No lad got through the private school system without being approached by a queer duck - were this particular one not one of the lleague's especial friends, Ffoulkes would have no compunction in running him through with his sword.

"My dear Lord Dewhurst," Plancher said with an oily slickness. "Don't you wish to wear your new coat?" He held it out before him, inviting Tony allow Plancher to help him dress.

Plancher suddenly took the bait as it were, and blinked away his amorous feelings to deal with the subject at hand. "Oh, I see," he said slowly. "There is the fact that I've made over a hundred or so uniforms for the better bourgeois families - young men of taste and discretion, you know. There are more than a few who have never gone further than being measured for their coats before their affection for the revolution died on the vine as it were."

The tailor quirked a finger and led his friends into a vast storage closet. "What size did you have in mind?" he asked, admiring the shape of Sir Andrew's thighs as he stretched to admire the cut of the collar on a coat sporting lieutenant's pips.

"What would you ask for this?" Andrew asked. "I think it would damn near fit me."

Plancher ran his discerning gaze across the width of Sir Andrew's shoulders and giggled a little. "Mmm, yes, I do agree."

"So, who is the man who hasn't come to collect it, Plancher. Can you give me a good idea of his identity? Enough to pass a gate inspection, say?"

"Hold still, Tony," Andrew said, "and I'll braid your hair into a proper officer's queue."

"Oh what a good idea!" Plancher crooned. "And I shall braid yours, Sir Andrew."

Andrew shuddered as the old sodomite's clammy hands caressed his neck. "Lovely hair. Soft as down." Andrew could feel Plancher's breath on his neck and it made his skin crawl. He elbowed the tailor away. "No, Monsieur Plancher. I shall need a hat and wig if you please."

"Of . . . of course, you're right. Right away! You! Reubens! Find me a peruke for this man. At once!"

Andrew whispered into Tony's ear, "I'm not much of a hairdresser, but I wanted to spare you Plancher's ministrations. He looks about ready to eat you whole. I'd run him through with my blade, save it would draw too much attention and we've got to get a out of here as quickly as possible."

Reubens returned with a box containing a new wig.

"Allow me," Plancher said as he lifted it out of the box and tested the stiff curls with a tentative finger. Andrew could imagine its cost and regretted he wouldn't wear it beyond this night.

"And I will need . . . a hat," he began. Reubens presented the officer's tricorn at the same moment Andrew said the word and Plancher beamed as if he had stage-managed the whole affair.

"No hat for you?" he asked Dewhurst, picking up his somewhat crooked braid by its end and rearranging it tenderly over Lord Tony's stiff collar, his hand travelling the length of Dewhurst's spine after it left the braid.

Andrew gabbed Tony by the shoulder and shoved him toward the door. "Let's get moving," he said gruffly. "We need to make our way to La Force and look like we belong there."

The two men exited Plancher's shop and came face to face with Lord Dewhurst's ostentatious carriage parked in the street.

"Damn! I forgot about this . . ." Andrew began, but Tony strode up to the horses and began to unhitch the beasts from the coach. Andrew ran to help with the other horse.

"We're going to have to ride bareback, did you think of that?" Andrew chided, knowing full well that anyone with the blood of Exeter running in his veins was nearly centaur on horseback.

In quick fashion the two horses were free of the coach. Andrew threw Tony onto the back of his mount. Andrew, much taller, set his mount to stand still nest to the coach, then Andrew climbed up onto the step and managed to slide onto the horse's back.

Threading his fingers through the thick mane, he called, "Stick close.

I'm counting on you to catch me if I fall off!"

Say what he might about Tony's youth and idealism, at this moment Andrew was pleased that he knew every nuance of his moods. They'd been companions at school and often Andrew knew exactly what Tony was going to say by reading the set of his eyebrows or the jut of his chin. Tonight he felt Tony's resolve like the shift of a body in the dark. Young he was, and untried, it was true, but as fearless as a spaniel for all that.

Dread of what this night would bring began to knot and clench Ffoulkes's belly. He, of all the league, had experienced grievous losses in his life, understood too well the spectre of death that hung over them all. He was under no illusions about misery and pain, didn't find wallowing in mud a terrific lark, didn't enjoy the long hours of sentry duty on a cold, wet night. Building up to the moment when another unjustly convicted innocent was set free, Andrew had often watched his friends' eyes lit with some internal spark and goaded himself into believing that the latest ordeal was something to be anticipated with relish, forcing himself to go on. The truth was, he did it for Percy - Percy, the mad-cap, whose company was too intoxicating to abandon. What sort of boring existence would be his, Andrew wondered, if he'd never met Percy Blakeney?

"D'you know," Andrew called to Tony, "I never did find that wench. The maid. The one who was going to unravel the mysteries of life for me." Scratch his back and make him feel good about risking his life. "Missed her somehow," he muttered. Milord Dewhurst sat up straighter, elbows canted neatly as if riding bareback was a walk in the park for him, and Andrew read stark condemnation in his stiff spine. What was wrong with the lad that he didn't hunger and ache for a woman as Andrew did . . . nearly hourly. He knew the boy was a fledged arrow and not some milk-sop virgin. It was this more than anything else that had come between them in the last couple of years - Tony who was pinch-nosed and choosy about who he lay with and Andrew who was like every other man of the "ton", who lived only for the swish of the next willing skirt. The next pair of pouting lips. The next questioning glance from experienced eyes.

It was time to bury this difference between them, Sir Andrew decided. It was time to clear the air, by God. He'd wipe that unseemly distaste off Lord Tony's pious mug, or he'd clean the floor with him. This was not the time or place for men to feel separated by values and choices - not when he and Dewhurst had been like brothers for ten years at least. Ffoulkes called, "Give me a moment."

Dewhurst reached out a hand and snagged a handful of the mane of Andrew's mount, pulling himself level. "I've been thinking about the love I bore you - yes and that you bore me once. Not so long ago. Think about it. You remember? The times I fought your battles at school. Norbert, who loved to torment you. I fixed him, but good, for you. You trusted me not to tell your father about the broken violin, remember? Got it fixed ourselves and he never knew.

I've been thinking about how you've changed ever since you caught me kissing Suzanne du Tournai. You think I'd take advantage of her because she's French? That I don't know the limits of propriety? Let me tell you that I honour her as I would any English girl of quality. I would never . . . why, that's what brothels are for! You're too young, Lord Dewhurst," Andrew spat with fury, "to condemn me for immodesty and intemperance. Relax, lad. Learn to breath, to burn. Learn to rock with the rhythm, or one of these days you'll fall in love so hard you'll break into bits with the impact."

The slightest alteration of Tony's posture stopped Andrew's lecture as he felt the challenge throb between them. It took all of Sir Andrew's patience to keep his voice pitched low. His eyes were popping as he demanded, "Is that what's come between us? You think me a cad? A rogue?"

Andrew was stung with the acid sharpness of Tony's reprimand, especially delivered in so controlled a tone. The Tony Dewhurst that Ffoulkes knew was slow to anger, but uncontrollable when the rage burned in him. This wasn't anger talking, but something else. Andrew wished he could see Tony more clearly so he might judge what had driven him to say such things.

"You've presented a couple of stunning ideas - like the accusation that I'm afraid to fall in love - but first, I have to ask you why you make it sound like you trust me, but without an iota of respect entering into the bargain. And it looks like this fascinating conversation will have to wait because this is the cross-road.

God I loathe these prison infiltrations, don't you? It will look damned suspicious for us to appear without saddle and harness. Bad enough that there's only the two of us instead of a sortie command. Whoa. Whoa, horse!"

Andrew tugged fiercely on the horse's mane, which did nothing towards halting the beast. It shifted its head from side to side angrily.

"Ffoulkes!" Tony called, motioning in exaggerated fashion to his knees until Andrew got the message and squeezed with his knees to make the horse stop. Tony slid off easily, but as Andrew hit the ground his mount turned quickly and bit him on the thigh.

"Yeow! Vicious devil!" He was all for kicking the animal, but Tony grabbed his arm and steered him away.

"People die from animal bites, you know," Andrew moaned, rubbing the spot. Gentle pressure didn't draw blood . . . well, none that showed. He wanted to drop his drawers and inspect the injury, but Tony continued to nudge him forward and before he had a chance to complain, La Force came into view: a stone behemoth glowing orange in torch-light and seeming to hover a little above the earth in a cloud of grey smoke and ash.

"I don't have a clue what to do, do you?" Andrew asked. "I'm sure Percy expected to leave us some kind of message, but if he did, I haven't received it.

Tension was telling on young Dewhurst, quick to retort and none too polite, either. Andrew stiffened in surprise at Tony's cocky sarcasm. What a fool he'd been to come charging out here as if all would be revealed like fire-writing in the sky. But Dewhurst was right, an idea was needed and quickly. Andrew grabbed at the first one that came to him - which was Tony's idea still thrumming in his brain.

"Right. Muster up. You and I have been sent from the Committee to apprehend one of the prisoners for extra questioning. They've just arrested someone who's blown his original testimony to shreds: this is what we'll say. I don't have any official papers, so we'll just pretend they're ludicrous to demand official orders from the likes of us. This is hush-hush as well as quick-chop. So, should we ask specifically for Armand, or dream up a name and hope to find bloody Saint-Just while they're sorting through the faces trying to match our name with one of their faces?