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you think?”
    They were, of course. Simon hadn’t exaggeratedwhen he’d described the potential usefulness of this candidate to the service. Her sex, of course, explained the elaborate setup. Simon knew that if he’d been honest, Nathaniel would have refused point blank even to see her. But presumably Simon had tasted the mettle of Gabrielle de Beaucaire and was no more capable of convincing her to take no for an answer than he himself seemed to be.
    He spoke now with calculated hostility, flavoring the words with insult. “Oh, yes, very impressive, madame. As impressive in the service of France as in the service of England. As I understand it, you’ve spent most of the last few years in France, and now I’m supposed to believe you’re eager to betray France to her enemy? It’s testing my credulity a little too far, I’m afraid.”
    He watched her expression, looking for the slightest telltale signs of hesitation, of shiftiness—a slide of the eye, a touch of color to the cheek, a quiver of the lips. The candid charcoal gaze didn’t waver, however, and the pale skin remained translucent.
    “It’s not an unreasonable question,” she said steadily. “Let me explain. I’ve always felt closer to my mother’s side of the family.” Her voice was no longer light but quiet and somber. “I spent most of my childhood here with Georgie’s family during the Terror. My father was a supporter of reform before the Revolution, but he was always a royalist and would have supported the Bourbons if they’d survived the Terror. I can best serve my parents’ memories and my own loyalties by helping to defeat Napoleon and restore the Bourbon monarchy to the throne of France.”
    She put her head on one side, and a smile enlivened the somber countenance. “So, Lord Praed, I am at the service of the English secret service.”
    “Your husband … ?”
    Shadows darkened her eyes to black. “He loved France, sir. He would agree to anything that would benefithis beloved country … and Napoleon is not good for France.”
    “No.” Nathaniel found himself agreeing, forgetting for a moment the reason for this discussion. “In the long run, I’m sure that’s true. Although military victories seem to indicate otherwise,” he added wryly.
    Her explanation was convincing. His reports indicated these days that many concerned, thinking Frenchmen were beginning to understand that Napoleon’s increasing megalomania was detrimental to his country. He wanted to control the whole of Europe, but the time would come when the countries he’d subjugated and humiliated would form alliances and rise up against the tyrant because they’d have nothing further to lose. And when that happened, it would be ordinary French men and women who would pay the price for one man’s overweening ambition. Working to bring down Napoleon was not necessarily the act of a traitor to France.
    And Gabrielle de Beaucaire was superbly placed to gather the kind of information it could take another agent months to discover.
    But he didn’t employ women.
    He regarded her in brooding silence. She lacked something essential to femininity, he thought, some weakness or vulnerability that he associated with the female sex. She was tensile, strong, unwavering. But with a sense of humor. And something else, something he’d learned to recognize in a good spy a long time ago. He believed she had that indefinable and essential quality of bending, like the willow tree in a wind. A spy had to bend, to adapt, to switch rapidly from stance to stance.
    And there were exceptions to every rule, but not this one.
    “I don’t deny your credentials, but I do not employ women. There is nothing more to be said. Now, perhaps you’d do me the favor of removing yourself. I don’t mean to be inhospitable …” He tried another heavilyironic smile, lifting one eyebrow. But if he’d hoped to disconcert her, he was disappointed again.
    “Very well.” She rose from the bed. “Then