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I’ll bid you good night, Lord Praed.” She went toward the door. “You won’t mind if I go out this way?”
    “No,” he said, seizing on a legitimate complaint. “On the contrary. Perhaps you’d like to explain why you chose to arrive in such unorthodox fashion. What the devil was wrong with the door in the first place? The house is asleep.”
    “It seemed more interesting … more amusing,” she said with a shrug.
    “And more dangerous.” His voice was harsh. “This is not a game. We’re not in this business for amusement. We don’t take unnecessary risks in the service. You may have the credentials, madame, but you obviously do not have the wisdom or the intelligence.”
    Gabrielle stood still, her hand on the doorknob, her lower lip clipped between her teeth as she fought to conceal the violent upsurge of anger at such stinging scorn. He didn’t know how far off the mark he was. She
never
took unnecessary risks, and this one had been
entirely
justified in terms of her plan. But Nathaniel Praed was not to know that, of course.
    With a supreme effort she conjured up a tone of dignified defense. “I’m no fool, Lord Praed. I can tell the difference between games and reality. Nothing was at stake tonight, so I could see no reason not to indulge myself in a little unorthodox exercise.”
    “Apart from compromising your reputation,” he remarked aridly.
    At that she laughed again, and again he was attracted to the deep, warm sound. “Not so,” she said. “The house is asleep, as you said. And even if anyone saw me scaling the walls, they’d hardly recognize the Comtesse de Beaucaire in this outfit.” She passed a hand in a sweeping gesture down her body, delineating her frame. “Would they?”
    “It would depend on how well they know you,” he said, as aridly as before, reflecting that once seen like this, Gabrielle would be impossible to forget.
    “Well, no harm’s done,” she said with a dismissive shake of her head. “And I do take your point, sir.”
    “I’m relieved. Not that it makes any difference to anything. Good night.” He blew out his candle.
    “Good night, Lord Praed.” The door closed behind her.
    He lay on his back, staring up into the darkness. Hopefully that was the end of any involvement with Gabrielle de Beaucaire. He’d give Simon a piece of his mind tomorrow. What the hell had he thought he was doing, encouraging that troublesome woman to see herself as an agent? She presumably had some romantic, glamorous conception of what was at best a dirty and dangerous business, and Simon was always susceptible to female persuasion.
    Gabrielle stood for a second in the corridor outside, hugging the shadows while she slowly unclenched her fists and breathed deeply until her tight muscles relaxed. He hadn’t guessed her tension, she was sure of it. But her entire body ached as if she’d been tied in knots. He’d accept her in the end, he had to. Simon had said it would take time and she’d have to appeal to the most unorthodox aspects of his nature if she was to overcome his resistance. She’d certainly tried that tonight, and tomorrow was another day.
    But how difficult it was to conceal her rage and the longing to hurt him as he had hurt Guillaume. Oh, it hadn’t been his hand that had wielded the knife, but it had been at his orders. He hadn’t known Guillaume, not even known his real name, and yet he’d had him murdered.
    How could she possibly seduce such a man? But she had to. She would remember Guillaume, relive his death, and then she would be able to do what had to be done.

2

    There were two men in the comfortable study at the back of the tall house on rue d’Anjou. They were an ill-matched pair, Napoleon’s Minister for Foreign Affairs and his Minister of Police. Talleyrand, the elegant aristocrat, and the brutal-featured Fouché were as unlike physically as they were in their choice of methods and techniques. But they were both experts at working in the