The house was old, more like a museum than a family residence, with furniture in most of the rooms that dated back a hundred years or more. It was the role of a wife to improve a house; unfortunately the last two Lady Blakeneys had not done so.

Percy had a dim memory of his grandmother, his father's mother, a withered crone who sat in a rocking chair and sewed fancywork from sunrise to sunset, nodding off at intervals. His chief memory was of staring into her snoring mouth at her toothless gums and shuddering at her bad breath. Blakeney manor, as it stood today, was the creation of Lady Catherine, old Lady Blakeney.

Percy's mother, 'mad Joan' as she was called, had begun improving the music room. Interrupted by a complicated pregnancy (that had resulted in Percy's birth) the work had never been completed. And Marguerite . . . Percy's bedroom was still furnished with a tester bed of historic importance; the Duke of Exeter had said, "When your bride gets to refurbishing, that bed belongs in a museum. King James slept there, you know."

Good for King James, Percy thought as he turned onto his left side for the twentieth time. He suspected King James had been the last person to get a decent night's sleep in the damned thing. But it was more than the fault of the bed; the room was draughty. A bitter wind seeped through the cracks as it howled past the north corner, shaking the trees and rattling the shutters. Despite the bedcurtains being drawn shut, cocooning the big bed, it was still cold and no amount of solitary movement could warm it. The bed needed two and the sustained heat of passion to warm it - a thought guaranteed to keep Percy awake. Marguerite had spent very few nights in this bed with him - not that she would. It was his privilege to pull his robe over his nightgown and travel the length of the house, meeting the eye of every upstairs maid and bored footman on his walk to the front of the house where his lady slept in solitary splendour. It was up to him to choose the time and day (night) of their conjugal pleasure. The husband's right.

The thought of his wife's firebrand temper kept Percy rigidly beneath his own counterpane, chafing big feet in an effort to warm the sheets. He should have asked Frank to get him two pairs of bedsocks - Blakeney manor was always cold!

His business in London would not take long; he could be back in Richmond by dinnertime if he wished; but did he wish it? No doubt his lady would be sulky and spiteful after this last night's misunderstanding. How could two people who obviously loved each other, not communicate? What did the woman expect of him? Why could she not simply be his wife?

His first stop in London was at the Embassy where he would speak to Lord Grenville, discover what the latest news was from Paris. He would hear how Marguerite's chum, Citizen Chauvelin was seething at the loss of the du Tournai family. Perhaps there would be another spicy pamphlet from Monsieur Desmoulins decrying the English spy who stalked Paris streets like a ghost. There may even be an official communique from Robespierre denouncing the English for interfering in the judicial system. Hurting their poor revolution.

Percy sat up, pulling the counterpane around himself. Damnation, but this bed was as cold as the trestle he'd slept on that last night in Paris ; was there no comfort to be had in grand England ? He may as well be back in the thick of it. He may as well go and see what he could discover about Armand and his whereabouts. . . . save that it was unlikely the lad had gone back to Paris . Most unlikely. Armand had been glad to see the last of France . It was more likely he was being held for ransom by some pirate who had imagined him to be a valuable marker. It was all Ffoulkes's doing, daring to wander about Paris in his flashiest clothes. He had confessed to being followed; no doubt some desperate individual had stalked them all the way to Calais , stowed away on the boat when they crossed the channel and seized Armand on the dock. A ransom not would be delivered to the Fisherman's Rest. Percy should go there directly after seeing Grenville.

Perhaps if he returned home with Armand in tow, Marguerite would forgive him and this damnable bed would not be so cold on his next night at home.

Percy nearly tripped over a pair of wrestling dogs as he made his way to the stable. At the last minute one broke free, secured the bone they were fighting over and took off over the field. The other was up and after, barking madly. The scene checked Percy's anger; he had to admit that life would go on regardless of his wishes. Briefly he recalled a face - John Smythe - a former friend who insisted that gambling was a skill and not merely luck. 'If you control the odds, then you can't lose. It takes time to build up the system, but it can be done.' Percy wondered if Smythe had won a fortune with his system yet, or if he was still seeking the next game and bending the ear of anyone who would listen.

Smythe had visited Percy at Blakeney manor and been green with envy at what he saw. "This is a tremendous old place!"

"Is it?"

To Percy, the manor was an ancient pile, all but falling down, and the least inspiring of country houses. What about Chatsworth, ornately decorated with pedimented porticoes and graceful stairways? Why Blakeney manor didn't even boast so much as an orangery. The portraits were old; his mother the last to sit for one and that was the requisite bridal portrait, done by Boucher, on her honeymoon in Paris. The furniture was heavy oak and the rooms were dark with panelling and heavy curtains. There were tapestries of god-alone knew what era on the walls of the long hallway. Why didn't his wife take up housewifery as she should and stop interfering in politics? Why didn't she fill her days with art lessons and gossip as other ladies did? Why did she glare at him with such loathing whenever he ventured to enter her bedchamber - lord it was enough to wilt any man's resolve.

Percy entered the stable and felt a sense of calm despite the early morning bustle. The Blakeney stables were one place that had seen tremendous improvements over the years. Extra rooms above for the increased staff required to care for the impressive bloodstock housed there. A dozen pairs of curious equine eyes turned toward him. Ecosaisse, the butterscotch mare, whinnied a welcome, and he reached into the box of sugar cubes kept near the door.

"How are you, beauty? Sleeping well?" He patted her nose as she munched the sugar. She was heavily in foal; he was anxious to see the result of her mating with his chocolate-coloured hunter. Hopefully it would be a long-legged steeplechaser!

Ecoissaise blew Percy a wet kiss and he felt warmed by her simple affection. Why was it that horses were so uncomplicated and wives so contrary? Marguerite made him feel guilty for being a man, for having interests that didn't include her. Did she imagine that marriage meant they must sit and hold hands all day? Did she suppose that he could abandon the rituals of a gentleman's life simply because he'd got himself a wife who didn't wish to circulate in society? There was work to be done! In addition to the work of Blakeney manor there was his holding in Somerset, his financial interests in France, Italy, India and elsewhere.

Perhaps he should take her to Liverpool the next time one of his ships came in and let her see what it was like; crates piling up on the dock, merchandise coming in to offset the bills to be paid. Would she be less demanding if she spent a few days in an airless hotel room in the north, overlooking the bustle of dockside life? She could gaze out the window at the half-dressed sailors and watch their uncouth manners as they spat and urinated in the road, perhaps then she'd understand what he had spared her in the past, leaving her within an hour's drive of the city - of shopping. She could buy rolls of silk and nankeen and have some decent curtains made up. She could hire a few painters to brighten the dining room. She could sit for a portrait to take pride of place over the massive hearth in the ball room - she could organize some lively entertainment.

"Have Sultan saddled," Percy told one of the grooms who was walking Moonlight Dragon back to his stall. The groom bobbed his head, passed Dragon's reins to one of the lads, and raced off to obey.

"You - Toby," Percy called to the lad. "Have you seen that Frenchie who comes to visit Lady Blakeney? I doubt if the man rides; he'd arrive in a curricle, I suppose. Have you seen his horses?"

The lad looked uncertain. "Well, he's bound to turn up. I'd like you to keep an eye open for a little Frenchie," Percy measured Chauvelin's height against his chest. "Wears black. Hats are usually dented and shabby. Not likely to offer much of a tip to any of the help . . ." The lad's face brightened at that comment. "You've seen him, then?"

Toby nodded. "Can you tell time, lad?" Toby looked crushed by the question. "Don't worry about that; Baines can do it. When you see that Frenchie come 'round, go find Baines and ask him the time. Then remember it. When you see him leave, do the same and remember that, too. When I return I shall ask you those times and if you can remember, I shall give you a silver shilling."

The lad's eyes glowed. "I kin r'member, sir. I kin!" Percy ruffled the kid's hair.

"I know you can, Toby. You're a bright fellow."

Toby was the head groom's son, a boy of about nine. They lived in a cottage in the trees near the mill. Toby was the only son of three to survive, but Wilms had two daughters as well. Percy didn't remember the maid's name - the girl who Wilms had married. Kitchen maid. Buck-toothed.

Had legs like tree-stumps. Everyone had said Wilms had chosen wisely - had chosen a girl everyone could see was destined to conceive every year. As far as Percy knew, she had. Perhaps Marguerite was too thin. Perhaps she was too frail for motherhood. She was fine-boned and delicate, pretty as a porcelain figurine. Perhaps he should have married someone like Constance Ebrington, Lord Fortesque's daughter. Far from pretty, the girl couldn't squeeze into an armchair, but she'd been delivered of twin boys a year and a month after her marriage. If you blew out the candles, you could stomach anything in the dark.

Percy's butt fit his saddle with perfection. Sultan danced, tossed his head, eager to be away. Wilms had the stable doors open wide and Sultan cantered into the watery sunlight, aiming for the road, crunching up the drive, past the fountain and the benches where the housekeeper scattered crumbs and seeds for the birds. Percy glanced up at the front windows as they passed, wondering if the pink blur at the window was his wife in her wrapper, or one of the maids polishing the glass. He wished he'd had the courage to steal into her chamber and kiss her goodbye. If life was perfect, she'd have thrown her arms around his neck and pulled into down next to her - if life was perfect, he'd have risen from her bed and not his, feeling the indescribable contentment of a well-married husband.

A sliver of blue moved beyond the hedge, a flutter of something bright caught in the early sun. Percy blinked, looking over his shoulder, but the patch of colour was gone. As Sultan reached the road, Percy hunched forward and gave the stallion his head - flying down the road toward London , determined to beat his time of thirty-nine minutes.

London streets were a-bustle, which was usual from sunrise onward; the road to the Embassy a jumble of carts, barrows, carriages and people. Everyone was on the move; Blakeney, however, had reached his destination. The footman at the gate recognised him; the lad at the door remembered his mount. Percy climbed the stairs and was processed inside, left to cool his heels in a reception room while word was sent to Lord Grenville.

"In? Of course his lordship is in," the page said. "He never left. Been here all night taking care of the newest family of emigres. I'm taking this coffee to him, aren't I?"

Apparently, the page was. Percy winced, realising that it was his fault Grenville hadn't see his bed all night, but he had scant time to worry that thought for the footman showed him up to Grenville's study. The first face he saw belonged to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes.

"God, Andrew! You look like you've been up all night . . ." Uh-oh. Had everyone paid for his lapse? Because he had centred his thoughts on returning to his wife, two friends had worked through the night on his behalf.

Percy allowed the hot cup of coffee to warm his hands. What was he supposed to think? Peace was a word that he'd come to believe meant everything to Robespierre. He recalled the man, small-boned and intense. He'd spoken of bloodshed as would a boy who was afraid of knives. "I, uh, can't picture Monsieur Robespierre in favour of war any more than I can picture Danton working toward peace. I believe your information from Gower is true, but that something far more important has to be behind this kind of about-face."

"Is that why I'm to recognise the envoy of an enemy determined to carve up our trade partners?" Grenville demanded. "For all intents and purposes we should be at war with France - they've made threatening moves toward Holland. If Pitt had any spleen at all . . ." He began to splutter, choking on his coffee.

"In all politeness, you must receive their envoy. Did this letter mention who they're sending? So far as I understood, the Count du Tournai was their Ambassador - he's never been replaced." Du Tournai - hopefully enjoying a peaceful morning's lie-in in safety for the first time in over a month, in this very building.

Grenville blew his nose before responding. "Oh, the envoy is full of pomp and circumstance. You've spent enough time in Paris to know him on sight - the Marquis de Talleyrand no less."

He side-stepped as the mess splashed upward. Thunderstruck, he reached toward Grenville. "Do show me that letter! What did you say?"

Percy grabbed the paper out of Grenville's hand, his eyes scanning the sheet quickly. "Damnation! Of all the tawdry, lying, two-faced . . . where does that arrogant devil get off calling himself a marquis, that's what I'd like to know!"

"Well, of course, all that goes without saying," Percy explained, wounded that Andrew needed to ask. "But this effrontery of the little Chauvelin says something about the mood of the man, don't you think? This is not the same face he wore in Paris - not at all."

"Oh, I think you're mistaken there," Percy said. "Our charming American colonists - after their rebellion - took pains to send their government leaders to Louis XVI in Paris . Surely you've listened to Exeter spout vitriol about this! Why, it would have been this same Talleyrand who liaised with . . . oh, what was his name? Exeter called him the Quaker because he wore his hair unpowdered and a flat, squashy hat."

"You don't mean Franklin , uh, Benjamin Franklin?" Grenville asked, then abruptly turned toward the door. "What on earth is that? I gave strict orders that we were not to be disturbed."

Before Grenville could rise, Andrew had gone to the door and opened it. He took the note the footman passed through the crack, shut the door once more and delivered the note into Grenville's hand. "Ho ho! Your accomplice Lord Edward Hastings is below. Shall we have him up?"

"Certainly," Percy said. "I hope he has some news around a most distressing event. As our rescued �migr� family were putting ashore at Dover, my brother-in-law, Armand Saint-Just was taken."

"Taken?" Grenville asked. "Taken how?"

"I have no idea. No one saw him disappear, but he is missing. He was seen by Jellyband at the Fisherman's Rest and never clapped eyes on again. By all means, let's hear from Hastings!"

"How can that have any bearing on Armand's disappearance?" Percy asked, crossing to the chair where Hastings hovered, not sitting, clinging to the back and looking puzzled.

Percy continued to pace as if he needed movement to keep the wheels of his brain in motion. "While I know Armand is in danger, I'm stymied as to whom would take him. Why? He's not known in England . He wasn't well turned out, so no one could possibly have taken him for money. What was happening in Dover that marked Armand for kidnapping?"

He watched Andrew shrug, clearly unable to solve the mystery. Suddenly Andrew's expression changed. "The marquise!"

"What marqu . . ." Of course. The boy. "You mean that French madame who came on her own, stowed away on a fishing barge. D'you imagine the coastal security picked up Armand, mistaking him for the woman?"

Percy looked across the room at Andrew, reading his aggravated stance. "We'll think harder, then," Percy demanded tersely. "It's Armand's life that's at stake. The longer he's missing, the bleaker things look." It was as if, Percy, watching Andrew's face, had only just realised what Hastings had said. Abruptly he turned to face his friend. "What's that? Did you say something about a family the Spaniard - the marquise - wants us to assist?"

"I do remember the marquise, Andrew," Percy said with an exaggerated drawl. "You must remember that I was hiding from your Mistress Suzanne, and wasn't party to all the details. I understood that she appeared dressed as a lad because she'd fled France , but that's about the extent of my knowledge. So, tell me, is she seeking asylum for herself and another �migr� family as well?"

Percy didn't allow Andrew a moment to answer before he rounded on Hastings. "You, I would suppose, are aware of every nuance taking place. I'm in awe of how thoroughly you stay in contact with everything that's going on. I'd swear you had wheels affixed to your boots, my friend. So, am I to believe you allowed Lord Bathurst to escort this vision of perfect womanhood to London ?" Percy chuckled at the thought. "D'you suppose the marquise has sworn off Englishmen yet? I wonder where he would have taken her?"

Percy ran his fingers through his hair, considering. Lord John Bathurst. Well-born. Raised with a semblance of gloss and polish. The woman wouldn't be imperiled of her life, although Percy could imagine she'd had to struggle against the amorous young man through most of the journey to London . Bathurst was used to winning his way with women. Good-looking fellow, but a thorough rake for all that. Percy eyed Hastings coolly and said, "Not like you at all to give way - especially to Bathurst - when a charming woman is in need of assistance."

Percy clapped Hastings on the shoulder affectionately. "I always trust you to reach the heart of an issue. I so admire your clear-headed logic. Now . . . I'd say we've talked enough. Action is what is needed."

"But . . ." Grenville began when there was another timid knock on the door. He rolled his eyes in exasperation. So much for his orders not to be disturbed!

"Milord," Percy addressed Grenville, "how inconvenient would it be for you to board my two friends until Chauvelin quits the premises? You too, stay here and out of sight. I will leave now. Ffoulkes, before you leave, see du Tournai and apprise him of this latest situation. Ensure he's aware that all our lives are at risk if he makes any move that implicates us in his rescue."

Percy crossed to Hastings, rested a hand on his shoulder. "You are on top of everything, as usual. See me when you receive Fanshawe's information about Chauvelin. Although I think we can guess for ourselves what he's up to, it would be best to have confirmation." Hastings beamed, bobbing a little on his feet. "I expect that Bathurst will get in touch with one of us to arrange this meeting he desires . . . I can't say where I'll be, but any message sent to Blakeney manor will reach me. I need to return to Lady Blakeney, but first . . ." Without further explanation, Percy raced to the door and left his friends.

Grenville directed Hastings to one of the guestrooms; Andrew went at once to speak to du Tournai. Grenville demanded his steward clear away the dishes in his office, then went to the mirror to check his wig.

Percy virtually flew downstairs. Striding quickly, his heavy tread setting up a formidable racket on the polished floor, he moved purposefully toward the front salon where the doors were flung open and the light from the windows pooled on the floor. He slowed, took a deep breath, and went inside. He moved deliberately toward the snuffbox, bent to lift the lid . . . then turned abruptly and looked straight at Chauvelin.

�Why . . . why, lookie loo, what do you do? Hah! I can't believe it. Are you real?"

The game was afoot.

"It's wondrous," Percy continued, eyeing Chauvelin carefully, "more than wondrous to see you in this place..." Abruptly Percy shoved a booted foot forward and leaned with one hand on his hip. "What's a deuced revolutionary such as yourself doin' in a place like this, hmm?"

He chuckled, enjoying himself as Chauvelin coloured to his ears. Quick to anger . . . interesting. The Chauvelin Percy knew was cautious, gave away nothing. This meant either that meeting Percy here had surprised him more than he cared to show, or that he was drained and unable to hide his emotions.

"Most difficult time for you to choose to holiday abroad, my dear Chauvelin. I suppose you weren't aware that your deuced revolutionary forces have declared war on us! Us, sir. Damned odd, I'd say, considering we've been a-sittin' on our side of the channel minding our manners. But since you're here, might I recommend you take a tour of the Tower of London ? Damned fine sight. See the zoo. Take lunch in the garden. Order pasties and ale - best food in all the world!" Percy paced around Chauvelin, who spun on his heel, trying to keep Blakeney in his sights as if he feared a knife in the back. Percy thought about a knife and imagined the fourth vertebra - good spot for upsetting the Frenchie's day.

"Oh, and when you meet the Ambassador - you're here to see Lord Grenville, I hope, or else you've come to the wrong house! His lady is organizing a ball - a soiree - and you must beg him for an invitation. I'm sure my wife would enjoy ten minutes in your company. Unfortunately, she's deuced busy these days - can't imagine what keeps her. Busy with this and that, here and there - women! Seventh wonder of the world, don't you agree? Well, this party, I will command her to attend it and then you might have a few words together. Ah, do you dance, Chauvelin? I doubt the Tribunal teaches the minuet between executions, what? Well, you must know a few of those country dances from Poitu or Dauphinee or wherever you hail from. I'll ask Margot to go easy with you, shall I?"

Percy had circulated around the room and reached the doorway. He lifted his hat, offered Chauvelin a mockingly low bow, then left, throwing a "Oh, Reverse-ay-v-war, peitit Chauve-ee-laine! He-he-he." His laughter echoed back into the room.