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He broke off, glanced toward the closed doors that led into the dining room, and lowered his voice. “Forgive me. Are there not tradesmen working in the house? Is there anyone in that room who might overhear us?”

Pomona realized that the busy sounds of hammering in the adjacent dining room had stopped. In fact, for almost the first time in two months, the house was quiet.

She swept across the drawing room and threw the doors open.

Monsieur Mazarine was just on the other side of them, holding a measuring stick. He looked up, his charming smile at the ready. “Ah! Your grace! I was just about to”— He caught sight of Sir Anthony. Whatever he’d been about to say died on his lips.

The two men stared at each other. The looks on their faces were enough to chill her blood. There could be no question that they knew each other. “I beg your pardon, your grace.” Sir Anthony didn’t take his eyes off Monsieur Mazarine. “Perhaps we might discuss this another time.”

Pomona hesitated. “Or perhaps, Monsieur, if you would…?”

A slow, sardonic smile appeared on Monsieur Mazarine’s face. Without taking his eyes off Sir Anthony, he made a bow. “Certainement, your grace.” He stalked past them and out into the hall. A moment later, she heard the front door of the house slam.

Pomona stood, bewildered. What had just happened? If Monsieur Mazarine had gone for the day, her mother would kill her!

Sir Anthony turned to her. “I beg your pardon, your grace. I believe that you called that… gentleman… Monsieur Mazarine?”

“Yes. He is a well-known decorator. He was recommended to me by my mother, the Dowager Viscountess Alford. But you, er... seemed to know him?”

“Ah. That is clever.” A half-smile twisted one corner of his mouth upward. “A decorator, eh? In and out of all the best houses. Yes. Very clever indeed.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I apologize again, your grace. That man’s name is not Mazarine—although, in fairness, I have never learned his real name. He is a French spy.”

“What?” For a moment, Pomona was too stunned to speak. A deadly riot in Manchester... a French spy in her house... and somehow, West was in some sort of danger... "What is happening?”

He was frowning. "In Mazarine's case, I think I can guess. There is an effort from certain quarters in France who would like to see Bonaparte released. They are trying to identify which members of the English aristocracy might be sympathetic to their cause. By posing as a decorator, and using your mother's name and connections, the so-called Mazarine has gained access to the houses of many powerful and titled people."

Of course. Lady Alford—hungry for flattery, in exile in Bath, bored and discontented—would have been an easy target... and the perfect entry point to London society. Her hand went to her mouth. When this got out, there would be yet another scandal. “What must I do?”

“Do?” A wry smile appeared on Sir Anthony’s face. “Oh, it is done, your grace. He knows that I recognized him. I can almost promise you that he is on his way out of the country as we speak.”

She stared at him. With his close-cropped gray hair, gold spectacles and well-cut blue coat, Sir Anthony could be any prosperous middle-aged Englishman. Only... he wasn’t. If he wasn’t a spy himself, he was something very close to one. She felt as though she'd stepped into an intrigue from the pages of her own novels. “But... people will say…” She trailed off.

“I very much doubt that people will say anything. Anyone who discovers the truth about Monsieur Mazarine will certainly not wish to publicize his or her connection with him." He sighed. "This incident is merely another facet of the same problem that I have dedicated my career to resolving. And I have failed, Lady March. That is why I am here."

"What do you mean?"

"The war against Bonaparte is over. But he has still many supporters. After all, the conditions that caused the revolution that brought him to power remain—and not only in France, but here as well. Tariffs on wheat that raise the price of bread. Low wages. Hunger. Our government is terrified that revolution is imminent. And now it has come to this: Murdering citizens in the street, and arresting the men who spoke at the meeting. The danger is that the duke is known as a reformer. And he has an enemy who plans to use this chaos as an opportunity to strike."

“You mean Cecil Townley.” It was not a question.

“Townley has persuaded the Home Secretary to send more soldiers north, on the pretext that they may be needed to put down rioting. But I learned today that he has managed to divert some of those soldiers to Shropshire. Where there has been no trouble, and no reason to think that there will be trouble."

Pomona's mind was racing. "So Townley hopes to use the soldiers to create some sort of incident that he can blame on West.”

“You are most perceptive, your grace.”

How carefully Townley had worked behind the scenes to lay his traps. And now, isolated at Castle March, West could have no idea what was coming toward him.

But what power did she have to stop it? “I do not understand. You are in government. Surely there is something that you can do to stop this.”

He folded his arms and was silent a moment. “Lady March, I shall be very blunt. Townley is in favor politically. I am not. And there is no way for me to warn the duke in time, because I have also been told that Townley has been having both all your letters intercepted and read. For months.”

A jolt went through her body. Their letters. Of course. For a moment, fear blanked her mind. To have her privacy so violated... to feel so exposed... to know how far Townley was capable of going...

But... was she actually shocked and frightened? Or was she simply telling herself that she ought to be frightened? After all, she already knew what Townley was. He'd lost the ability to surprise her. So though his behavior was frightening, it was also predictable—and contemptible. She was... she was tired of it. And deep inside she felt a growing fury.