She hugged herself and stared out of the window again. He was trying to tell her that the odds were not in her favor, she realized with a sinking sensation. He was saying that she would not be happily settled in the country with Simon and the children one day.

"I brought you here for a reason."

She jerked, meeting his gaze with dread.

"In this time of war and revolution, there is no reason that you cannot do your part, too."

She stiffened. She knew she was not going to like his suggestions.

His gaze was sharp, his smile casual. "You are living with Grenville now. And you know him well-better, perhaps, than anyone."

She did not like this new tangent. "I know him very well."

"He seems entirely fond of you."

She tensed. "We are friends."

"Good. Friends and lovers, it is truly perfect."

Her tension grew. "You do not sound mocking."

"I am not being mocking. If you are going to remain here in town, then you may as well be useful. And you can be very useful, Amelia, by listening carefully to what Grenville says and how he says it-by watching him with care and reporting all of this back to me."

She was aghast. "I am not spying on Simon!"

"Why not? If he is doing what he claims, then there is nothing untoward that you could possibly reveal, is there?"

She inhaled. "What does that mean?"

"I believe you know exactly what I am saying." He added, "Grenville has convinced his French masters that he is one of them-and that is no easy task. So I must wonder, is he one of them or is he one of us?" The bland indifference was gone. Warlock's dark eyes burned.

She cried out. Hadn't Lucas questioned Simon's loyalties, as well? "He would never betray us. He would never betray our country."

"War is a monster that devours men whole," Warlock said harshly. "I know-firsthand. Sometimes it takes their bodies, at other times, it takes their souls. So the question becomes, who has Grenville's soul?"

"I will never spy on him." Amelia trembled.

"Not even to save him from the French?" Their gazes locked. "Not even to save him from himself? Not even to simply...save him?"

Amelia stared through her tears, incapable of looking away.

SIMON'S BODY BEGAN TO SPASM as Amelia moved her mouth over him. "Amelia," he gasped, seizing her arms.

Amelia allowed him to drag her up his body. He wrapped her in his arms and thrust upward, deeply, into her. Astride him, she held him close as their bodies fused with both desperation and love. She knew that every time they made love, it could be the last time. She had never been as bold, as aggressive, as frantic, as she had just been.

He cried out wildly, but she followed him a moment later with her own climax.

She floated in that state of euphoria she was becoming familiar with, still in his arms, her body draped over his. "You did not have to do that," he whispered roughly.

She tightened her grasp, her cheek nestled against his chest, the pleasure fading rapidly. There was no following sense of satiation. Instead tension began. Every moment of that day rushed back to her, in vivid detail. Lucas had questioned Simon's loyalty. And her uncle wanted her to spy on him....

"Are you all right?" he whispered, kissing her temple and moving her to the bed, beside him. He kept her in the circle of his arms.

What were they going to do? What was she going to do? How could they keep the children safe? She kissed his chest and looked up, aware of the need to cry. "Being with you is always wonderful, Simon."

"Then why do you look so sad?" His gaze was concerned and searching.

She reached for the covers and pulled them up, suddenly cold. "Would you ever consider running away with me and the children?"

His eyes widened. "If I thought, for a moment, that we could run and hide without being discovered, yes, I would consider it."

She studied him in dismay. "Why would it be so hard to hide?"

"I am a gentleman with means. You are a lady. Our presence would be easily remarked, no matter where we went." He sat up and so did she. "Is that what you want to do?"

"If that is what it would take to keep us all safe-and together-then, yes, that is what I want to do."

He began shaking his head. "And what about your brothers? Could you really run away without telling them where you are going? What about Julianne? Your mother? She would not be able to come with us-she could so easily give us away."

Amelia sank back against the pillows. She hadn't thought any of this through. "So that is it, then? We will stay here, like this, until the war ends-or until my uncle sends you back to France?"

His face darkened. "Amelia, I have never regretted anything more than I regret bringing you into my sordid life."

"You are the joy in my life," she cried.

"No, I am the reason you walk about with fear in your eyes." He got up abruptly. "How could I have thought, even for a moment, that you would not learn the truth about me?"

"I am glad I learned the truth, so we are in this predicament together." She tried not to stare. The fire in the hearth was low, but a half a dozen candles were lit, illuminating the bedchamber. She hadn't ever seen Simon walk about so immodestly before. He had always been careful to avert his back to her, and quickly reach for his clothes. She watched him go over to the chair where his caftan lay, her heart racing with renewed desire. He was all lean, hard muscle, as superb as a Greek athlete from bygone times. She pulled her knees up to her chest and hugged them.

He glanced at her, catching her staring, before he turned and shrugged the silk garment on.

She must not be distracted. "Are you going out tonight?"

He did not face her. "No."

"I know you are going to go out to meet Marcel sooner or later," she began, with great care.

He interrupted rudely. "I am not discussing this with you."

He had not gone out last night, or the night before. Had he met Marcel during the day, then? If that were the case, she would be relieved. Did she dare ask?

And it crossed her mind that if she had been spying on him as Warlock had asked, she would know the answers to her questions. She would also know that the danger they were in hadn't changed; that there wasn't a new threat. On the other hand, if he had yet to meet Marcel, anything could happen at that rendezvous.

"Would you tell me if we were in any new danger?" she finally asked.

He slowly turned to look at her, his expression hard to read. He finally said, "We are not in any more danger, not that I know of. I hate this, Amelia. I hate that you could be in danger now, too!"

"I know you do. Simon, this is not your fault!"

"It is entirely my fault. But you should know that I am very careful, Amelia, to cover my trail," he said harshly. "I have no intention of leading anyone back to this house. I have been very careful, for some time, to stay one step ahead of all my masters."

He meant to outwit Warlock as well as the Jacobins, she thought with more dread. "I really don't care about myself. It is the children I am thinking of."

"I realize that. However, I care about you as I do the children, and that is why I am playing this game so slowly and so carefully."

He was playing "slowly." The word felt odd. It was a statement Warlock would certainly be interested in. "Even if the children were in Cornwall, if you were ever discovered, Simon, they would still be in danger."

He grimaced and did not answer, which was answer enough.

She blurted, "Do you trust my uncle?"

His glance was razor sharp. "That is a loaded question, I think."

"Do you?"

He did not approach, keeping to the other side of the bedroom. "Sometimes I do-without a doubt. At other times, no, I do not."

Aware of what she was doing, she felt terrible-guilty and treacherous, at once. "But he is a patriot, Simon. We are all on the same side."

He stared.

She got out of the bed, taking a sheet with her, which she kept wrapped around her. His gaze slammed over her. She approached. "We are all on the same side, aren't we?" she whispered.

"Is this an interrogation?"

Her heart thundered. "No. Why don't you trust him? Because for some reason, I don't trust him entirely, either."

He stared at the full curve of her breast, then lifted his eyes. "He has one overriding ambition-winning the war."

"But you share that ambition."

He seized her hand, as she held the sheet to her chest. "My greatest ambition is keeping my sons safe."

He tugged at her hand. She released the sheet and he watched it fall. Then his gaze locked with hers. "Are you spying on me now? Did Warlock put you up to this?" He was cold.

She somehow shook her head no. But she had just learned the answer to both Lucas's and Warlock's questions. Winning the war was not Simon's first ambition; keeping his children safe was.

Which meant that he would do anything to protect them-and she was glad!

"Answer me, Amelia," he said harshly, his grasp on her wrist tightening.

"I would never spy on you," she whispered. And it was a lie-because she had just done that-and they both knew it.

His eyes were blazing. She thought he was going to release her and walk away. But he jerked her close, anchoring her against his body, kissing her hard.

THE WEATHER COULDN'T HAVE BEEN more perfect, Simon thought. The downpour was torrential, the night cloudy and dark, making it almost impossible to see. He was hurrying down an alleyway behind the cobbler's shop on Darby Lane, heavily disguised, his wig bright red, his skin covered with asbestos. Because the weather was so inclement, he wore a hooded cloak.

But he was filled with tension. He was about to meet Marcel, who might very well recognize him. And he had the oddest sensation that he was being watched when he had left the house. However, he had been careful crossing town, and he knew he hadn't been followed.

At the end of the alley, he saw two men, also in hooded cloaks, standing beneath the overhanging roof of the adjacent building, out of the rain.

His heart thundered. There had been no way to continue avoiding a meeting with Marcel. Simon had sent intelligence twice the week before by courier, but Marcel had demanded they meet in person. So he had finally agreed to the rendezvous, but he had insisted it be after dark and outside, in an unlit alley. He hadn't known it would rain. G.o.d was surely on his side tonight.

But that did not reduce his fear.

As he led his sodden horse down the alley, images flashed in his mind-Amelia as she writhed in ecstasy beneath him, Amelia as she read a story to the boys, Amelia smiling in the entryway as the boys raced in to greet her, Amelia holding Lucille and feeding her from a bottle. His heart ached now. His boys adored her, as did Lucille. He adored her.

But the war had tainted their love.... She was jumping through Warlock's hoops now.

He was trying not to feel betrayed. No one knew better than he how manipulative and powerful Warlock was.

"Finally," an Englishman said, stepping to the edge of the invisible line between his shelter and the pouring rain. "We have been waiting, Jourdan."

Simon shoved his personal feelings aside. The Englishman's hood had fallen back, revealing vaguely familiar features: curly, dark blond hair, pale skin, blue eyes. Simon tensed. He was certain he had met this man, once upon a time.

He halted before the overhang, remaining in the rain, his hood covering his forehead and the sides of his face, his collar up and concealing his jaw and chin. "It was h.e.l.l, getting across town," he said, speaking with a French accent.

"You have been avoiding us," the blond gentleman said, his eyes flashing. "Not that I blame you."

No attack could have been as clear, but Simon merely smiled. "I dance to no one's tune, except for my own, and when we meet, as now, it is on my terms. But I do apologize for keeping you waiting in the rain. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?"

"Treyton," he said, "Tom Treyton."

Simon felt his heart cease beating, before it quickly resumed its pace.

Tom Treyton was smiling, coldly-belligerently. "How is your dear cousin, Jourdan? The cousin who was to welcome you with open arms into his home?"

Simon regained his composure. "St. Just recently lost his wife. I did not feel it proper to intrude upon a household in mourning, although I called upon him to tender my condolences. He was very civil." Had Treyton been watching Lambert Hall?

Treyton seemed skeptical, one dark brow slashing upward. "Surely you met on some common ground? After all, you are cousins, and while he has lost his wife, you have lost your parents, your brothers and sisters and your French cousins."

Simon instinctively did not like this tangent, as he was not sure where Treyton meant to lead. "I did not wish to burden him with my own losses," he said, referring to the ma.s.sacre of the entire Jourdan family in Lyons.

"Of course not. Hmm, I just realized he is your only remaining family."

Simon tensed, wondering what Treyton was driving at. But the man standing behind Tom stepped forward. He was tall and thin, with very white skin and shockingly pale blue eyes. Edmund Duke's gaze locked with Simon's.

Simon's tension escalated. He was there to meet Marcel, whom he had a.s.sumed was Duke. Very carefully, Simon inclined his head, breaking eye contact. "Bonjour, Marcel."

"We meet at last," the French spy said, in perfect English. Duke was certainly facing him now, but he did not seem to recognize Simon.

Simon looked up.

Duke's eyes flashed with rage. "Two days ago," he said, "Coburg took Tourconing."