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“Of course not. Never trust the English devils.” Prince pointed the pestle at him. “So what are you to do, while she is charming her way into Dixon’s confidence? That is what this Englishman intends for her to do, isn’t it?”

Slowly Nate nodded. “But she didn’t seem happy about that. In fact, she doesn’t want to do this at all. I wonder how Stafford plans to persuade her…?”

Prince watched him for a few minutes. “Bugger the lot of them,” he said finally. “We do not need them. One hundred dollars will hire a brace of investigators who can track the thief down. We can snatch him ourselves, exercise a little tender persuasion”—he tapped one of the pots spread on the table in front of him—“and be off.”

“Monroe didn’t want that,” Nate said dryly. “You know I was willing enough, but when the President says no…” He shrugged. “Besides, we’re committed now. Selwyn and Stafford know all about our presence and purpose, to say nothing of this Martand woman. It’s the diplomatic way or no way, and I’m not going home without Jacob Dixon tied to the mast.”

The other man cursed him good-naturedly. “I hardly know you anymore. When did rules and diplomacy matter to you?” He wagged his finger in accusation. “You want to work with this beautiful French girl.”

Nate caught up one of his discarded boots and chucked it at Prince. “For Davies? Anything.”

Prince ducked the flying boot. “Ah. Blame it on the general.” He shook his head and began sprinkling the dust from his mortar into the smoking pot.

It all came down to Davies, who was the real victim here. General Benjamin Davies had been a hero of the American Revolution, leading his New England militiamen, including Nate’s father, through the woods and over mountains to fight the British. He lost his right arm at Saratoga but taught himself to swing the sword with his left arm, and was back in the saddle within a couple of months.

After the war he went into business and politics, privately saying each would balance the deleterious effects of the other on his constitution, but age and infirmity finally caught up to the general. In thanks for his war service, Davies had been appointed Collector of the Port of New York, collecting tax duties on shipments through the harbor, a rather plum post of some standing. Since the loss of his arm, he’d employed a secretary who handled much of his correspondence, and as collector he had needed even more assistance.

Jacob Dixon had appeared the perfect candidate—capable, conscientious, modest. Before long Davies had left much of the actual collection to Dixon, until one day Dixon said he had inherited money from an aunt in England and was returning home at once. The day after his ship sailed, a gaping discrepancy was discovered in the accounts of the Port.

A close examination revealed Dixon’s deceit, and the theft of over four hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Ben Davies was devastated. As Collector, he was responsible, and he pledged his every possession to the government to repay the debt. It was a terrible blow to a man who had already lost an arm in service to his country, especially now that he was old and in declining health. Nate, Ben’s godson, had been only one of the men who called upon President Monroe to appeal for clemency for the old soldier.

Monroe believed that Ben had not stolen the money, but he was caught. The young country needed those funds desperately, and Ben had been responsible for their collection. The best the president could do was agree to let Nate go after Jacob Dixon in an attempt to recover as much of the money as possible, and bring Dixon back for trial so that at least Ben’s name could be cleared.

Nate, who wouldn’t have even been born if Ben hadn’t saved his father’s life at the battle of Brandywine, refused to go home without Jacob Dixon—with or without the money—and he’d work with Lucifer’s agents if that’s what it took. If he failed, Ben would lose everything, his lands and modest fortune but also his good name.

President Monroe had sent Nate along with an introduction to the British Foreign Office to smooth the way. Lord Selwyn had been appropriately shocked by the account of Dixon’s crime, and sent Nate to John Stafford, indicating that Stafford was the man to see in cases of such political delicacy. Now Nate had Stafford’s cooperation—or interference—and a Frenchwoman to watch his every move.

As long as he ended up in possession of at least some of the stolen funds, and Jacob Dixon’s person, he was fine with all that. But if either Stafford or Madame Martand got in his way… Nate was just as willing to take matters into his own hands.

* * *

A note arrived the next morning from Stafford that he would need two days to make arrangements, and to expect further word within that time. Madame Martand must have accepted after all, Nate thought, since the note made no mention of a change in plans. For some reason this didn’t annoy him at all; quite the contrary.

“I’m going to have another look at Madame Martand.” He pulled on a long gray coat and picked up a plain hat. It was a cool, cloudy day, so he also grabbed an umbrella for extra concealment. Prince gave him a long, speaking look, a wicked grin curling his mouth, but went back to his experiments without a word. Nate ignored the look and left.

He found his way back to her house in good time. Retracing a path through a city, with so many more fixed landmarks to note, was always easier than retracing a path through the forest, and Nate was rather good at doing that. Fortunately for him, she lived in a quiet area opposite a small park, where he could linger out of sight for hours, if necessary. Not that he hoped to; staring at her house wouldn’t give him much idea of what kind of person she was or what she would be like to work with. He tied up his horse at a nearby shop and went to scout the area.

But she helped him out by leaving the house. Nate had barely taken a turn around the street when a hired carriage rattled up and stopped in front of her house. Almost at once the front door opened, and the lady herself walked down the steps, demure and prim in a gray dress and black bonnet. She stepped lightly into the carriage, pausing only to speak to the sturdy-looking maid who followed her out to the street. The maid nodded, the carriage started off, and on impulse Nate slipped quickly back to his horse and followed.

He didn’t know what he expected to gain by doing so. He’d been too far away to hear what she told the driver. Perhaps she was going to have tea with a friend or going shopping for new gloves, and he would waste an entire day that could be better spent tracing Jacob Dixon’s movements. But too much depended on his knowing her, this beautiful French spy who worked for the English and seemed perfectly at ease offering to cut his throat. His entire enterprise rested on how well he could manage her, and she was a complete enigma. He’d rather be safe than sorry, he told himself as he moved into the swelling stream of traffic and kept one eye on her carriage.

They headed out of the city, around the wide expanse of Hyde Park and then onto the turnpike. With his rudimentary knowledge of London geography, Nate was reduced to reading signposts as they passed through villages and toll gates, and still traveled on. Where the devil was she going—and why? He hadn’t seen any luggage, so hadn’t thought she would go far or stay long. But as he rode on, hanging back to avoid being seen, he began to think this had been a damned foolish idea. He should have stayed in London and taken advantage of her absence to knock on her door and chat up the servants. Servants always knew pretty well what sort of person employed them.

After almost two hours, the carriage turned into an inn yard at one end of a small town. Nate reined in his horse at once, dismounting and pretending to tighten the saddle girth as he watched from the corner of his eye. After a few moments Madame Martand walked out of the yard and headed down the dusty lane on foot.

Curiosity had long since overwhelmed Nate’s mind, so he walked his horse to the inn and stabled it. He noticed the carriage driver had retired to the taproom, presumably waiting for his passenger to return from whatever her errand was. He didn’t feel too conspicuous, leaving the horse there—no one would recognize it as his—but he did school his voice into clipped British tones just in case, silently thanking his Hertfordshire mother for raising him to speak “proper English,” as she called it.

Madame Martand had vanished from sight by the time he walked back out of the stable yard, but it was a straight road that followed the dip and rise of the land. He strode briskly along until her slight figure came into view, and then moderated his pace to stay far behind her. With every step his curiosity grew by leaps and bounds.

After a while she turned south, climbing a stile over the rock wall into a meadow with a thin dirt track through the middle. A local shortcut, he thought; she’d been here before. He left the road, moving into a small wood that ran alongside the meadow. He hung back behind the trees, staying close to the shadows and stepping soundlessly through the thicket. He flexed the muscles of his abdomen, controlling his breathing until it was long, deep, and silent, as he had learned to do in the forests of New England. Giving oneself away there could be fatal, and given her threat the other day, it might well be the same here with this woman.

But Madame Martand evidently had no idea he was there. For a while she strolled through the meadow, picking wildflowers as if she hadn’t a care in the world. Nate wondered what she was thinking about as she wandered through the tall grass, reaching out from time to time to run her gloved hand over the rustling tips. He began to feel foolish again, and then puzzled, as she went into the graveyard behind a small church at the top of the hill.

She wound her way among the graves and then sat on a stone bench. She made a lonely figure in a sea of wild heartsease, her dark bonnet and gray dress stark against the sun-bleached grasses and the colorful little flowers that swayed and bobbed against her skirt.

Nate shifted through the woods until he was only a hundred yards or so away. The trees grew thin, and he inched dangerously close to exposure, but still couldn’t see her face. The bonnet shielded her expression, and he wondered why she was there. Despite the location and the quiet air of her pose, there wasn’t much of mourning in it. There was something very…still, but so alert, about her. He had the impression she had come to think instead of to pay respects.

A woman came out of the rectory at the side of the church. She was short and plump and simply dressed, with a basket over one arm. The rector’s wife, he guessed. She made her way to the woman on the bench, whom she greeted with a smile and a bob of her head. They chatted for a few minutes, and the rector’s wife gestured toward the rectory with one hand. Madame Martand stood up with a nod. She scattered the meadow flowers she had picked atop a grave in front of her, and went with the woman around the church into the rectory.