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“I don’t try,” she said testily. “But I do know that when they needed a savior, none was there. Perhaps if someone had taken Marat’s life when he was still a dirty rebel in the streets, my parents would not have been killed for a piece of land. Perhaps if the ministers and king had fought the anarchy instead of hiding away in their palaces, they would not have lost their heads, along with the heads of so many other decent people. I do not pretend the English government is a beacon of beneficence, but they keep order.”

“Oui, I realize that,” said Mélanie, retreating at once. “I am the one who taught you to hate the revolutionaries, after all.”

Angelique’s anger faded, as it always did at that expression. Once Mélanie had said Angelique looked so much like her mother when in a temper, it was impossible for her not to yield. Mélanie’s loyalty to the late countess ran deep and absolute, and it reminded Angelique how much Mélanie had done for her.

She leaned forward and clasped the older woman’s hand. “I know you speak from concern,” she said softly. “I am sorry to disappoint you time after time.”

“You are not a disappointment to me. Never.”

Angelique smiled. “This time I am not. Because…” She hesitated. “This assignment will be my last.” Hope and cautious joy sprang into Mélanie’s eyes. “I am still not even certain I will do all he wants. He asks a great deal of me, and I do not look forward to it.”

“What does he want?” Mélanie demanded.

“He asks me to pose as a bored wife.” Angelique pulled a face. “With an American nabob who wishes to play spy. Can you imagine? But we shall see how things begin. It may not be so bad.”

Mélanie didn’t look convinced, but she said nothing. Even if she asked, Angelique wouldn’t tell her more, and they both knew it.

To change the subject, Angelique opened her reticule and took out a plump packet. “This is for you.”

“For the poor,” said Mélanie firmly as she accepted it. Angelique lifted one shoulder; if it pleased Mélanie to give the money to the poor, so be it. She knew her foster mother wouldn’t spend the money on herself, but they had reached an agreement. Angelique gave the money freely, and Mélanie didn’t protest how she earned it.

She rose to her feet. “I should go.” Mélanie put aside the packet of banknotes and walked her to the door. Angelique took another look around the comfortable rectory. “Mr. Carswell is out, I presume.”

“He will be sorry to have missed you,” Mélanie said. “Someday you will come for a real visit, I hope, and stay with us. You are always welcome.”

Angelique felt almost wistful. She sometimes thought of visiting Mélanie openly, without the artifice of visiting the graveyard. Mr. Carswell, Mélanie’s husband, was a generous, decent man and never condemned her—although, one must admit, it was highly unlikely Mélanie had told him the full truth about Angelique and her occupation. “Perhaps,” she said softly. “I think of it often.”

Mélanie beamed. “You must. Finish this job, and come to me. Spend the winter with us.”

“It is possible…” She paused; perhaps it was better to say nothing. “Do give Mr. Carswell my regards.”

“Of course. I will look for Mr. Dexter’s letter every day.” Mélanie embraced her. Angelique caught a whiff of lemon and mint again and felt another pang. More than ever before, she had a wild urge to accept Mélanie’s invitation to stay. Hang Stafford and his messy assassinations. Let him send someone else with that mysterious American with the watchful green eyes, and she would just remain in Whitton with Mélanie, tending the quiet graveyard and sipping lemon-mint tea.

Instead she kissed Mélanie’s cheek and turned to the door. “Au revoir, Mellie,” she murmured.

Mélanie rallied a smile, then opened the door and bid her good-bye as politely as if they had been strangers. Angelique walked out, heading for the road back into Whitton where she had told her driver to wait. The die was cast now. She would see her solicitor when she returned to London, and tell Lisette to pack.

* * *

Nate watched her leave. Her visit had been less than an hour, and the rector’s wife showed her to the door with a kind smile. He’d managed to creep closer to the church and had a better view. She went through the graveyard again, but straight to the road this time. He followed until she reached the road back into the small town and headed down it.

What a puzzle. Had she come all this way just to lay flowers on a grave? Whose grave would that be? He couldn’t see what this had to do with his business, but he’d come all this way and now the curiosity was overtaking even his desire to follow her. There was little she could do on that road except return to town and her hired carriage, and he could catch her again before long on the way back to London. For now he wanted to know what had brought her out here.

He turned back toward the church, this time taking the road instead of the thicket path. It was a modest English chapel, weathered gray stone with a bell atop the tower. Trying not to look too focused, he let himself into the graveyard by the gate and walked the paths, studying each grave. The one she had sat over was near the back, a good twenty feet from the rear fence. He paced himself, working his way back.

Just before he reached that grave scattered with wilting wildflowers, the rector’s wife came out of her house again. She shaded her eyes to look at him, then came briskly toward him. As she drew near, Nate doffed his hat and bowed. “Good day.”

“Good day, sir.” He caught the lilt of French in her voice. How interesting. A coincidence—or not? “May I help you? Are you seeking a particular grave?”

He glanced around, affecting a look of apology. “Yes, although I’m not certain it will be here. My mother asked me to look for her grandparents, and see that the site is well tended.” Hopefully that was ancient enough.

“What are their names?” she asked politely. “My husband has been rector here for almost ten years. I am Mrs. Carswell.” Up close she was a pleasant-looking woman, plump and gray-haired. Her long thin nose and high forehead spoke of her Gallic ancestry, and there was a touch of aristocratic reserve in her manner.

“Delighted to make your acquaintance. Nathaniel Avery, at your service.” He bowed his head. “My great-grandparents were Mary and Edward Owens,” he said, truthfully. If he ever got caught following Madame Martand, let him have a solid excuse. “They lived near Richmond.” That part wasn’t true, but it was the only town name he could recall from the journey here.

Her brow wrinkled. “Hmm. I do not think so…”

“I’ve been trying to make out some of the inscriptions.” He gestured toward the grave in front of him, where a moss-covered stone listed slightly to one side. “There must be a dozen generations here.”