“I’d not heard he was dead,” Dougal said reasonably.

That took me up short for a moment. But of course he was right; we had thought Randall dead only because Sir Marcus MacRannoch had mistaken the trampled body of Randall’s orderly for the officer himself, during Jamie’s rescue from Wentworth Prison. Naturally no news of Randall’s death would have gone round the Highlands, since it hadn’t occurred. I tried to gather my scattered thoughts.

“He isn’t dead,” I said. “But he is in Paris.”

“In Paris?” That got his attention; his brows went up, and then his eyes widened with the next thought.

“Where’s Jamie?” he asked sharply.

I was glad to see he appreciated the main point. While he didn’t know what had passed between Jamie and Randall in Wentworth Prison – no one was ever going to know that, save Jamie, Randall, and, to some extent, me – he knew more than enough about Randall’s previous actions to realize exactly what Jamie’s first impulse would be on meeting the man here, away from the sanctuary of England.

“I don’t know,” I said, looking out the window. We were passing Les Halles, and the smell of fish was ripe in my nostrils. I pulled out a scented handkerchief and covered my nose and mouth. The strong, sharp tang of the wintergreen with which I scented it was no match for the reek of a dozen eel-sellers’ stalls, but it helped a bit. I spoke through the spicy linen folds.

“We met Randall unexpectedly at the Duke of Sandringham’s today. Jamie sent me home in the coach, and I haven’t seen him since.”

Dougal ignored both the stench and the raucous cries of fishwives calling their wares. He frowned at me.

“He’ll mean to kill the man, surely?”

I shook my head, and explained my reasoning about the sword.

“I can’t let a duel happen,” I said, dropping the handkerchief in order to speak more clearly. “I won’t!”

Dougal nodded abstractedly.

“Aye, that would be dangerous. Not that the lad couldna take Randall with ease – I taught him, ye ken,” he added with some boastfulness, “but the sentence for dueling…”

“Got it in one,” I said.

“All right,” he said slowly. “But why the police? You dinna mean to have the lad locked up beforehand, do ye? Your own husband?”

“Not Jamie,” I said. “Randall.”

A broad grin broke out on his face, not unmixed with skepticism.

“Oh, aye? And how d’ye mean to work that one?”

“A friend and I were… attacked on the street a few nights ago,” I said, swallowing at the memory. “The men were masked; I couldn’t tell who they were. But one of them was about the same height and build as Jonathan Randall. I mean to say that I met Randall at a house today and recognized him as one of the men who attacked us.”

Dougal’s brows shot up and then drew together. His cool gaze flickered over me. Suddenly there was a new speculation in his appraisal.

“Christ, you’ve the devil’s own nerve. Robbery, was it?” he asked softly. Against my will, I could feel the rage rising in my cheeks.

“No,” I said, clipping the word between my teeth.

“Ah.” He sat back against the coach’s squabs, still looking at me. “Ye’ll have taken no harm, though?” I glanced aside, at the passing street, but could feel his eyes, prying at the neck of my gown, sliding over the curve of my hips.

“Not me,” I said. “But my friend…”

“I see.” He was quiet for a moment, then said meditatively, “Ever heard of ‘Les Disciples,’ have you?”

I jerked my head back around to him. He lounged in the corner like a crouching cat, watching me through eyes narrowed against the sun.

“No. What are they?” I demanded.

He shrugged and sat upright, peering past me at the approaching bulk of the Quai des Orfèvres, hovering gray and dreary above the glitter of the Seine.

“A society – of a sort. Young men of family, with an interest in things… unwholesome, shall we say?”

“Let’s,” I said. “And just what do you know about Les Disciples?”

“Only what I heard in a tavern in the Cité,” he said. “That the society demands a good deal from its members, and the price of initiation is high… by some standards.”

“That being?” I dared him with my eyes. He smiled rather grimly before replying.

“A maidenhead, for one thing. The nipples of a married woman, for another.” He shot a quick glance at my bosom. “Your friend’s a virgin, is she? Or was?”

I felt hot and cold by turns. I wiped my face with the handkerchief and tucked it into the pocket of my cloak. I had to try twice, for my hand trembled.

“She was. What else have you heard? Do you know who’s involved with Les Disciples?”

Dougal shook his head. There were threads of silver in the russet hair over his temples, that caught the light of the afternoon.

“Only rumors. The Vicomte de Busca, the youngest of the Charmisse sons – perhaps. The Comte St. Germain. Eh! Are ye all right, lass?”

He leaned forward in some consternation, peering at me.

“Fine,” I said, breathing deeply through my nose. “Bloody fine.” I pulled out the handkerchief and wiped the cold sweat off my brow.

“We mean you no harm, mesdames.” The ironic voice echoed in the dark of my memory. The green-shirted man was medium-height and dark, slim and narrow-shouldered. If that description fit Jonathan Randall, it also fit the Comte St. Germain. Would I have recognized his voice, though? Could any normal man conceivably have sat across from me at dinner, eating salmon mousse and making genteel conversation, barely two hours after the incident in the Rue du Faubourg St.-Honoré?

Considered logically, though, why not? I had, after all. And I had no particular reason for supposing the Comte to be a normal man – by my standards – if rumor were true.

The coach was drawing to a halt, and there was little time for contemplation. Was I about to ensure that the man responsible for Mary’s violation went free, while I also ensured the safety of Jamie’s most loathed enemy? I took a deep, quivering breath. Damn little choice about it, I thought. Life was paramount; justice would just have to wait its turn.

The coachman had alighted and was reaching for the door handle. I bit my lip and glanced at Dougal MacKenzie. He met my gaze with a slight shrug. What did I want of him?

“Will you back my story?” I asked abruptly.

He looked up at the towering bulk of the Quai des Orfèvres. Brilliant afternoon light blazed through the open door.

“You’re sure?” he asked.

“Yes.” My mouth was dry.

He slid across the seat and extended a hand to me.

“Pray God we dinna both end in a cell, then,” he said.

An hour later, we stepped into the empty street outside the commissariat de police. I had sent the coach home, lest anyone who knew us should see it standing outside the Quai des Orfèvres. Dougal offered me an arm, and I took it perforce. The ground here was muddy underfoot, and the cobbles in the street made uncertain going in high-heeled slippers.

“Les Disciples,” I said as we made our way slowly along the banks of the Seine toward the towers of Notre Dame. “Do you really think the Comte St. Germain might have been one of the men who… who stopped us in the Rue du Faubourg St.-Honoré?” I was beginning to tremble with reaction and fatigue – and with hunger; I had had nothing since breakfast, and the lack was making itself felt. Sheer nerve had kept me going through the interview with the police. Now the need to think was passing, and with it, the ability to do so.

Dougal’s arm was hard under my hand, but I couldn’t look up at him; I needed all my attention to keep my footing. We had turned into the Rue Elise and the cobbles were shiny with damp and smeared with various kinds of filth. A porter lugging a crate paused in our path to clear his throat and hawk noisily into the street at my feet. The greenish glob clung to the curve of a stone, finally slipping off to float sluggishly onto the surface of a small mud puddle that lay in the hollow of a missing cobble.