She turned, laughing. "That's an underhand trick, sir. But I'm not about to fall for it. I have every intention of winning our wager."

He raised a skeptical eyebrow and said derisively, "Only fools are overconfident."

Gabrielle lowered her eyelids, hiding the burning anger in her eyes. They would soon see which of them was the fool.

She shrugged easily. "We'll see." Deliberately she dropped the topic of Talleyrand and Poland, walking over to the long windows looking out across the rolling lawns toward a river running between smooth banks. "What's the river?"

"The Beaulieu River. It flows into the Solent. If you like to sail, there's a boathouse." He came up behind her, lightly encircling her neck with his hands, massaging the soft skin beneath her chin with his fingers. He didn't seem to be able to keep his hands off her. The fragrance of her skin and hair seemed to seep into his pores and he dropped his head, burying his nose and mouth in her hair.

"I don't know how to sail." She bent her head beneath the pressure of his, her voice languorous as she slipped into the trance of arousal.

"I didn't think there was anything you didn't know how to do." His thumbs moved to trace the shape of her ears, his palms flattening against the curve of her cheeks.

"You don't know very much about me," she murmured, rubbing her face against his palms like a cat responding to a caress. How could he do this to her, reduce her to molten lava with the slightest touch? The depths of her bitterness toward him, the power of her need for revenge, were feathers in a gale compared to this physical reaction.

Fleetingly she saw Guillaume's face, the passionate black eyes, the wide, humorous mouth, the pointed chin. Fleetingly her skin remembered the feel of his hands on her body-the assured touch of a lover who knew the deepest recesses of her soul.

Sorrow washed through her as vivid, fresh, and piercing now as in the very early days of her loss. And she was breathless with the pain.

Nathaniel felt the change in her, felt her pain in his own body, transmitted through the warm, living skin beneath his fingers.

"What is it?" he whispered into her hair. "You're hurting, I can feel it."

"Just a memory," she said with an effort, moving away from his hands with a little shudder of revulsion that she couldn't suppress. She couldn't share this pain with this man. "I think that concludes the tour, don't you?"

He stood frowning at her, feeling that shudder of rejection, hearing the brusque dismissal. Where had it come from? Was she hiding something?

"Yes, I must go," he said. "I sent for my bailiff an hour ago. I'll leave you to amuse yourself. If you wish to write your letter in the library, you'll find paper and pen and ink in the secretaire."

"Thank you. I'll stay up here for a little longer, though."

"As you wish." He offered a small bow in farewell and then strode from the gallery.

Gabrielle stood looking out the window until the pain had subsided and the grief was once more locked away in its corner of her soul, safe from invasion.

Then she turned and went briskly downstairs, pausing for a few minutes to examine Helen Praed's portrait more closely. Miles had said Nathaniel had adored her. It wasn't hard to see why-the goodness and sweetness seemed to shine out of her eyes. She was all soft curves, no harsh abrasions, none of the angles and sharpnesses that Gabrielle knew in herself.

Had the Nathaniel Helen had loved been very different from the man he now was? He must always have had the sternness, she thought. The forbidding side of his nature. From what she'd seen of his ancestors, it seemed to be a trait of the Praeds. He was an impatient man. But perhaps he had held back that part of himself around Helen.

He wouldn't need to be so careful with Gabrielle. She was as hard as he was-hardened, she amended. Hardened in the fire of revolution, of terror, of the loss of so many she loved. But it was a superficial toughness. Guillaume had known that. Nathaniel Praed would never discover it. He would never get close enough to do so.

In the library she began a methodical search of the room, looking for some indication of where the spymaster might keep his papers and his secrets. There was no point passing up any opportunity for gleaning information.

Her initial search turned up nothing promising beyond a locked drawer in the desk. But it was a shallow drawer and Gabrielle couldn't see how it could contain much more than a sheet or two of paper. Sliding the blade of a paper knife between the top of the drawer and the desk, she felt for the hinge of the lock with deft expertise.

The sound of the doorknob turning sent her spinning away from the desk. The paper knife fell to the carpet, and she dropped to her knees to pick it up, breathing regularly, noticing with satisfaction that her hands were completely steady.

"Gabrielle?" It was Nathaniel's voice. "What on earth are you doing on the floor?"

"I dropped the paper knife." She stood up, casually laying the knife on the blotter, and smiled easily.

"Oh." He looked at her in clear puzzlement. "Why would you need the paper knife? I thought you were writing to your cousin."

"I am, but I couldn't find the ink. I was looking on the desk and knocked the knife off.''

She watched his expression closely, looking for a flash of suspicion or doubt, but Natianiel appeared to accept her explanation.

"The ink's in the secretaire with the paper and pen, isn't it?" He went to the mahogany secretaire and dropped the desk leaf, reaching into one of the pigeonholes. "Here it is."

"Oh, thank you. I forgot where you said I'd find everything." She hurried over to the secretaire. "I'll get on with the letter now."

"Mrs. Bailey's laid a nuncheon in the oval parlor," he said. "I came to see if you were hungry."

"Oh, yes… yes, I am. Famished." She caught up a loosened lock of hair and twisted it into the pins at the nape of her neck. "It seems ages since breakfast."

"It is," he stated. "We left the inn at six o'clock this morning, and it's now past noon."

"Then that explains it. Have you concluded your business with the bailiff?"

"For the moment." He went to one of the bookcases and pulled out several volumes. "Perhaps you'd like to ride this afternoon. I can't offer you the excitement of the hunt today, but there's some hard riding to be done in the New Forest."

"That would be lovely," she responded coolly, her eyes riveted on what had been revealed behind the books Nathaniel dropped carelessly onto a side table.

Nathaniel's long fingers were manipulating the locks of a gray metal safe. His back was to her, so she couldn't see exactly what he did, but the door swung open. She stepped closer, looking over his shoulder. There were papers and an assortment of boxes and pouches inside.

He drew out a sheaf of papers and riffled through them rapidly before replacing them and closing the door again. Then he manipulated the lock once more and there was a click. He put the books back into the shelves and turned to Gabrielle.

"Is that where you keep your secrets?" she asked directly, her voice lightly teasing. She had to make some comment; to ignore it would be most peculiar.

"That's right," he agreed with cheerful nonchalance. "The spymaster's tools of his trade. Let's go in to nuncheon."

He had to be very certain of the impregnability of his safe, Gabrielle reflected, following him out of the library. He'd made no attempt to hide its whereabouts from her, although it was clearly kept hidden from casual observers. But then, why would he assume she'd have any special interest in his secrets? Or that she was in the least untrustworthy? She'd offered her services to the English government and had convinced Simon and Lord Portland of the genuineness of the offer. The spymaster's only objection to her was her sex. So why should he see a need to hide anything but the safe's contents from her?