Fouche looked with calculated incredulity at the leather purse in his hand. Deliberately, he shook the contents onto the table. A small pile of gleaming silver caught the light from the tallow candles. "Well, well," he murmured. "A few errands for an ancient crone who sells flowers? It seems we have amillionairess in our flower market, gentlemen."

There were dutiful guffaws, and amid them the lad fell to his knees beneath astunning blow from one of his guards. "He chucked some piece of paper in the river, monsieur, when we nabbed him." A booted foot made contact with the captive's shin.

"Easy, easy," Fouche reproved his men mildly. "Let's not get carried away now." He approached the prisoner and deliberately aimed akick into his belly. "How about you tell me the truth, before there's any more unpleasantness?" he suggested in the same mild tone.

The lad lay curled in the fetal position on the floor, gasping for breath.

"Pick him up." Fouche lit a cigar, watching as they hauled the youth to his feet. He hung from their hands, his eyes streaming, his mouth half open with pain and shock.

"The truth now." Fouche drew deeply on his cigar and blew the smoke into the prisoner's face. "Tell me about these errands."

"I takes messages," the lad wheezed. "Messages from the flower seller"

"To where?"

"Rue Bude, rue Gambardin, sometimes rue Vallancaires… please, monsieur, that's all I does. Really," he gabbled. "It's the truth, I swear it."

"And what do these messages say?"

The boy shook his head miserably. "Don't know. I can't read."

"No, I suppose you can't. And who receives these messages."

The boy wiped blood from his mouth with his sleeve. His eyes were wild with terror. "Whoever opens the door, monsieur."

"And who pays you?"

"Whoever opens the door. Ordinary folks."

Fouche glanced again at the glittering coins. The inhabitants of the streets the youth had cited were unlikely to possess such riches.

"And where were you supposed to deliver your last message, the one you managed to lose in the river?"

"Rue Bude." The lad looked as if he knew he'd just signed his own death warrant. "But I didn't know it was important, honest, monsieur."

Fouche raised an eyebrow. "Presumably that's why you felt it necessary to dispose of it. What number rue Bude?"

"Number Thirteen, monsieur. Please, I ain't done nothin' wrong. Please let me go, monsieur. You can keep the money, please let me go."

"Are you trying to bribe one of his imperial majesty's ministers?" demanded Fouche. Dear me, lad. Take him away." He jerked his head to the door, and the two guards dragged their captive out of the small bare room that served Napoleon's Minister of Police as his office.

Fouche nodded to himself, puffing on his cigar. It was at times like this when his policy of direct involvement in all aspects of the police work in the city paid off. His men knew that nothing was too insignificant to be of concern to the minister.

Number 13 rue Bude was clearly worth a visit. It might not turn up anything… but it might yield the grand prize. The English spymaster was somewhere in this city and the Comtesse de Beaucaire knew where.

There was a soiree at Madame de Stael's that night. The countess would be there, of course. Maybe, he would drop a little word in her ear and see if he got a reaction.

He would order the raid for the early hours of the following morning. Birds rarely flew their nests before dawn, and it was the best time for invoking terror, when men's spirits were at their lowest. A troop of black-clad secret police wreaking havoc on ile St. Louis would certainly deter its inhabitants from turning a blind eye to strangers, however well the strangers might pay for their cooperation.

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Gabrielle was engaged in an animated discussion in Madame de Stael's salon with Prince Metternich, the Austrian ambassador, when Fouche entered.

She felt his eyes on her and glanced up. He was standing in the doorway, surveying the brilliant social gathering with an air of contempt. The Minister of Police was no intellectual, and the refinements of the mind held no appeal.

"Your pardon, comtesse. Have I lost your attention?"

"I beg your pardon, sir." She turned back to her companion with a laughing apology. Metternich was a man much like her godfather. One of the ablest politicians and diplomats on the European stage, but still not quite a match for Talleyrand. But they liked and respected each other. "I had the unmistakable sense that Monsieur Fouche was trying to catch my attention."

"Then let us go and greet him." The prince rose with a gallant bow and offered his arm.

Gabrielle took it, finding herself glad of his company. If one was uneasy with Fouche, it was always more comfortable to talk with him in company.

"Monsieur Fouche. You are not often seen in such circles." She greeted him easily. "You are acquainted with Prince Metternich, of course."

"Of course." The two men exchanged bows.

"I was feeling in an expansive mood, countess," Fouche said, smiling. "I think I may have discovered the whereabouts of our elusive friend."

Ice ran in her veins. Gabrielle smiled. "Your pardon, monsieur. Which elusive friend?"

"Why, your traveling companion, madame. It seems possible he's come to rest somewhere on the lie St. Louis."

He watched her with the hawk's eye of an expert interrogator and detected an almost imperceptible flicker in the corner of her eye. "You are to be congratulated, Monsieur Fouche," Gabrielle said calmly. "To have discovered that so quickly."

"I have an ear in every corner of this city, madame," he said with another bow. "Ii you'd excuse me, I must greet my hostess."

He moved off, sliding through the throng, a slight smile of satisfaction on his thin lips.

"A brutish man," Metternich remarked. "But superlative at his job."

"Oh, yes," Gabrielle agreed. "Superlative. Would you escort me to my godfather, prince?"

"But of course."

Talleyrand saw them approach and frowned. Gabrielle was paler than usual.

"I have the headache, monparrain," she said. "May I take the carriage, and send it back for you?"

"No, I will escort you home." He offered her his arm. "Prince, I would welcome the opportunity for a discussion. Perhaps you would dine with me tomorrow."

"I should be delighted." Metternich bowed himself away and Gabrielle and her godfather left.

"So?" he said once they were ensconced in the carriage.

He heard her out in silence. "You will put yourself at great risk if you warn Praed," he pointed out when she'd finished. "I will ensure the child's safety. That much I can safely promise you. But if you do this, I cannot guarantee to protect you from Fouche."

"I understand." Gabrielle sat back in the swaying carriage, the lights from passing vehicles flickering across the window. Was she about to risk her own life for Nathaniel? She would have done so for Guillaume without thought. But she'd felt differently about Guillaume. He'd been the one great love of her life. There wasn't room in one life for two such overwhelming loves. What she had with Nathaniel was passion. It wasn't love.

"I have to do it," she heard herself say as if her mind and her voice operated separately from each other.

Talleyrand merely nodded.