“Hello, Sophia Bellamy,” said a voice near her ear. “Welcome to the family.”

She found herself looking up into a face that was René’s, but not. This face was much more weathered, red hair that was not quite as rich, a pair of keen blue eyes regarding her beneath fine brows. It was René’s face, she thought, but in thirty years’ time. “Uncle Émile,” she said. “Am I right?”

“My nephew has been talking of me?”

Émile was handsome, though not conventionally so. But he was most definitely dangerous, like his nephew. Though perhaps he’d be more likely to nick the mother rather than her daughter. She smiled. “He has talked of you, Monsieur, but only with the greatest respect.”

Émile tsked quietly. “How sad that you should be a liar, and that I should come to know it so quickly. Now if you had said he praised my looks, then …”

He shrugged once and grinned. Actually, Sophia thought suddenly, Uncle Émile might not have any need for stealing any woman’s anything of any sort; he might only have to ask.

“René seems to be besotted with you, Mademoiselle, but it is Benoit who has taken us by surprise. He has defended you to the skies. How did you bring him to your table, may I ask?”

“I did not know I particularly had, Monsieur.” She looked at Émile curiously. Just who was Benoit? The respect he commanded in the Hasard family seemed unlimited. “Though I am glad to hear it. And why, exactly, did I need defending?”

“My sister, René’s mother, she had certain questions.”

Sophia flicked open her fan. “Well, she signed the contract, didn’t she?”

Émile’s mouth quirked. “Only too true. But let me say for all the family how sorry we are for the arrest of your brother. He will die a hero, Mademoiselle. May I kiss your hand?”

Sophia smiled and lifted her hand. Uncle Émile’s mouth remained a trifle too long, but at the same time she felt something slip beneath her fingers and into her palm. Not soft like a feather but hard and metallic. She slid her hand away and switched her fan to it, so she would not be seen clutching what she now realized was a ring.

“What has René told you?” she asked, still smiling as she leaned forward to listen.

“Only that you were in need, and through you, him. But time, Miss Bellamy, will be precious to us.”

“Did you get it off his finger?” she asked, darting a glance at LeBlanc and his wilted companion across the room.

“No. I did not wish to be dead. But it was not on his finger, nor was it in his pockets, which René has now picked twice. Would you have guessed robes have pockets, Mademoiselle?”

“What I don’t wish to guess is how you got it,” she said, looking at him through her lashes.

His mouth quirked again. “My brother Andre says the top left drawer of his desk. It should be returned there as soon as possible. Andre is here, and waiting to do so.”

Sophia gazed at the man beside her. They must think much of their nephew if they took this kind of risk on René’s word alone. “I need to go to my room,” she said.

“You are next to my sister, I assume?”

“Yes.”

“I am sorry for you. I will be there as soon as I can. Hurry, Miss Bellamy.”

He bowed and walked away through the dancers, hailing a friend or some relative as Sophia turned in the opposite direction, clutching her fan and moving as quickly as possible. But progress through a crowd of René’s business associates of collectors and criminals, all of whom wished to speak to her, was an impossible task, and time was slipping before she was able to plead the loo and escape into the corridor.

When the door was shut she ran the curving hall, grabbed a candle from the wall on her way—startling a young woman carrying a tray of cheese—found the back stairs, and then she was shutting the door of her room behind her and turning the lock. She slid a chair in front of the connecting door to Madame Hasard’s, tossed an unlit taper from its holder, and put in her lit candle instead. Then she went to her suitcase, tripped a switch, and pulled out the false lining of the top.

Crammed against the interior of the suitcase were official documents, what Spear had brought back from the forger. She rummaged among them, finding the stack of gate passes and the stick of black wax she had brought for such an occasion. She spread out the documents, carefully melting wax onto the bottom corner of the paper without dripping the tallow of the candle. As soon as she had a tar-like blob she rolled LeBlanc’s signet ring across the soft surface, impressing his seal.

She did it again, and again, and eight more times before there was a soft knock at her door. “Coming!” she said, hoping her voice would carry through the door and no further than Émile. The knocking came again. She rolled the signet ring on the last pass, wondering briefly what the Parisian gossips would think if Uncle Émile were seen sneaking in or out of her bedroom. She suspected he had a reputation that would do hers no good. She flung open the door.

“Spear!” she said, surprised and a bit relieved. “Good, you’ll save me a trip and I’m in a hurry.” She pulled him into the room, shut the door, and locked it again, running to gather up the papers that now bore LeBlanc’s seal. “They got LeBlanc’s ring, the scoundrels. This is for you.” She thrust a gate pass at him, the signet ring on her forefinger, and began to hastily replace the false top in her suitcase.

“I need to talk to you, Sophie.”

“So talk,” she commanded. She was cleaning away any remnants of black wax now, trying to find a place to stash the telltale bits. “And where have you been all nethersun? We didn’t do our last go-over. I know we’ve already done it a thousand times, but …”

“Sophia Bellamy.” He grabbed her arm. “Stop and listen to me!”

She stopped and narrowed her eyes. Spear had yanked her arm, actually yanked it, and the bits of wax were now all over the carpet. She straightened. His perfectly chiseled face was drawn in, as if there were a string pulling too tight from the inside.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“You think you love him.”

Her stomach wrenched once. “Spear, this is not the time to …”

“Answer me. You’re going to marry him anyway, aren’t you? Without the fee.”

She looked up at Spear’s taut face, at the broad shoulders heaving as if he’d sprinted to her door. She owed him honesty at least. “Yes. If he will have me.”

Spear just stared at her, hands in pockets. Then he said, “Sophie, you’re being played.”

She blinked at him, uncomprehending.

“By the Hasards. All of them. You’re being played.”

“Oh, Spear. Listen …”

“No. You are going to listen. For once in your life you’re going to close your mouth and you will listen to what I have to say. Do you really think that Hasard was just pretending to work with LeBlanc, that he had his own interests, and that they just so happened to coincide with coming to Bellamy House to marry you? That Madame just happened to arrange some fool marriage that would bankrupt her family? There is no marriage fee, Sophia.”

“Spear, we both know that. He told me himself …”

“Of course he did. But I mean there never was one. Ever. The Hasard fortune has been dwindling for a long time. Madame arranged a marriage to you for no other reason than to get her son and LeBlanc into Bellamy House. Somebody’s been talking, Sophie. LeBlanc already knew where we’d been landing.”

Sophia was shaking her head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“How do you think they’re planning on building their fortune back? How have they kept their business through the revolution? Do you really believe they just stole that ring you’re wearing? Or did LeBlanc walk in here tonight and hand it to them? You’re being played. You …”

“Just stop. Stop it!” she yelled. “You’re jealous, Spear, and I’m sorry for it. But I don’t have time for this and I don’t believe a word you’re saying.”