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envelope.”
         He leaned forward, trapping her between his body and the desk. “But you know enough to know possession of such a document would be considered aiding and abetting enemies of our country at the very least.”
         “I don't care,” she cried angrily. “I had no choice.”
         Sebastian shook his head. “An independent woman like you who flouts convention because it amuses her? I find it difficult to believe you ever do anything because you must . ”
         “I don't care what you believe.” She lunged for the note, but he caught her in his arms, pinning hers to her sides. She struggled, but was no match for his strength. “Please, Sebastian. I'll do anything if you'll only give it back to me.”
         A corner of his mouth twitched. “Anything?”
         She felt his body quicken, but his eyes were harder than the bulge in his trousers. He was close enough that his breath feathered hotly across her lips. If she tipped up her face, he'd probably not be able to resist the invitation to claim her mouth. But she sensed the tension in his body wasn't all sexual. Arabella couldn't tell if he struggled with the desire to ravish her or wring her neck.
         Or both.
         “I’ll sign your contract. I’ll do whatever you like,” she babbled. “Truly, it’s not what you think. You’d help a man who found himself in these dire straits. Won’t you help me?”
         He shoved her away and paced the length of the room to put some distance between them.
         “No. I wouldn't betray my king and country for any man,” he said, tugging at his jacket, but it was the cutaway sort and the line of his trousers left no doubt of his roused state. “Or any woman either.”
         “Would you do it for a child?”
         He stopped pacing at that. “Explain yourself.”
         “If I don't deliver that envelope, he'll...” Arabella twined her fingers together, the picture of nervousness. Sebastian tamped down any feelings of empathy for her. She was a talented actress. It would behoove him to remember it. “You have no idea what he's capable of.”
         “Since I have no idea who 'he' is, I'm sure I don't,” Sebastian snapped. “Start by telling me who you're dealing with and how you became involved.”
         She turned and gazed out the tall windows, as if she'd like to leap out, run over the rolling hill, and never look back.
         “I first met Fernand five years ago when I was in Paris.”
         “What were you doing in Paris then? In case it escaped your notice, we've been at war with France off and on, for more or less forever.”
         “Yes, but even in wartime the French still love their opera and our troop of players had safe conduct.” A sad smile tilted her mouth. “I realize now that Fernand planned this from the start when he approached me. Performers and diplomats are almost the only ones who can travel freely when there are hostilities between countries and no one takes an artist seriously off-stage. We'd never be suspected of involving ourselves in clandestine matters.”
         “Who is this Fernand?”
         “Fernand de Lisle, Vicomte Gimois. His family lost their estates, their fortune, almost everything during the Revolution, but Napoleon reinstated his title,” she said. “Estates and fortunes are more difficult to retrieve.”
         “Gimois?” Sebastian frowned. The name niggled his memory. “Ah, now I recall. Isn't he an attaché to the French ambassador in London?”
         “Yes.” Her shoulders sagged. “And the father of my daughter.”
         She had a child. That should have made Arabella even less appealing as a potential mistress, but the catch in her voice tugged at his heart.
         “Where is your daughter?”
         She turned and met his gaze. “As far away from me as I can bear. I know I'm not fit to raise a child, not with the hours I keep and the travel,