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who stabbed you last night was no Frenchman. I heard him speak, and he was as English as you or I. English, and though I hesitate to use the term, a gentleman."
    "That's Bouchard. He's the only son of an old emigré family. They left France during the revolution— Yves was a mere infant at the time, and now he dreams of restoring the family fortunes under Napoleon."
    "One would have thought he'd be more interested in defeating Napoleon and restoring the rightful king."
    Evans shrugged, winced, and said, "Apparently not. Anyway, Bouchard's too smart to stay around after what happened last night. I kept him from getting his hands on the document; now we have to keep it from leaving England by another means."
    "We?" Henry asked, surprised into ill-mannered incredulity. "You and I?"
    "Mostly you. The trouble is, we don't know who actually took the document, although we've narrowed it down to three men who are known to be in Bouchard's confidence and who have access to the Guard's offices."
    "One moment, please." Henry raised an exquisitely manicured hand. "You want me to find your spy for you?"
    "Yes."
    "Why?"
    "Because I can't be certain of anyone else in my office and because I trust you."
    Realizing he had only himself to blame, Henry sighed. "And I suppose you can't bring the three in for questioning because two of them are innocent?"
    Evans' pained expression had nothing to do with his wound. "Only consider the scandal. I will if I must, but as this is Wednesday and the information must be in France by Friday evening or it won't get to Napoleon in time for it to be of any use, one of those three will betray himself in the next two days."
    "So the document must be recovered with no public outcry?"
    "Exactly."
    "I would have thought the Bow Street Runners..."
    "No. The Runners may be fine for chasing down highwaymen and murderers, but my three suspects move in the best circles; only a man of their own class could get near them without arousing suspicion." He lifted a piece of paper off the table beside the bed and held it out to Henry, who stared at it for a long moment.
    Lord Ruthven, Mr. Maxwell Aubrey, and Sir William Wyndham. Frowning, Henry looked up to meet Captain Evans' weary gaze. "You're sure about this?"
    "I am. Send word when you're sure, I'll do the rest."
    The exhaustion shading the other man's voice reminded Henry of his injury. Placing the paper back beside the bed, he stood. "This is certainly not what I expected."
    "But you'll do it?"
    He could refuse, could make the captain forget that this conversation had ever happened, but he had been a prince of England and, regardless of what he had become, he could not stand back and allow her to be betrayed. Hiding a smile at the thought of what Varney would have to say about such melodrama, he nodded. "Yes, I'll do it."
    *
    The sound of feminine voices rising up from the entryway caused Henry to pause for a moment on the landing.
    "...so sorry to arrive so late, Mrs. Evans, but we were passing on our way to dinner before Almack's and my uncle insisted we stop and see how the captain was doing."
    Carmilla Amworth. There could be no mistaking the faint country accent not entirely removed by hours of lessons intended to erase it. She had enough fortune to be considered an heiress and that, combined with a dark-haired, pale-skinned, waiflike beauty, brought no shortage of admirers. Unfortunately, she also had disturbing tendency to giggle when she felt herself out of her depth.
    "My uncle," she continued, "finds it difficult to get out of the carriage and so sent me in his place."
    "I quite understand." The smile in the answering voice suggested a shared amusement. "Please tell your uncle that the captain is resting comfortably and thank him for his consideration."
    A brief exchange of pleasantries later, Miss Amworth returned to her uncle's carriage and Henry descended the rest of the stairs.
    Lenore Evans turned and leaped backward, one hand to her heart, her mouth