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adequacy of Mr. Quinn’s intelligence-gathering if his information regarding her so-called decadent style of life in Paris was no more reliable than her aunt’s. Oughtn’t spies to be able to ferret out the truth, not settle for gossip? Why was everyone so ready to believe the worst—Aunt Beth, Mr. Quinn, Edward Frane?
    She watched a slow flush color her cheeks at the thought of Mr. Frane and ground her teeth in fury. That— bastard ! The unfamiliar curse gave her a thrill of satisfaction. She said it aloud, enjoying the coarse syllables. But it was exactly what he was and she wasn’t sorry for saying it. Since yesterday she’d been regretting she hadn’t beaten him with the umbrella after all. But anger at this point was a useless luxury she couldn’t afford to indulge. With characteristic resolution, she put it aside.
    Her hand went to Mr. Quinn’s letter on the bureau and she automatically unfolded it. His handwriting was small, obsessively neat, somehow depressing.
    â€œDear Miss Merlin,” she read again. “Your decision, though difficult, is the right one. I doubt you will regret it in the end, although it must seem frightening now. You say you will accept the money only as a loan. That, of course, is up to you; but as far as I’m concerned it’s yours, all of it, to use at your discretion. As for where you will live afterward, I would only urge you not to make a hasty decision now, as things may look quite different when our project is finished. In any case, the offer remains open.
    â€œAnd now to business. Our quarry is a man named Colin Wade. He is the third son of the Earl of Stainesbury; he possesses no title, but receives an allowance from his father which permits him to enjoy a life of considerable luxury. His wife is unwell and usually resides at their country home in Bath. They are childless.
    â€œI will tell you more about him in time, but for now I think it best that you make his acquaintance without preconceptions.
    â€œHis one known vice is gambling; fortunately for him, he wins more often than he loses. Tonight he will gamble at the Clarion Club, as he does almost every Monday, usually after midnight. You will have no trouble recognizing him—he’s considered an exceptionally handsome man, so I’m told, and is a great favorite with the ladies. Meet him; attract him. His marriage will be no obstacle, as he’s known to take mistresses. Be discreet. Let him be the first to refer to your father, then speak of him reluctantly. Your role is to be that of a rather silly ingénue, without too many scruples. At the same time, you would do well to show enthusiasm for the so-called ideals of the Revolution, as well as a basic knowledge of current events. If possible, go unchaperoned. If that proves impracticable, go with someone who will allow you as much freedom as possible to cultivate Mr. Wade.
    â€œAnother man will be at Clarion’s tonight. If all goes well, he will act as liaison between you and me once our scheme is afoot. Wear white; over the course of the evening he will make himself known to you.
    â€œGood luck, Miss Merlin. Only be yourself, and you cannot fail. I will be in contact with you at the appropriate time.”
    The letter was unsigned, presumably to protect Mr. Quinn’s identity.
    Tight-lipped, Cass folded it and tore it into shreds. Was he being deliberately insulting? “Be yourself,” he advised, directly after telling her to be a foolish ingénue without scruples. She knew she should laugh, but somehow she couldn’t manage it.
    There was a rap at the door. “Cassie, the hackney’s come! I’ll wait for you in the hall, shall I?”
    â€œThank you, Freddy, I’ll be right there.”
    She carried the shredded letter to the wastebasket, picked up her reticule with all the money she was prepared to gamble—three pounds and seven pence, a pitiful stake—and went