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out.
    Freddy was wearing a taffeta frock coat in the fashionable boue de Paris, or Paris mud, shade. He whistled when he saw her. “Lord, Cassie, you’re a game one, ain’t you? Lucky it’s a warm night or you’d catch your death in that, I’m bound. You look as pretty as a pheasant from a brush blind.”
    Heartened by this tribute, Cass put her head in the sitting room door to wish her aunt good night.
    Lady Sinclair looked up from her fashion magazine. “Come in, Cassandra, let me see you.” She regarded her niece for a long moment in silence.
    Cass found her expression of knowing satisfaction almost too much to bear. “Will it serve ?” she asked, with more impudence in her tone than she’d ever used before.
    Lady Sinclair’s brows went up, but she chose to ignore the question’s unpleasant implication. “You look lovely, as always. Enjoy your evening, my dear.”
    â€œI’m sure I shall,” she shot back, anger spoiling the cool exit she’d meant to make.
    As Freddy handed her into the coach and settled himself heavily beside her, she thought of Aunt Beth’s words yesterday, after Edward Frane had gone.
    â€œYou refused him?” she’d asked calmly, when Cass had informed her of the precise nature of his offer.
    Her mouth had dropped, then she’d recovered herself. “Yes, Aunt, I refused him.”
    â€œI see.” A long fingernail tapped against her lips. “What will you do now, do you think?”
    The question had chilled her; it was so patently her aunt’s way of washing her hands of her. Would she actually go so far as to put her out of the house? Cass thought it entirely possible. “I’ll think of something,” she’d promised.
    Then she’d written her letter to Oliver Quinn.
    Damn Edward Frane, she thought again, shutting out Freddy’s amiable chatter as the carriage moved west, away from Holborn toward Piccadilly. But no—that was in the past; she wouldn’t think about it again. She had to concentrate on the here and now. She had to concentrate on Colin Wade.
    What would he be like? she wondered for the tenth time. Cruel and villainous, or only a dedicated revolutionary who believed any means justified his end? Either way, would she be able to win his trust and discover the secrets Quinn wanted her to learn? It seemed an impossible task even if she became the man’s lover—and she had no idea whether she could or would do that. How could she, apart from any other considerations, if he had really betrayed her father and caused his execution? Was she making a bargain with Quinn under false pretenses? If she admitted her reservations, would he find someone else for the job? And if he did, would she be glad or sorry?
    â€œHullo, we’re here! I feel lucky tonight, Cassie; I’ll lay you five-to-one odds I break even or better.”
    Freddy threw open the carriage door with a flourish. They had arrived at the Clarion Club.
    Riordan stopped massaging the pair of dice in his fingers long enough to check his pocket watch for the third time in ten minutes. Half-past twelve. The chit was late. He pushed away from the wall he’d been lounging against and moved nonchalantly into a dimmer area of the crowded gaming room, where he would be less conspicuous. He’d chosen Clarion’s because he never gambled there and his well-known face was less likely to be recognized, but even more because Colin Wade never gambled here and wouldn’t come strolling in at any moment to scotch his little plan.
    There was nothing actually wrong with the club; its clientele was a reasonable mix of the respectable and the debauched, the play was passably fair, the wines good—or so he’d been told. It just wasn’t fashionable. And Philip Riordan, the newest and, some said, most dissolute Member of the House of Commons never went anywhere that wasn’t in the vanguard of