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through the Distinguished Academy of Governesses that Celeste came to work for me.” Throckmorton ran his finger up her arm and when she turned to him, they smiled at each other as if remembering a great romance. “And Lady Bucknell has on occasion done work for me.”
    “Oh.” Jude hated to surrender, but he saw no way out. “Then I suppose I shall have a governess.”
    “It’ll do you good to put some frivolity in your life,” Throckmorton said.
    “Yes. Spying is serious business, but that doesn’t mean we can never enjoy ourselves,” Celeste added.
    For them, perhaps, but for Jude, the decision to become a spy had been forged in fire and pain. “I came into this business by a different route, and until I’ve trodden the whole path, I can’t truly enjoy anything. Although I do owe it to Michael to live as he did, I’m still learning. Still learning.” Jude closed his eyes and, as always happened, he saw again the scene that had etched itself into his mind. Once more, he saw the fire, felt the heat, experienced the agony of knowing he’d failed his parents, the dynasty, and Michael.
    Jude held the summons from his brother. Come at once to the old square. I need you! P.S. Pay the girl. It was scrawled on a torn piece of paper, delivered to his rooms by a waif. He stared at the message with the sense of helpless rage Michael frequently engendered in him. Michael, who was always falling in and out of adventures and wanting Jude to come to his rescue. Jude always had, but after the last caper, which resulted in a broken arm and two blackened eyes, and all for the love of a barmaid, he had sworn to Michael he would aid him no more.
    And he wouldn’t.
    He paid the messenger, who bit the coin, then disappeared into the night. He seated himself on the chair, crossed his arms, and stared into the darkness. He had known Michael was heading for trouble.
    Jude lived down near the bottom of the hill. He visited the museums, attended classes at the university, drank at taverns with the impoverished students, and listened while they fomented revolution.
    Michael lived at the top of the hill at the spa with the wealthiest, most dissolute people in Europe. He drank champagne, he danced all night, he gambled and gossiped and philandered, and for the first time in their years as brothers, Jude despised him. Michael had never been so callous before, so determined to frolic while, not far away, people suffered and starved. Jude had tried to tell him, but Michael laughed, and said, “Don’t worry so much, little brother. We’ve all got to die sometime.”
    Maybe Michael’s time was now.
    Jude leaped up. Michael was his brother. No matter what, he would always go to the rescue. Loading a pistol, he stuck it in his belt. He strapped a leather holster to his arm and into that he slid the long, sharp, thin-bladed knife that was the weapon of choice in this small country. He donned a dark coat and dark hat and started for the square in the depths of the old town. Above him, at the top of the hill, he could hear music, see light, but as he got closer to the valley floor, poverty closed in around him. By the time he approached his destination, hardship pressed so close it seemed the buildings were ready to topple from the weight.
    It was just past ten o’clock. Pubs lined the narrow, littered street. But no light spilled from the doorways. Shutters covered the windows. Nothing moved. Not a drunk, not a cat, not the breeze.
    Where was everyone?
    Disquiet crawled up his spine. He stayed close to the buildings, his hand on the grip of his pistol, and he smelled a whiff of smoke carried on the evening breeze. And saw something. Light from the square. Not a lot, but a flicker. Something was burning. Something that shouldn’t be. A building. A bonfire. Another trace of smoke wafted past.
    Then a blast of smell, the stench of burning wood and metal, and mixed in with that, an odor that lifted the hair on his neck. He found himself