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Rafael rarely visited the walled city; he had too many memories, some agonizing, some poignantly sweet, of that place.
    “Things are quiet, for the moment,” said Von Freidling, minister of Bavia’s northern provence. His gaze, drawn like a plump child to a plate of sweetmeats, strayed to Annie, who sat in prim silence on the other side of the room, then swung back to Rafael’s face.
    Rafael was not reassured by the news Von Freidling conveyed. Things had been “quiet” just before Georgiana was shot, too. “No incidents of violence, anywhere?” he asked, and his disbelief was plain in his tone.
    Von Freidling and Butterfield exchanged glances.
    “There was a problem at Miss Covington’s residence, Your Highness,” Butterfield confided, with the utmost reluctance. He, too, stole a look at Annie.
    Rafael leaned forward in his chair, fear spiraling, cold, in the pit of his stomach. Felicia Covington had been his mistress during the year following Georgiana’s death and, although their association had settled into a purely innocuous friendship, he still cared for her deeply. If Felicia were hurt or killed, the guilt and regret would be beyond bearing.
    “What kind of problem?” he demanded, more breathing the words than speaking them.
    Von Freidling shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Some rebels tried to break in. Mr. Barrett’s men were well able to fend them off, however, and Miss Covington is fine.”
    Rafael was not mollified. If he had taken more precautions to protect Georgiana, she would still be alive. “I want her brought here immediately. Under armed guard, of course.”
    Neither man opposed him but, out of the corner of his eye, Rafael saw Annie lean forward in her chair. All signs of dignified insurgence were gone from her manner, replaced by a wary and somewhat thoughtful expression.
    Rafael had a flash of insight that he found very disquieting.
    Annie was stricken by what she saw in Rafael’s face and heard in his voice when he and the visitors discussed the mysterious Miss Covington. There could be no avoiding the conclusion that this woman was important to the prince, not after the command he’d issued.
    Miss Covington was to be brought to St. James Keep, straightaway. She was undoubtedly beautiful and sophisticated, and the vehemence with which Rafael had spoken indicated that there was a close and probably intimate bond between the two of them.
    Annie wanted to weep at the discovery, even though she knew the news should not have surprised her. It was perfectly natural for a man like Rafael to have at least one mistress, and the practice was common in the upper classes. Several of her father’s friends had taken paramours, though Charlotte Trevarren had promised her husband a slow and excruciating death if he ever made the mistake of breaking their marriage vows. Apparently, he’d taken those words to heart, for as far as Annie could tell, the passion her parents felt for each other was as tempestuously joyful as ever.
    To hide her crestfallen face, lest Rafael happen to glance in her direction, Annie rose from her chair and turned her back to him, acquainting herself with the room. The walls were bare of the paintings, tapestries and gilt common to most such chambers and though the chamber was vast, there were minimal furnishings. The only things to be found in abundance were books, tattered ones with broken spines, and others that appeared new.
    Standing at a leaded window, looking out on a sun-splashed garden, Annie bit her lip and struggled against a sudden and silly urge to cry because Rafael cared for Miss Covington. She’d been a dunce ever to fall in love with him, and naive as well, to think so vital a man would be celibate.
    Not that Annie had expected Rafael to notice her as a woman during her visit to Bavia, because she hadn’t. To him, she was merely his sister’s troublesome schoolmate, the eldest of the Trevarrens’ unruly daughters, and there was no redeeming herself,