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red glow to his bare skin, illuminating the smooth curve of his chest. "Do go on. I'm fascinated."
    "Claude Nicolas is…not a favorite with my grandfather. Or the populace. He has become a Roman Catholic, while most of the country, particularly our guilds and merchants, follows Presbyterian precepts. And he is a monarchist, fiercely so. With his detachment of palace guard, he prevents any open discussion of political topics. Forcibly. Also, he has made many friends among the Russian embassy, and my grandfather is very unhappy with him for that."
    "No doubt your British allies are a bit put out, too."
    She nodded, looking down at her lap. "So my grandfather has proclaimed that another kind of law will dictate the succession. I think it is Neopolitan law, but I'm not entirely certain. He didn't go into the precedents in his letter. But there are some. Enough. The courts and his councillors support him fully."
    "In other words, he declares for you."
    She lifted her face and nodded.
    He locked his fists behind his back, gazing thoughtfully at the floor. Then he asked in a dry tone, "Is he aware that you're contemplating civil war?"
    "I'm not!" she said in horror.
    "There was the small matter of a revolution."
    "Yes—but that is something else entirely. At least, it isn't what I need help with."
    "You don't? Then I'm sure I needn't point out the rather glaring logical discrepancy in leading a revolution against yourself."
    "Sir Sheridan," she said, with a touch of exasperation at his unaccountable slowness. "Obviously I wouldn't do so. I will never be on the throne, don't you see? If it were so simple as waiting for the succession and abdicating in favor of a constitutional democracy, I would do so gladly."
    He drummed his fingers on the mantelpiece, then tilted his head and squinted at her. "You really are a radical."
    "Yes!" She nodded vigorously. "But I can't delay until I'm handed the throne. My grandfather's declaration has done no good at all. My uncle is going to—"
    She stopped. A blazing flush rose in her face. Sheridan gazed at her with interest as she turned pink over every bit of exposed skin. Her lower lip trembled for a fleeting instant, and then she caught it in her teeth and lowered her face.
    "This is very hard," she said, with an obvious attempt to be resolute and a fetching little upward break in her husky voice.
    Sheridan knew an opportunity when he saw one. The invitation was as clear as a lace handkerchief fluttering to the earth. Every immoral instinct urged him to go to her side, to rescue the hankie and offer solace—and reap the lush reward. But he stood where he was. It was uncomfortable, leaving his brain to adjust his body's automatic and enthusiastic response. But there she sat in straight-backed misery, with that metaphorical bit of lace on the floor crying out for comfort, and never even knew she'd dropped it.
    He wondered irritably if he had a fever. It seemed likely he was sickening for something, what with this sudden attack of scruples.
    He drew an aimless pattern in the dust on the mantel, waiting. After a few moments, she lifted her chin.
    "My uncle thinks to marry me," she said, with a trace of defiance. "He has sent to the pope for a dispensation to do it."
    She was absolutely scarlet now, whether from disgust at the idea of a closely consanguineous marriage or just at the idea of marriage in general, he couldn't tell.
    "You will say I should refuse," she added in a rush. "Of course I should, and I will, but my grandfather is very weak, and my uncle has brought great pressure to bear on him by threatening to invite in Russian grenadiers to quell what he calls the 'disturbance' among the people. If my grandfather is made to agree, and the papal dispensation is granted, then I understand that—that in fact, my own consent is not very necessary."
    Sheridan made a sympathetic noise in his throat and silently saluted Prince Claude Nicolas as a flash contender. The fellow had obvious style.