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From the chit's account, he'd nicely checkmated his father's move to bar him from the throne. Married to a figurehead queen, with both the Vatican and the Czar behind him, he'd be a formidable force in a two penny place like Oriens, as good as king any day and possibly better, since his wife would provide a convenient scapegoat for unpopular actions. Sheridan doubted he could have thought of a better plan himself—which made him highly reluctant to get on the wrong side of the man who had.
    Besides, Oriens could do worse than have a ruthless, intelligent and astute politician at the reins. It could, for instance, have this pretty dumpling of a revolutionary nut for a ruler.
    "Rome," he said. "You're going to appeal to the pope?"
    She looked up at him, green eyes wide: ferocious and determined and about as intimidating as an oversized field mouse. "Yes. Perhaps, based only on my uncle's word, the pope can morally give a dispensation, but when I tell him how offensive it is to me to participate in a"—she began to turn red again—"a profanity of marriage, and that I will never convert to his faith, he'll understand that I'm being forced."
    "An optimistic assumption."
    "Am I not being reasonable?" she asked uncertainly.
    He shrugged. If she couldn't predict that having Oriens added to the Roman Catholic fold would be a powerful antidote for any queasiness the Vatican felt about consanguinity, he saw no reason to argue the point with her. "And what is it you require from me in all this? Are you suggesting I accompany you?"
    "No, no," she said—a rather feeble denial. "That would be asking far too much. I only hoped you could help me get started."
    "Buy you a seat on the London coach, perhaps?"
    "I thought—actually—that there would be more clandestine ways."
    "There may well be. I can't say I know anything about them."
    She fingered the diamond pendant. Sheridan wondered if that was meant to be a hint. Meeting her anxious eyes, he decided that, unfortunately, it probably wasn't.
    "I was under the impression—" She looked embarrassed. "I supposed, from your reputation—Forgive me, but do you not have many contacts among the…ah…organizations?"
    As the product of a hard school, Sheridan was wary of organizations. If they were clandestine and unmentionable, he didn't want anything to do with them at all. But she kept fingering that necklace, until he could just about feel his empty pockets burning.
    He cleared his throat. "I'd like to help you," he said, as vaguely as possible. "But, uh—I've just arrived in the neighborhood." He paused, watching her and feeling his way. "I'm afraid any contacts of mine are far away." Non-existently far away, but what difference did that make when she kept reminding him of the crown jewels in that pointed way?
    "But that's what I need most," she said, dropping her hand from her throat and interlocking her fingers. "I can't travel openly—you understand that. I suppose I can begin well enough; I believe I could reach London on my own, but beyond that, I'm at a loss."
    He leaned both shoulders against the mantel, toying with the corner of the blanket and calculating madly. The last thing he'd do was hie off to Italy, of course—too damned many bandits and petty despots loose about the place for his taste—but there were other considerations. Money, for one. To be vulgarly blunt about it.
    He perused the diamond at her throat again, contemplating several alternatives for getting payment in advance and abandoning her on the docks at Blackwall. He could make it seem an accident—hire a couple of bullyboys to appear to overpower him in a dark alley—she couldn't demand her jewelry back if he'd made a reasonable effort to pop her off in the right direction, could she? Or better yet, he could lay information with her keepers—she was bound to have some; she was a princess, after all, or so she claimed, even if it was a pip-squeak country. She wouldn't have sneaked off to see him alone if