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discussing the likelihood of war
between England and France. What is your opinion?"
    Armande shrugged as he took her hand to
circle her around him. "The prospect interests me not. I am not a
soldier."
    A diplomat then? Phaedra wondered. No, the
marquis seemed far too uncompromising for such a role. Maybe he had
been drawn to London by business interests. But none that he would
disclose.
    Each gambit that she flung out met with
little success. The marquis fielded her questions with polite
boredom until Phaedra seethed with frustration. She flattered
herself that she could set any man talking, but never in her life
had she encountered anyone as icily reserved as Varnais. His very
reticence excited both her curiosity and her suspicions. If the man
possessed no interest in politics or business affairs, then what
did he have in common with Sawyer Weylin?
    "I was wondering," she said. "Have you known
my grandfather for long? When did you first become acquainted?"
    She felt a sudden tension in the fingers
touching hers. After a heartbeat of hesitation, he replied tersely,
"At a coffeehouse in Fleet Street. And now, my lady, I believe our
dance has ended."
    To her intense disappointment, Phaedra saw
that this was true. The last notes of the music had died away and
she knew little more about Armande than when she had first stood up
with him. As she sank into the final curtsy, he bowed over her
hand, raising her fingertips to graze them with his lips.
    Phaedra was seized by an impulse she could
not have explained, not even to herself. Her fingers shot upward,
tugging at the strings above the marquis's ear which held his mask
in place. The tie came undone, the mask fluttering to the
floor.
    His lordship straightened, anger flashing in
his eyes. The anger passed quickly, leaving a cold stare in its
wake. Phaedra's breath caught in her throat at her first full view
of Armande's face. He was more handsome than she had supposed, with
high cheekbones and an aquiline nose. His brows were dark slashes
above those ice-blue eyes. But never had she seen any man's face so
dispassionate. He might well have still been wearing a mask.
    "I am sorry," she said, "I fear my curiosity
got the better of me."
    He said nothing, bending to retrieve the
mask. As he did so, his coat shifted, revealing a silver hilt of a
rapier that nestled beside the silk-shot folds of his pale blue
waistcoat.
    Why had she not noticed the slender sheath
before? A tiny gasp escaped Phaedra as she stared at the hilt
devoid of all ornament, a stark bit of steel wrought for lethal
service, not fashion.
    "Is something amiss, my lady?" With slow
deliberation, Armande refastened the mask about his face.
    "I was but noticing your sword. So few
gentlemen wear them nowadays, especially not to a ball."
    "The streets of your fair city are teeming
with danger for the unwary. I wear the sword.for protection. It
also provides an excellent deterrent for the overly curious."
    Was that meant to be a warning to her?
Phaedra arched her neck and stared defiantly up at him. "Yes, I
daresay curiosity could be a nuisance to a man who had something to
hide."
    Before she could prevent it, he cupped her
chin firmly between his long, powerful fingers. There was nowhere
else for her to look except into the hypnotic depths of those eyes
peering at her through the slits of the mask.
    "Your grandfather described you to me as a
young woman with an excessively inquisitive nature. It would have
been far better if you had taken my advice and remained in Bath.
But now that you are here, I suspect you are intelligent enough to
understand me when I say how very much I dislike anyone trying to
interfere with my affairs."
    Phaedra struck his hand aside. "As much as I
dislike anyone interfering with mine! So monsieur, I strongly
advise you to keep your opinions about widows to yourself and stay
away from my grandfather. Otherwise I might be obliged to-to-"
    "Yes?" he prompted.
    "To find some way to be rid of you,"