A late arrival paused at the entry way to survey the glittering assemblage. Even in the shadows, his figure drew the eye, the subdued richness of his coat, the dove-gray silk cut close to the body to accentuate the breadth of shoulder and tapering leanness of hips, the silken hose revealing the sculptured curves of knee and calf. He held himself with the relaxed alertness of a swordsman, but with an air of natural grace that bordered on arrogance. Now his eyes narrowed as he spotted his quarry. He moved through the room with the deliberate grace of a tiger. Ladies gazed after him, noting the unpowdered coppery-gold hair drawn back with a single ribbon of black velvet, the controlled sensuality of the mouth, which gave an amused response to their attentions, and the dark lashes framing eyes as hard and opaque as steel, which did not.

The young noble came to a halt beside an older man, dressed in opulent claret-colored brocade, his long waistcoat embroidered in gold thread, cascades of Flemish lace at his throat.

"Sir James, what an unexpected pleasure," said the older man. "I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow."

"My lord." Sir James Sandys executed a bow impeccable in its courtesy and grace. "Your letter said urgent."

"Good, then." Lord Marchwell excused himself and his companion.

As they made their way through the crowd, the young man's gaze rested for a moment on a young woman, caught by the pale face made paler still by the glossy wealth of jet black hair and the proud lift of her chin. Even in the rigidly corseted gown, she moved like a flame. Nor did James miss the way her eyes flashed and then turned dull, like tarnished silver, as the perfumed, periwigged dandy at her side led her away.

As quickly as could be done with decorum, the two men retreated into a small withdrawing room at the far end of the long corridor. Although the spring night was mild, a small fire had been lit and two glasses of fine port sat ready on a silver tray. Lord Marchwell locked the door behind them and held out one glass of wine.

"Yes, well. Please do sit down." Lord Marchwell threw himself into one of the two cushioned chairs drawn up by the hearth. Firelight flickered over the beautifully carved marble mantle. "These new shoes with the high tongues were my wife's idea. My feet are killing me. And by the way, banish all thought of young Lady Elinor Bancroft. Word has it her family plans to betroth her shortly to Lord Baldridge. A pity, since he's buried three wives already, and her father's let her ride wild over half the country. But it's the girl's lot to obey and yours to turn your eyes elsewhere."

Visibly suppressing a smile, James took the second glass of wine and lowered himself into the other chair. A long moment passed. When Lord Marchwell spoke again, his voice had shed all traces of the fussy, overdressed old fop.

"The King has proposed a summer progress through the county."

A royal progress involved huge amounts of advance preparations, James thought, not to mention expense on the part of the lords hosting the party, but was hardly reason to interrupt his mission to France. His absence endangered the entire network he'd worked to establish within the Versailles Court. And the French king's expansionist ambitions would scarcely await his return.