Page 3 of The Spy’s Song

Louise was folding the lithograph when the latch turned.

She barely had time to slip the paper inside her corset before a stranger stepped into her private dressing room.

His gaze dropped to her hand, then returned to her face. She could tell by the scarlet regimentals, polished boots, and medals that he was a Horse Guards officer. Tall, perhaps forty, back straighter than an English elm, he closed the door behind him and crossed his arms.

Louise's pulse faltered. His blue eyes were too calm. Men who intended violence usually advertised it by a stare or a wicked smile. This man looked as though he could arrest her, hang her, and apologize afterward for having inconvenienced a lady.

Louise stood, and his gaze strayed to the bare line of her shoulders. Color climbed beneath his collar, and he immediately looked away.

Perfect. She had been cornered by a man who might send her to prison but would rather die than stare at her décolletage.

She perched on the vanity's edge, letting one slippered foot dangle. "Did you misplace your seat? Only the audience is permitted to see me in costume."

His gaze fixed itself with renewed determination somewhere above her collarbone. "Miss Bonnechoix. Sebastian Arlesford. Colonel of the Horse Guards."

She curved her mouth into a smile. "If you have come to improve your footwork, Colonel, I'm afraid my last pupil left with an excellent understanding of balance. And a limp."

"The War Office is aware of your… associations, Miss Bonnechoix. You have been aiding France from London."

Louise narrowed her eyes. "And they send you to arrest me? For offering tea to runaway liberals? I am surely beneath the Horse Guards' notice."

The door swung inward, and a black shadow slipped through the gap. Molière, the theater cat, regarded the colonel with the contempt of an animal accustomed to more impressive costumes than British uniforms. Swishing his tail, he sprang onto Louise's lap.

As he purred, Louise caressed his fur and felt something beneath the cat's ribbon. It was a folded paper.

"As a ballerina, certainly." He paused. "But not as Napoleon's daughter."

No one knew. She had kept her paternity a secret since the first letter arrived, signed by Autun, her father's most faithful servant.

She let out a soft laugh, the sound almost convincing. "The Emperor's daughter? I have played many roles, Colonel, but never one so extravagant."

"We know your mother was Eugénie Bonnechoix. That she had an affair with General Bonaparte and became pregnant during the siege of Toulon. That you were born in 1793. That you were eventually brought to England with three other girls."

The bastard spoke as though her mother's life were a line in a report. Louise's hands closed into fists.

His gaze sharpened. "I know who you are. More importantly, others do, too. You are no longer invisible, Miss Bonnechoix. The Horse Guards cannot allow you to become a pawn in a contest between governments."

"And what do you propose?" she asked lightly. "Lock me in the Tower as Richard III did his nephews? You English do have a tradition of protecting inconvenient heirs."

He smiled. It softened his eyes in a way that almost made him human. "I am not a villain. I am offering you asylum. My protection. I give you my word that no harm will come to you. Once I give my word, Miss Bonnechoix, you may be certain I would rather die than break it."

The cat stretched luxuriously across her lap, and she used the cover to slide the paper free. She lowered her gaze as though admiring him.

If you are really Napoleon's daughter, prove it. You have two minutes to lose the colonel.

Two minutes. Her pulse began to measure them. She lowered the cat to the floor.

The bell sounded the first call to the stage.

She rose. "I shall consider your proposition, Colonel. After the performance."

"I cannot allow you to leave, Miss Bonnechoix."

He set his boot against the threshold, blocking the doorway. Beyond the walls, the orchestra tuned for the second act. A violin climbed into pitch, horns answered in low, brassy murmurs. The familiar weight of the dagger rested against her thigh. She could use it, but what were the odds of winning against a fully armed soldier?

She stepped toward him, close enough to inhale his bland cologne. "You are a lord, are you not? If you arrest me half-dressed, what will the ton say?"

The prudish blush climbed to his forehead, and his eyes flickered as he no doubt calculated how much of his reputation he was willing to spend. He leaned away from her, surrendering his position before the door.