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“Whatever gives you that impression?”

Malikov dangled his glass from his fingertips over the scroll arm of the sofa. “First the affair with the ripe and delicious Pamela and then your unwillingness to protect yourself from the danger your cousin represents.”

Clive forced himself to laugh as he took a seat opposite the count. “Oh, really? Surely the danger from Ravenhurst is nothing. He will never notice his wife’s affair, or know what to do if he does. And what has Jane Fawkener done? I think she’s trying to learn from Allegra how to snare a husband.”

Malikov shook his head. “You trust the girl not to act against you? Don’t let yourself be fooled.”

Clive shrugged. “Jane? I think you exaggerate her ability to move the English government.”

“She may look meek, but, remember, Walhouse, the girl can destroy your family’s comfort, and your family is most attached to their comforts. Your sister won’t thank you for ruining her chances for an advantageous match.”

“She won’t thank me for a broken neck.”

“There you exaggerate the danger. The barouche rolled down a little slope. The ladies were jostled a bit. You have driven faster and more dangerously yourself.”

“Nevertheless, leave Allegra out of this.”

It seemed to Clive that he waited a long time for Malikov’s reply.

“Happily, if you will let me deal with your cousin. You’ve no attachment there, have you?”

“None.” Clive liked Jane well enough. If she didn’t stand in the way of the Walhouse family fortune, he would have nothing against her.

“You go to the Langford ball, don’t you?” Malikov asked.

“Yes, if Allegra recovers.”

“She will. Make sure your cousin goes to the ball, and leave the rest to me.”

Clive could not have heard properly. “My cousin is scheduled for an investiture ceremony with the king. The authorities will miss her.”

“Who? The king? He’ll never notice one less trinket to hand out. Chartwell? When has Chartwell done more than a lot of hand-wringing?”

Clive studied his near-empty glass, a thin amber veil of drink covered the bottom. He didn’t like Malikov’s attitude, but Clive had worked under Chartwell long enough to know the muddle his office made of most affairs. He could let his cousin go to whatever fate Malikov had in mind for her, or he could see his family slip back into their old situation. His sister would lose all chance of a decent match. His mother would have to give up her parties. His father could no longer have his dogs and horses. And he would have to give up Pamela.

He considered his family’s capacity for such sacrifice and found it wanting. He knew from the state of his own heart, that giving up one’s comforts and even worse, one’s claims on the notice of the world, was not to be borne.

Clive looked up from the liquid in his glass to meet Malikov’s gaze. His mother’s beautiful drawing room surrounded them. Her taste, her care had furnished the house as the house of a gentleman should be furnished. Jane Fawkener was nobody. She was nothing to any of them, a cousin from nowhere, with nothing to offer in exchange for such losses. She was lucky to have lived so long considering the risks her own father took. Really, Fawkener was the one who had endangered her by taking her abroad and doing the work that he did.

Clive stood and strolled back to the sideboard where the drinks tray had been left. “We will be at the ball with Jane.”

Malikov was on his feet in an instant and at Clive’s side, clapping him on the shoulder in that friendly, avuncular way of his, like a slightly older, wiser friend. “You’ve made the smart decision, you know. You must not imagine that anyone will mistreat the girl. I simply do what I must to improve things in St. Petersburg. Ah, to go home with some useful information, to return to my family.” Malikov set his own empty glass next to Clive’s.

And just like that, Clive knew Malikov was lying, that there was no lost career in St. Petersburg, no faithful sweetheart at home for whom Malikov worked, only a desire to work his will on others.

“You’ll see the fair Pamela tonight?” Malikov asked.

“Yes.” Clive swallowed the bad taste in his mouth. He was doing what was necessary for his family. Once their future was secure, he would end his association with Malikov for good.

* * * *

Jane stayed with Allegra until the soothing draught given to her by the family doctor sent her off to sleep. Then she stayed on in a plump armchair in Allegra’s room as the early dark of a winter’s day settled over London. It was the least she could do after she had involved her cousin in danger. Allegra might be shallow and vain and sometimes annoying, but none of those character flaws deserved a death sentence. It was a hard truth, but a truth nonetheless, that in removing herself from Hazelwood’s care, Jane had brought the danger that followed her into her cousins’ household.

She needed time to reflect on what had happened, away from anyone else. She did not want to meet her cousin Clive until she’d had a chance to sort through the jumbled images in her mind. She suspected that he would minimize the danger. The brief wild ride could not have lasted two minutes from the first lurch of the carriage under her feet to its collision with a mound of snow. At first the image of Hazelwood’s face over the back of the carriage persisted in her mind, so sharp and clear that other details of those perilous moments were obscure. But it was those other moments that she needed to recall in order to understand what had truly happened.

In the Ravenhurst carriage that brought them home, Clive had been strangely silent about the accident, while his friend Count Malikov teased him about having a team of such high-spirited animals that they wanted to join the race on the ice. Jane had heard enough of the talk around her after the barouche came to a stop to know that someone had tampered with it. Hazelwood’s presence confirmed her sense that the runaway carriage had been no accident. He had been watching, anticipating danger, and he’d acted when it came. She wanted to talk with him about it, but by misunderstanding him earlier, she had made seeing him again nearly impossible.

And yet, for those few mad moments when he’d had nowhere else to look, no joke to make, no disguise for the naked expression in his eyes, he was not a spy but a man who didn’t want to lose her. She mattered to him. It was not, after all, about his job, about the information she possessed, about the friends of England along her father’s route across the East, or about what she might know of Russian plans for the region. In that moment, it was about the lost connection between them, about wanting her to go on in the world even without him. That look had held her there in the wildly tilting coach more than her grip on the side panel. Then she’d been jolted loose, and when she’d landed, he’d been gone. She had looked, carefully, as her father had taught her to look at a scene, breaking the vast panorama of the park into discreet sections, but Hazelwood had vanished in the crowd.