Disclaimers in Chapter One...

Ardsley was still following at Gil's elbow, but though his legs were moving and he didn't think he'd stumbled he no longer was aware of anything. The first glance, he'd thought he was wrong, a trick of the light and wishful thinking, but how could he mistake his own wife? Not that he'd ever seen Melisande dressed like this before. Even in the last few days in Paris, she hadn't wanted to waste the money Lord M_ had given them on fine clothes and jewels. Now, she was here, beside her Russian godmother and spymaster, no less, in rich velvet, her beautiful dark hair held up by gold combs he knew she hadn't bought on his salary . . . but in spite of himself, he felt his heart do a little skip as he noted the locket at her throat.

Then he remembered who else would know, if not the face, that piece of jewelry. Like any great Spark, Gil never forgot a device he made (or helped make.)

Ardsley suddenly stumbled, ramming into Gil's shoulder, and he caught the flinches from their guards and the disdaining glare from Dolokhov. Gil, for his part, just looked puzzled as he glanced back. "Wooster? What's wrong?"

He knew he should say nothing, move on, not attract any attention to himself or to her (at least until he could contrive some way of getting her alone and find out what the blazes was going on), but he couldn't help it–he looked straight at Melisande, and Gil followed his gaze. "Nothing," he said, wishing Dolokhov would stop with the suspicious glare, that Gil wouldn't recognize her–

He should have known better.

"Wait, isn't that . . . ." Gil was clearly struggling for the name, but as he did Wooster thought he saw a glimmer of old Gil, Paris Gil. Unfortunately, it seemed to be taking the form of a devious glint. "Your Russian girl, Wooster! That's her, Miss–what's her name."

Doomed. He was doomed. "La Capere," and he hoped, frantically, that Melisande was using that name and not Velyaminova, or worse, her married name, "Melisande La Capere."

"Who?" Dolokhov. Damn it, was nothing going to go right?

"An old acquaintance from Paris," Gil said. "It would be rude not to say hello."

"That hardly seems appropriate," Dolokhov sniffed, "considering the sort of company you reportedly kept," and Ardsley felt an unreasoning surge of anger.

"Oh, not one of my acquaintances," Gil said, "one of Wooster's. Far too ladylike for the sort of things you're implying. I think we should say hello, Wooster. As I recall, wasn't she disappointed in your choice of employers? Might be nice to show her you didn't end up lackey to a monster."

"Sir, I don't know that it's the best idea . . . ." Not before he could speak to Melisande alone, in any case. "Besides, the Count–"

"Boris, why don't you go explain our presence to Count Vercordi?" Gil obviously had decided if he was being sent on this trip, he was going to run things his way. "I'm sure you'll be able to convey my father's interest in the most . . . diplomatic terms possible."

Dolokhov looked as if he wanted to argue, but to Ardsley's relief he restrained himself. "Of course. I'll also need to arrange a security sweep of our rooms, if you're still insisting we stay here instead of on the airship."

"Hm, a land-bound casino full of people I don't see every day, who haven't been vetted by Father's security, or our own private airship?" If sarcasm could kill, Gil would have cleared at least a five-meter radius around himself with that. "Just make sure there are separate accommodations–I'd like a little privacy. Not from the guests, from you and the bodyguards Father seems to think are necessary." Dolokhov grimaced, but departed, and two of the bodyguards detached themselves from the group and followed. "Now, Wooster–"

"Yes, sir?" Please, let Melisande have had the good sense to disappear . . . at least for his sake.

"Let's show your lady friend that you haven't done so badly for yourself after all." Gil headed for the baccarat table with more enthusiasm than he'd shown for anything on this trip so far. Maybe he hadn't changed that much since Paris . . . .

Melisande had not fled, though she did look as if she might faint. Clearly, whatever she'd been expecting (what had she been planning, here dressed like a fine and unmarried lady?) this was not it. Beside her the Countess Dragomirov was watching them approach, apparently fixated on Gil as everyone else was, but Ardsley caught the edge of that emerald glare and wished he could read it better. Melisande, he could see now, was trembling, and it took every ounce of self-control he possessed, and probably a bit more, to keep from breaking and running to her, even here.

Gil stopped in front of the women, and the other players at the table all seemed relieved they were not the objects of a Wulfenbach's attention, and intrigued. "Mademoiselle La Capere, isn't it?"

Melisande drew in a short breath, and Ardsley knew her well enough to see her steady herself. If only she'd look his way, catch his eye, give him some hint . . . . "Gil Holzfäller, as was." Ardsley bit down on a smile of pure pride at her teasing, just-hesitant-enough tone. Then finally her gaze shifted to him, and he was lost in the coffee-colored eyes. "Ardsley."

"So you do you remember us?" Gil gave her a much more reserved half-bow than his Parisian alter ego would have. "My friend here thought you wouldn't."

"I could hardly forget either one of you." Melisande fingered the locket at her throat. "Though you, at least, seem to have come up in the world."

"I don't know about that," Gil said, sounded for an instant painfully honest. "Wooster, here, has a much more respectable position than I do, what with not being a designated future figure of fear. Wooster, aren't you going to say hello?"

Calm voice, even voice, keep the tremor from showing . . . . "Hello, Melisande. It's been a long time." A long time since a morning in the Glass City, James sleeping in his crib near the fire, Melisande trying to keep the tears from showing as he prepared to leave them, again.

"It has." Her tone betrayed nothing, but he thought he saw the same sadness in her eyes.

"And Countess Dragomirov." He couldn't ignore her godmother. A shame she was far too much the professional to give any hint to their purpose here. "A pleasure to see you again."

"I'm sorry," Melisande said, "I'm being terribly rude. Herr Wulfenbach, may I introduce my godmother, the Countess Dragomirov. Baba Anya, Gilgamesh Wulfenbach, whom I knew in Paris under another name. As did many people," and she glanced sideways at Ardsley.

"An honor," said the Countess, sizing Gil up with a quick glance that probably would have been ruder if she didn't look like someone's ideal favorite aunt. "My goddaughter has mentioned you, Herr Wulfenbach. Your true identity was quite a surprise to her. And it is nice to see you again, Ardsley Wooster. We had too brief a meeting when last I saw you."

"Indeed." He was sure she'd had far more choice words than she, or Lord M_, had been able to deliver when confronting agents gone matrimonially rogue. He felt the quick but distinct sharp poke of Gil's elbow, and glanced at his employer. Gil was giving him a pointed look, and when Ardsley only blinked he sighed and tilted his head in Melisande's direction. Was Gil actually trying to be some sort of . . . matchmaker? Or mender? Whatever it was, he apparently wasn't getting out of here with only an inane exchange of pleasantries. "I'm surprised to see you here, Melisande. I didn't know you cared for card games."

"Oh, I'm only here to assist Baba Anya," she said, far too casually. "As for cards, I'm afraid the only game at which I'm at all proficient is solitaire. Have you played it?"

Ardsley's world, which had only moments ago been upended, took another screaming ninety-degree turn that left him blinking. Training took over and from somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he found the correct response and replied "I often enjoy solitaire, but sometimes it's tiresome being the only player." Gil looked perplexed, the Countess just faintly suspicious, but Ardsley was too busy being gobsmacked to care about either.

"Solitaire" was, as of his most recent dispatch from HQ, the recognition code for an in-person contact. The exchange would only be given to identify a fellow agent, the precise words and the leading question unlikely to be something she would say by accident. Lord M_ had to have told her.

Which meant she was not here working for Moscow. Melisande had just given him the signal of an agent of British Intelligence.

What on Earth was going on?

"I didn't take either of you for gamblers, at that," Melisande was saying. "Particularly you, Herr Wulfenbach. I'm surprised your father approves."

Gil shrugged, but Ardsley could feel that wall coming down, closing off whatever part of him dealt with thoughts of the Baron. "My father enjoys testing me. After all, he can't leave Europa to the care of a useless dilettante, can he?"

"You're a Spark," Melisande said, with a soft, almost maternal tone that Ardsley was certain surprised Gil as much as him. "Sparks are many things, but useless is seldom one of them."

"I appreciate the attempt to cheer me up," Gil said, and to Ardsley's ear at least, it sounded sincere. "At least someone I used to know doesn't . . . ." He stopped himself, but Ardsley made a mental note of that. "In any case, it's nice to see you again. Right, Wooster?"

"Yes, sir. It's very nice." And it was, expected or otherwise. "I've . . . I . . . ." What was appropriate for someone who was, after all, here as a servant, to say in front of his employer?

"What my emotionally-disabled, or in other words English, friend is attempting to do is ask for the honor of escorting you into dinner," Gil stepped in. It had all the old Sparkish elan he remembered from Paris, with the added overtone of authority.

"Sir, that would hardly be appropriate." It killed him to say it, but it was the only correct response. "Miss La Capere is here as a guest. I'm merely one of your staff."

"Don't be ridiculous," Gil said. "Boris is staff. You're my gentleman's gentleman, and therefore you're still a gentleman-it's in the job title. Or if you're going to be hopelessly British about, if you're my staff then I'm telling you to do it, so you have to."

That did rather neatly box him into a corner, not that there would have been any point in arguing with Gil even if it didn't. "Yes, sir. Ah, Melisande, despite dinner not even having been called yet, and having no idea if we're being accommodated at it so I may not even be invited, would you do me the honor of allowing me to escort you?"

"With such a gracious invitation, how could I say no?" Melisande sounded suspiciously like she was stifling a laugh. Ardsley couldn't blame her–he was about two seconds from a bout of hysterical laughter at the absurdity of the whole situation. "When dinner is announced, of course. And in any case, I'm here to attend my godmother, which means I'm practically a lady's maid, and as such being escorted by a gentleman's gentleman only seems appropriate."

Ardsley laughed, and to his surprise, Gil did, too. "Now that," Gil said, "is what I remember–you were clever. It really is good to know some people don't change."

"I can't imagine Ardsley has, either."

Gil's smile thinned a bit. "Well, as his job title suggests, we've had to change things a little. But that's the story of my life. And here comes my baby-sitter to make sure I'm not enjoying myself too much here, either."

Dolokhov was coming back, looking no more pleased than he had when he was sent on his errand. "The Count is honored to be hosting the son of Baron Wulfenbach," though the Count probably had not quite dripped so much sarcasm on the carpet saying it, "and will be happy to provide several rooms on the top floor, overlooking the sea, which are to be placed entirely at our disposal. And, of course, he would be deeply honored if you and your party would join his other guests for the banquet tonight." He lowered his voice. "I can of course arrange tasters from the security detachment. He glanced rather pointedly at Ardsley. "Unless you wish to use your own personal assistant."

Ardsley bristled, and he saw Melisande's spine straighten. Silently he willed her not to say anything, but he knew that little tightening at the corners of her mouth. Gil, for his part, simply gave Dolokhov a flat, unyielding stare that was uncannily like the kind of look his father was a master of. "I'll take my chances. Look on the bright side—if someone poisons us all, Captain Dupree will have an absolute field day razing this island to the ground."

"That isn't very reassuring," Dolokhov said. His eyes slid back to Melisande, who flinched before hastily lowering her eyes. "You can assure your little friend, Herr Wooster, I'm not a monster." He folded both sets of arms across his chest, though out of irritation or self-consciousness Ardsley wasn't sure.

"Not physically, perhaps," and Melisande said it in Russian. Ardsley had to suppress a gasp and he heard Gil cough, so he'd understood at least the gist.

The Countess clearly understood the entire exchange. "You are being nekulturny, goddaughter."

"I'm not the only one." Melisande had shifted subtly, so she now was not quite beside Ardsley, but angled towards him. The look in her eyes was unmistakable, though—she had clearly decided she did not like Boris Dolokhov, and the number of hands he possessed had nothing to do with it.

Ardsley had always thought his wife was an excellent judge of character.

"Why am I not surprised at Herr Wooster's choice of friends?" Yes, Dolokhov had followed that, too. "Sir," and no one could have missed how the courtesy rankled, "I should go and see about arranging our accommodations and the security. You realize, of course, your father would likely prefer your staying aboard the airship?"

"I realize my father left most of this trip to my judgment," Gil said, and there was real Wulfenbach authority in his voice. "If he wanted to direct every single step I take, he should have come instead of sending me."

Dolokhov froze, and even Ardsley couldn't help a shiver. Even here, far from the Castle and presumably the Baron's ears, hearing such defiance was unnerving. Yet it was impossible to argue with a Spark using that tone of voice. "Very good, sir," Dolokhov said, practically choking. "I'll have the rooms searched and your belongings brought in for your valet to arrange. I'm sure we needn't bother the Count's staff with that sort of housekeeping."

"Of course." Gil had the distinct tone of someone who was agreeing mostly to get the other person to leave. "I'm sure I can trust your judgement in that regard."

Either Dolokhov didn't hear the implied insult, or he didn't think it was worth saying anything. "Yes, sir." He bowed, halfway politely, and the Countess at least rated a polite nod as he turned to go. Ardsley caught the dark, narrow-eyed look the construct gave him, but he didn't hesitate to glare back. If Gil was going to back him up, he might as well take advantage of it.

Besides, having to do his usual respectful scraping and bowing in front of Melisande was too nauseating to contemplate.

"Well, that takes care of that." Gil glanced at Ardsley. "I hope you realize you're probably sleeping in a closet if Boris is assigning the rooms."

"As long as it's far away from him." At the mention of sleeping arrangements he wondered, briefly, whether Melisande was sharing a room with her godmother, how far their rooms would be from his . . . the thought of her so nearby, and their cover stories making contact impossible and he was already distracted.

Melisande was still watching Dolokhov's retreat. "I apologize, Herr Wulfenbach. I believe I insulted your man." She was doing her best to look contrite.

"My father's man," Gil said sharply. "My minder." He paused, drawing in a breath, and Ardsley saw the bitterness, if not drain away, at least recede a bit. "I apologize." He looked past Melisande, and for the first time Ardsley took real note of the other guests around the gaming table. "I apologize to all of you," Gil continued, raising his voice. "I interrupted your game. You play, Mademoiselle La Capere?"

"I was merely observing." She looked as well. There was a dark man at one end of the table who was watching them from beneath hooded eyes, and Ardsley did not appreciate the resentful way the man was looking at his wife. Not, of course, that could make any of the appropriate objections, but it rankled. Down the table, the slender, pale, Oriental woman was sitting regally still, and an African man with the bearing of a king were both doing their best to look unimpressed by the son of the ruler of Europa. The two young nobles, who looked like so many rich young men he'd seen in Paris, didn't look nearly as unintimidated. The last player of baccarat, a pale man with black hair, was studiously not looking at them, with the cool, composed air of someone above noticing the little people. The Countess Dragomirov, he realized, was watching him, something strange in her emerald eyes.

Ardsley cringed inwardly. These people–the highborn, the wealthy, the titled . . . these were Melisande's natural element. Her cousin (second cousin, he forced himself to remember) was the Grand Duke of Moscow, for goodness's sake. She even looked at home in rich velvet and jeweled hairpieces and long gloves trimmed in pearls and gold. And for all Dolokhov was saying it to be cruel, he was right–Ardsley was here as a servant. What a reminder how far she'd married down . . . .

And then he realized she was fingering her locket, apparently a nervous habit, but she was fiddling with it just enough he could hear something rattling inside. She looked up, caught his gaze, and let just the tiniest private smile turn the corners of her lips.

Her wedding ring. Hidden in plain sight.

He had to speak privately to her.

"Will Monsieur be joining us at the table?" The croupier was addressing Gil, who grimaced.

"Wouldn't that just leave my father thrilled?" he asked rhetorically. "No, I'm afraid not. Not at the moment, anyway. And if I do join you later, don't expect me to use Father's empire as table stakes."

The players looked away uncomfortably, except the dark-haired man who was still not looking at them. He continued to toy with a card, turning it over in his fingers, and said "Only a madman would want to win it."

Melisande's eyes widened, and Ardsley felt his mouth go dry. He saw similar expressions on the faces of the others, and did not dare look at Gil. That was all too close to a direct insult to the Baron–Dolokhov would probably have been calling out the guards if he'd still been within earshot.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, Gil sighed. "Well, so much for that avenue of escape." Had that actually been a joke?

Before Ardsley could think of a tactful way to ask, the loud clang of a gong rang out over the room. Another of Count Vercordi's gaudily-dressed staff stood at the far end of the floor and announced that dinner was served in the banquet hall, and would the guests please proceed there (unspoken was, unless they would prefer to keep losing their fortunes at the gaming tables.)

Gil straightened his shoulders and looked around. "I suppose that includes us, eh, Wooster?" His gaze settled on the Countess Dragomirov. "Countess, would you do me the honor?"

Melisande's godmother looked startled, but quickly recovered her aplomb. "The honor is mine, Herr Wulfenbach. You do an old woman a great kindness."

"Old? Perish the thought." Now, that sounded like the Gil of Paris, if a trace more sincere. "You could be Mademoiselle La Capere's sister." As he offered his arm with a courtly air, he glanced over his shoulder at Ardsley, and when that wasn't enough of a hint jerked his head pointedly in Melisande's direction. "Wooster . . . ."

Ardsley hoped he could keep his face under control–well, face, and the rest of him. "Mademoiselle, if you will permit me?" Mademoiselle, as if she were an unmarried girl, not his own wife, his son's mother . . . .

She hesitated, for show or fear of her own loss of control he wasn't certain. "Of course." And she slipped her arm through his and he felt the warm press of her velvet-clad body against his side. Before his mind could wander off on that intoxicating tangent, she pressed just a bit closer and murmured sotto voce, in English, "Be careful of my gloves. They're a gift from your aunt."

Suddenly the heavy gold cording around her wrist took on a heart-stopping new dimension (literally, for all he knew.) "We need to talk," he murmured through his teeth as they fell in a respectful two paces behind Gil and the Countess.

"How? We won't be alone at dinner." Her lips were fixed in a serene smile and barely moved as she spoke.

An excellent question. As they went up the steps to the ground floor, he remembered the serene courtyard he'd observed outside as they'd made their rushed entrance to the fortress-cum-casino. The serene, cool, deserted courtyard. But what excuse would be proper?

Of course. It would either work flawlessly, or Gil, who probably remembered those last days in Paris, would assume they were simply looking for a private corner to renew an old acquaintance. Either way, ideal.

"Swoon," he whispered back.

"What?" He saw the raised brow out of the corner of his eye.

"Pretend you're faint. I'll catch you."

An instant's pause, and he sensed she understood. They took two more steps and suddenly she staggered against him, a dead weight on his arm, and he found himself really grabbing to keep her on her feet as she moaned softly. "Mademoiselle?" It was so convincing an act he barely had to feign the concern.

Gil looked over his shoulder and stopped abruptly, and the Countess (with a flicker of recognition as quickly hidden as Melisande's own had been) cried, "Melisande!"

"The heat," she gasped, leaning against Ardsley's shoulder as he tried to both hold her up and solicitously fan her. "I was overcome . . . ."

"It's terribly warm in here," Ardsley said, realizing the other guests were starting to notice. "Perhaps, the night air . . . .?"

"Yes," and she was almost too quick saying it, but she put a convincing gasp to the words, "yes, that will help. Ardsley, if you would please . . . ."

"Of course," and it was hard to remember she was only pretending, "that is, sir, if–"

"For heaven's sake, Wooster, don't stand on ceremony when a lady's in distress." Gil looked worried himself, but for someone who was, after all, a doctor, he was not exactly rushing to assist. Did he suspect? As Ardsley gently guided Melisande (still leaning heavily on him, her breathing shallow) towards the door, he risked a look at Gil–and caught a devilish gleam in his "master's" eyes, and a hasty, half-hidden thumbs up.

Oh, he suspected. Exactly the wrong conclusion, but that suited their purposes just as well. Ardsley tried to manage at least half a smile in return before half-leading, half-carrying his fainting wife out into the garden with its fairy lights and secluded corners. He couldn't help but glance down at the neckline of her dress as he did, and how the corset he could feel beneath the soft velvet enhanced certain of her assets that he'd been dreaming about for months. Maybe Gil wasn't entirely wrong about his purposes after all.