A/N: First of all, I owe a massive apology to everyone who has been reading this fic and waiting for an update. I hit a major block with the story, and while I don't think the next few chapters are totally unblocked yet, or going to flow particularly well, on the plus side I am back on track with where I want to go with it. Before I leave you with this chapter, I'll say now: this fic will get finished. It may take me months, or even years, and there might be big pauses between updates, but don't doubt that eventually it will be completed. I love this fic and the alternate world I've created in it, and although it might be a bit of a pain sometimes, I won't give up on it. Pactum serva, guys! xx

The night drew on wearily, with only the scratch of his pencil against paper and the dying crackle of the fire to accompany him. Tom's reports were troubling. He had heard whispers, murmurings among his contacts… Harry sighed and brushed a hand across his eyes, which ached with exhaustion.

The end of the last report in particular was troubling:

…Sir, I heard about the movements of our troops from French contacts, before they happened. I sincerely hope that I am wrong, but I feel it very likely that we have a traitor in our midst, passing information on to the French. I intend to travel to Paris, and attempt to find out who our betrayer is. I may have to drop out of contact, so will leave this report and my others with my local agent, so that any of our officers who follow me will learn the whole. I do not know how long it may take, or if I shall be successful, but I believe that this will be the best use of my time at present…

Dawn was breaking when Sir Henry finally set aside his documents and stood, stretching. He would, of course, have to follow Quinn to Paris. If he was there, he would be staying at the merchant's house the War Office had purchased for such a purpose, before the war. They would need to convene, and urgently, to discuss what, if any, information had been discovered. If there was a leak in the War Office, as Tom suspected, then the situation was far more serious than Sir Henry had realised. And where did this leave Oliver Mace? He was involved, Harry was convinced of it - but how? It was not as if Mace himself had access to the inner workings of the War Office, after all. The only good thing to have revealed itself from the tangle was that there was a good chance that Tom had not been captured. But, in Sir Henry's experience, when something like this was one's only positive thought, it was sure evidence that the matter in hand was not going well.

There were footsteps on the stairs, and Miss Dale came downstairs, a shawl wrapped over her nightgown. "What does Tom say?" she asked quietly. "Do you know where he may be?"

Sir Henry paused, judging the prudence of telling his hostess what he had found out, and then caught sight of the expression on her face. Here was not a virago, intent on avenging her husband's death, but a young woman, anxious for the safety of a man she felt very deeply for. Were she and Quinn lovers? Yet another complication…

"I no longer think that he has been captured," he replied gently. "It seems that he has travelled to Paris, investigating certain rumours." He expected her to question him further, but to his surprise, she seemed to accept his answer. She nodded, relieved. "I am glad. You will be following him, I assume, sir?"

Sir Henry nodded, gathering up the sheaf of reports, and tucking them into the voluminous inside pocket of his driving coat. "Indeed I shall, and quickly. Time is of the essence." It would be a burden to ride to Paris and back, to meet his ship - and all within four days! - but it had to be done. Miss Dale hesitated and then laid a hand on his arm. "Then, Sir Henry, perhaps when you see Tom, you will be good enough to… convey to him my regards, and my sincere wish that he will remain in good health."

He pursed his lips. This had to be stopped, and since Quinn had clearly not had the sense to do so, it seemed the task would fall to him. "Miss Dale," he began severely, but she raised a hand to stop him.

"I know what it is that you are about to say, sir. You do not wish one of your best men to be engaged in an affair with a woman such as me."

He sighed. "You put it so bluntly. But - surely, you have both foreseen the difficulties of your situation? I may be lenient, but there are those at the War Office, and at Horseguards, who would not show such understanding. I advise you - and shall advise Lieutenant Quinn when I see him - to break off this foolishness at once, for both your sakes'. It will never end happily."

She appraised him coolly for a moment, and then murmured, "If I could believe in the selflessness of your motives, then I should probably do as you advise. But I think that your sentiments have more to do with your anxieties over my loyalty, rather than any you may have for Thomas's, or my, happiness, sir."

He shrugged into his driving coat almost angrily. "I wish you could believe in my motifs, Miss Dale." He paused. "But I will do you ask."

She nodded her thanks almost shyly and turned to her larder. "Paris is not a short ride. Let me pack you some food for the journey."

Miss Dale had been correct in her statements - it had taken him almost two days, with just a brief halt the night before for rest, to reach Paris. And now that he was here… Sir Henry's neck was prickling again. Paris was dirty, its people underfed, and its streets rife with pickpockets and prostitutes. Extracting himself from the rather insistent grasp of one seemingly frail young woman, he continued along his path. The house he looked for was close by, and if Quinn was anywhere, he would be here.

At last, he halted before a tall, rickety looking building. The peeling paint on the door did nothing to improve his mood. He knocked three times and waited. Then he knocked twice more. He could hear movements inside, and when the door finally opened, he was relieved to find Tom Quinn's solid face looking out at him. "Sir," he breathed, half-relieved, and allowed Harry inside, glancing around the street for watchers.

Inside, the building was just as squalid. Tom had set up his bedroll in one of the ground floor rooms, along with some empty chests that he appeared to be using as seats. Sir Henry removed his coat and laid it fastidiously over one of the crates before seating himself. Then, he took a long look at the young officer whom he had trained and believed lost for so many days. "By God, Quinn. It's damned good to see you."

The two men shook hands firmly, and the dingy atmosphere of the house seemed to recede somewhat. In more businesslike tones, Harry inquired, "Have you any information on our traitor? I read your reports, and they tally well with recent events in London. Oliver Mace has returned to England."

Lieutenant Quinn swore. "Damn his eyes! What does he want?"

Harry gestured expressively with his hand. "Your guess, I am afraid, is as good as mine, Tom. But I do not think that your rumours of treachery are unrelated."

Tom nodded and rose to retrieve some documents from his bedroll. He handed them to Harry. "I have located a man called Fontaine. He's a merchant by trade, but he runs a sideline in the transfer of information to Boney's spymasters. A disgusting little weasel of a man." The contempt in his voice was evident. Harry knew the type - enough money to live on, but not enough to satisfy his inherent greed; such men usually cowardly, lecherous and possessed of worse morals than the rats which lurked in London's sewers. His mouth twisted momentarily in distaste, but his mind remained on the task at hand. Shaking his head, he reminded Tom, "But he cannot be getting the information first-hand. He must have some sort of contact at the War Office."

Tom nodded. "Perhaps there is more than one other link in the chain. A man at the War Office, a man acting as go-between, and Fontaine." He ticked them off on his fingers, and added, "After all, it would look suspicious if a desk officer at the War Office was constantly going to and fro from London." There was much to be said for this idea, and Harry told him so. What a joy it was to be working alongside Quinn again, sharing intelligence, working through problems! For the first time since arriving in France, Sir Henry felt that he was doing something constructive. "I think that we ought to both return to England, now, so that you may make formal reports at the War Office," Harry told the other officer.

To his surprise, Tom shook his head. "Forgive me, sir, but I believe that I will be of more use here. If I follow Fontaine for long enough, then eventually I will find his contact. Now is not the time to leave him to his own infernal devices." Sir Henry rose and began to pace, thinking through the idea. Eventually, he nodded. "Very well. But, if you are agreeable, I will send another officer to assist you. "

Tom looked defiantly up at him. "And if I am not agreeable?" Only his long acquaintance with his superior gave him the courage to question his orders, but he knew that his question would not be well-received. Sir Henry raised his eyebrows. "Then I shall still send another officer. This situation is dangerous, and I don't want any of my men in Paris for longer than I can help." It was this more than anything that quietened Lieutenant Quinn. The great Sir Harry Pearce, hero of the Revolutionary Wars, steel-nerved spymaster, was afraid. He swallowed. "As you wish, sir."

Sir Henry reached for his coat. "I must leave Paris immediately. I will send on the other officer as soon as may be. I should be obliged if you kept in regular contact with the War Office, in the usual way." In a big city like Paris, there would be numerous petty agents through which Thomas could pass reports. In many ways, the situation would be easier than it had been for many months - the anxiety of waiting for the irregular occasions on which Thomas fell in with one of the army regiments, who would then send his dispatches home, followed by the disappointment when he had nothing or little to report, or the flurry of nervous activity when he did. Here, Sir Henry could at least be sure of regular reports and a regular flow of useful information. He collected his saddlebags and followed Thomas back out in the generously-named atrium of the house.

"I also think that Miss Dale would appreciate word of your safety," he said evenly. Lieutenant Quinn froze almost imperceptibly, before recovering his composure. "Of course, you have met Christine," he murmured, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Is she… angry?" he added, quietly.

Harry avoided his eyes. "Frantic would be the better word, I feel," he replied. "You know her views on England, I presume."

Tom winced and turned away. "Yes," he admitted.

Harry's voice did not alter in register or volume, but it was brimming with suppressed ire when next he spoke. "And still you persist with her?"

The man he had trained, who was as a son to him, ran a hand through already unkempt hair - an expression of utmost exasperation. "I cannot do otherwise," he uttered harshly. "You have been married Harry, you know what it is to love." His superior's breath caught in shock. In love with Christine Dale, our enemy? Women were most of them susceptible to romantic attachments, but Harry had expected Tom to take a more pragmatic view of the situation. Love was all very well, but… in such a situation, did they really imagine that they had any chance of happiness? The unintentional jibe about his marriage stung, but not so much as did the realisation that the only love Harry recognised had not been found within it. It was not a new sensation, but the guilt had not yet dissipated to such an extent that he could think of his wife without some inkling of shame. Miss Evershed's face drifted before his eyes, and he blinked. The Lord knew what would happen to Thomas Quinn and Miss Dale, but Harry found he no longer had the heart to deny them their brief time of happiness.

"Yes," he replied at last, shortly. "I do. I will do what I can, but don't expect a smooth passage." He extended his hand, and the other man shook it, heartily. His relief and gratitude were obvious. "Thank you, Harry. From the bottom of my heart."

Sir Henry gave a weary half-smile and opened the door. "Goodbye, Tom, and good luck."