A knock came to the outer bedchamber door just as Philippe began to crawl over her reclining body.

He cursed and called out, "What is it?"

"You have a visitor, my lord," came the muffled reply of the butler.

Marguerite looked at the clock on the mantel and noted the hour. It was nearly two in the morning.

He cupped her cheek and kissed the tip of her nose. "A moment, no more."

She smiled, knowing it was a lie but indulging him regardless. When he had first confided his activities as an agent in something he called the secret du roi-a group of agents whose purpose was to further the king's hidden diplomacy-she had been stunned and unable to reconcile this new image of him with the one he cultivated in Society. How could a man known as a voluptuary who lived only for his own pleasure be in truth someone who risked life and limb in service to his king?

But as love grew from their lust and their daily interactions progressed to a true joining of the minds, Marguerite realized how layered her lover was and how brilliant was his disguise. The proliferation of mistresses had not been entirely an affectation, of course, but he was not heartless. To this day he felt remorse for luring her to her "downfall."

When she had professed a similar regret for leading him away from his wife, he'd held her and revealed a surprising truth: Marchioness Saint-Martin-so pitied in private discourse for her husband's excesses-maintained her own lovers. Theirs was a marriage of duty. It was not unpleasant and they were both content to proceed with separate agendas.

Marguerite watched him shrug into his robe of black silk, then walk to the door. "I will miss you," she said. "If you are gone too long, I might cry out in the streets for you."