permitted to hold slaves, no matter the country of his birth and residence.
"Still, they will resent it," St. Jean said mildly. "And to enforce the law will gain the Crown few friends.
The question is, how desperate will resentful men become? We must discover who our enemies are, and
what plans they entertain for our future. Spain is neutral now, but if she were to indicate that heretics such
as we English are meddling in the affairs of a Catholic nation, she would declare instantly for France, and
once she did, Portugal would join her, out of fear of the Beast if nothing else."
That much was true. Those countries not already under Napoleon's yoke performed a delicate balancing
act of check and countercheck upon one another. Pitt's Catholic Emancipation Act six years before had
been the price of peace with Ireland: nothing must be allowed to disrupt the fragile network of European
alliances, neither ancient feuds nor present grudges. Spain's defection would be nearly as great a disaster
as an Irish—or Colonial—revolt.
"Yet it is only a matter of time before Talleyrand gains something that will accomplish such a trick from
that same informant in our midst who caused Talleyrand to lead little Mr. Fox on with the negotiations for
a treaty he had no intention of making."
Though Wessex spoke of the matter so glibly, there were only three men in England who knew for a fact
that there was a traitor somewhere within the walls of the White Tower. Baron Misbourne had broached
the matter with Wessex over a year ago, but Wessex had already suspected the traitor's existence, and
more—that the turncoat had led his double life for more than twenty years.
When Wessex's father had voyaged to France to rescue the Dauphin, then a child of eight, Andrew,
Duke of Wessex, had vanished without a trace. And the only men who could have betrayed him were
those who had sent him—the White Tower itself.
And so, when Misbourne asked, Wessex had agreed to hunt Misbourne's traitor and his own, using any
means to do so. He had recruited St. Jean to help him because a domestic political—and one who had
not even been a member of the White Tower Group when Andrew, Duke of Wessex, had vanished
fifteen years before—could not possibly be their Judas.
"You have not told me all you came to say," Wessex observed. What he and St Jean had retailed so far
was no more than he already knew—not reason enough for St. Jean's visit, especially today.
"I have heard, from sources outside the Tower that under cover of this wedding, one of the Black Pope's
spy-masters is to come to London to meet with his agent. I have told this to no one now but you. I am to
report to Lord White today—what shall I say to him?" St. Jean's face was troubled.
"Tell him nothing," Wessex said brutally. "I will take responsibility for it, if anyone must."
St. Jean opened his mouth to protest, but at that moment there was a discreet scratching at the door.
"Her Grace, Your Grace," Buckland announced.
The church-spires still cast long blue shadows as the great Ducal coach rumbled heavily along the street.
It was drawn by six heavy-boned Frisians, for like many things in the Duke's vicinity, it was not at all
what it seemed. The lacquered oak panels in the ducal colors of silver and green concealed armor plating
thick enough to stop a round from a Baker rifle. Its axles held retractable blades that could cripple the
horses of an encroaching team, and its interior harbored many secrets, among them a brace of concealed
pistols. Because of these things, among others, it was not a vehicle built for speed. But on this day, speed
was not a matter of concern.
Wessex sat back on the deep green squabs of the bench and regarded his bride. The roof of the coach
was high enough so that her egret-feather headdress was in no danger of being crushed. Her cowled
cloak of deep rose velvet, lined in satin to match the dress, was pooled about her on the seat, while
"Still, they will resent it," St. Jean said mildly. "And to enforce the law will gain the Crown few friends.
The question is, how desperate will resentful men become? We must discover who our enemies are, and
what plans they entertain for our future. Spain is neutral now, but if she were to indicate that heretics such
as we English are meddling in the affairs of a Catholic nation, she would declare instantly for France, and
once she did, Portugal would join her, out of fear of the Beast if nothing else."
That much was true. Those countries not already under Napoleon's yoke performed a delicate balancing
act of check and countercheck upon one another. Pitt's Catholic Emancipation Act six years before had
been the price of peace with Ireland: nothing must be allowed to disrupt the fragile network of European
alliances, neither ancient feuds nor present grudges. Spain's defection would be nearly as great a disaster
as an Irish—or Colonial—revolt.
"Yet it is only a matter of time before Talleyrand gains something that will accomplish such a trick from
that same informant in our midst who caused Talleyrand to lead little Mr. Fox on with the negotiations for
a treaty he had no intention of making."
Though Wessex spoke of the matter so glibly, there were only three men in England who knew for a fact
that there was a traitor somewhere within the walls of the White Tower. Baron Misbourne had broached
the matter with Wessex over a year ago, but Wessex had already suspected the traitor's existence, and
more—that the turncoat had led his double life for more than twenty years.
When Wessex's father had voyaged to France to rescue the Dauphin, then a child of eight, Andrew,
Duke of Wessex, had vanished without a trace. And the only men who could have betrayed him were
those who had sent him—the White Tower itself.
And so, when Misbourne asked, Wessex had agreed to hunt Misbourne's traitor and his own, using any
means to do so. He had recruited St. Jean to help him because a domestic political—and one who had
not even been a member of the White Tower Group when Andrew, Duke of Wessex, had vanished
fifteen years before—could not possibly be their Judas.
"You have not told me all you came to say," Wessex observed. What he and St Jean had retailed so far
was no more than he already knew—not reason enough for St. Jean's visit, especially today.
"I have heard, from sources outside the Tower that under cover of this wedding, one of the Black Pope's
spy-masters is to come to London to meet with his agent. I have told this to no one now but you. I am to
report to Lord White today—what shall I say to him?" St. Jean's face was troubled.
"Tell him nothing," Wessex said brutally. "I will take responsibility for it, if anyone must."
St. Jean opened his mouth to protest, but at that moment there was a discreet scratching at the door.
"Her Grace, Your Grace," Buckland announced.
The church-spires still cast long blue shadows as the great Ducal coach rumbled heavily along the street.
It was drawn by six heavy-boned Frisians, for like many things in the Duke's vicinity, it was not at all
what it seemed. The lacquered oak panels in the ducal colors of silver and green concealed armor plating
thick enough to stop a round from a Baker rifle. Its axles held retractable blades that could cripple the
horses of an encroaching team, and its interior harbored many secrets, among them a brace of concealed
pistols. Because of these things, among others, it was not a vehicle built for speed. But on this day, speed
was not a matter of concern.
Wessex sat back on the deep green squabs of the bench and regarded his bride. The roof of the coach
was high enough so that her egret-feather headdress was in no danger of being crushed. Her cowled
cloak of deep rose velvet, lined in satin to match the dress, was pooled about her on the seat, while
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