“We meet again.” She grinned nervously at him, then dropped the latch on the door. “Just in case,” she said.

Roland looked her up and down in mild disbelief. “The mistress of disguise? It’s a good thing I swept the room earlier. For bugs,” he added, catching her raised eyebrow.

“Well, that was prudent. You look great, too.” He’d dressed in a black tuxedo, she noted with relief. He’d taken her seriously; she’d been a little worried. “Where’s the bathroom?”

“Through there.” He looked doubtful.

“Back in a minute,” she said, ducking inside.

She closed the door, hastily untied her servant’s apron, shook her hair out of the borrowed mob cap, then spent a minute fumbling with her waistband. She stripped off the servant’s outerwear, then paused to look in a mirror. “Go kill him, girl,” she told herself. She deftly rolled on a coat of lip gloss, installed earrings and a single string of pearls. Finally she pulled on her black evening gloves, did an experimental twirl that set two thousand dollars’ worth of evening dress swirling, blew herself a kiss in the mirror, and stepped out.

Roland was waiting outside, holding a goblet of wine out toward her: He nearly dropped it when he saw her. “You look absolutely spectacular,” he said, finally. “How did you do it?”

“Oh, it wasn’t hard.” She shrugged her shoulders, which were bare. “You could conceal an arsenal under one of those maids’ uniforms.” I know. I did. She took the glass from him, then took his hand, led him to the sofa. “Sit.” She sat herself, then patted the leather seat next to her. “We need to talk.”

“Sure.” He followed her, looking slightly dazzled.

She felt a stab of tenderness mixed with regret, unsettling and unexpected. What am I really doing here? she half-wondered, then shoved the thought aside. “Come on. Sit down.” He sat in the opposite corner of the huge leather sofa, one arm over the back, the other cradling his glass in front of him, almost hiding behind it. “I had my chat with Angbard today.”

“Ah.” He looked defensive.

She took a sip from the glass and smiled at him. The wine was more than good, it was excellent, a rich, fruity vintage with a subtle aftertaste that reminded her of strawberries and freshly mowed lawns. She fired another smile at him, and he cracked, took a mouthful, and tried to smile back.

“Roland, I think the duke may be lying to us—separately. Or merely being economical with the truth.”

“Ah, ‘lying’?” He looked cautiously defensive.

“Lying.” She sighed, then looked at him sidelong. “I’m going to tell you what he told me, then you can tell me if that’s what he told you. Do you think you can do that? No need to reveal any secrets…”