“I know enough to recognize a person who will do what has to be done.” He felt a stirring for her, a grave kind of pity that twined with empathy. “But you didn’t answer me. Do you love my son?”

“I can’t.” This time her voice wasn’t strong and there were tears chasing behind it. “I’ve lied to him since the first, and I’ll go on doing so. You can’t love and lie. Please excuse me, Your Highness.”

Armand let her go. For a moment, he sat back in the chair and closed his eyes. For the next few hours, he could do nothing more than pray for her.

*   *   *

The café wasn’t one of the pretty little tourist spots in Cordina. It was a local waterfront bar that catered to the crews from the fishing and cargo boats. Inside it was cramped with tables, many empty, and smoke and the smell of liquor. Not as rough as they came, Hannah thought as she slipped inside, but neither was it a place where a woman alone would wander unless she was looking for trouble.

Still, she didn’t cause much of a stir as she came in. In her plain gray sweater and slacks, she nearly blended into the walls. The handful of women who were already there were more interesting fare. If she could get this over with quickly, she might not have to discourage any of the locals.

Hannah chose a bar stool and ordered a bourbon, neat. By the time it was served, she had sized up the room. If Reeve had indeed planted two agents here, they were certainly good ones. It was a rare thing when Hannah couldn’t spot one of her own.

She’d been drinking silently for ten minutes when one of the men stood from a table and wandered in her direction. Hannah continued to drink while every muscle tensed. When he spoke, it was in French and thickened by whiskey.

“It’s a sad thing for a woman to drink alone.”

Hannah relaxed only enough to be annoyed. She used her primmest British tones. “It’s a sadder thing for a woman not to remain alone when she chooses to.”

“When one is so plain, she shouldn’t be so picky,” he grumbled, but moved away again. Hannah nearly smiled, then another man came through the doors.

He was dressed in seaman’s clothes, with his cap pulled low. Beneath it his face was deeply tanned and gaunt. This time she tensed because she was certain.

Still, she idly lifted her drink as he moved to sit beside her at the bar.

“You have the time, mademoiselle?”

“Yes, it’s quarter to twelve.”

“Thank you.” He signaled for a drink. Another minute passed as he toyed with it. “Il fait chaud ce soir.”

“Oui, un peu.”