Charles Marcombe was ready to retire. The British secret agent had done his bit against the blasted Bonaparte -- legends would be told about his exploits as Le Maniganceur, The Intriguer. Now it was time to nurse his wounds and come to terms with the fact that that part of his life was over. He certainly did not need the likes of Mademoiselle Therese de Bourgerre darkening his door, to remember things best forgotten. She was a delightful minx, to be sure, but it would take more than a pair of pleading emerald eyes and a woebegone smile to drag him back into the fray! Therese could not believe that the man who stood before her was the dashing Maniganceur she had known and loved in Paris. He was a man of action, a knight in shining armour. This was a man who had given up hope and taken refuge in a life that could only suffocate his bold spirit. There had to be a way to bring back the man whose slightest touch made her sigh . . . for England's sake, if not for the sake of her girlish infatuation.
