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She pretended to take notice of someone across the room and made her way in that direction. At the last moment, she veered toward the doorway and slipped out of the drawing room before anyone could waylay her.

By the time she arrived at the closed door of the small sitting room at the front of the house, where guests were usually asked to wait, she had had a chance to think.

Mr. MacKinnon stood only a few feet away near the front door with Tom. It would be too dangerous to talk with Roland here.

Seeing her, MacKinnon sprang forward to open the door to the sitting room for her. She nodded briefly and entered the small room.

Roland turned away from the mantel at the sound of the door. He was a man about her age. He had been a comrade-in-arms of Stéphane’s when she’d met him that year in Paris.

At the sight of her, Roland broke into a wide smile and stepped toward her.

They both waited a moment to ensure they were alone. Then reaching up, Céline embraced him, whispering, “What brings you here?”

He gave her a quick peck on both cheeks. Before pulling away, he whispered back, “Your butler caught me loitering down the street. I had little choice.”

Her eyes widened in alarm. “How on earth . . . ?”

“Come.” He took her hand and led her to the settee by the fireplace well away from the door. “I told him I didn’t wish to intrude since I could see you were occupied. I mustn’t stay. I meant to come in later and see Gaspard. I didn’t realize you were entertaining on such a scale.”

She sat beside him, hardly hearing his words, too rattled by the fact that MacKinnon had been the one to discover him. She would have to do something about her butler . . .

“Who is that fellow, anyway?”

She blinked, forcing her attention back to Roland. “Who?”

“That butler.”

“He’s here only temporarily.” She pursed her lips, wondering how she was to neutralize MacKinnon’s presence. She could no longer
ignore the fact that he must have been sent into her household to spy on her. Perhaps even Rumford wasn’t aware of his real identity. Could his nephew have been recruited by the government as a spy and not told his uncle? But that made no sense.

Moistening her lips, she told Roland about her butler’s injury.

The Frenchman rubbed his chin. “His nephew, eh?”

“How did he come upon you?”

“He came up behind me from the alley. Resourceful fellow.”

Céline puckered her brow. “Yes.” Searching her chef’s room, going out in the wee hours . . .

Roland waved a hand. “No matter. You may tell him I am a distant cousin bringing you word that a dear aunt in France is gravely ill, and I risked a crossing to bring you a message from her and to take one back.”

“Very well. Is she ill enough to warrant my return?” They had discussed the possibility that Céline might need to escape to France if her role were discovered.

He smiled. “Not at present. It is still much too dangerous to attempt a crossing. Too many British cutters ready to stop any French vessel they detect. But ‘Tante Bette’ will appreciate any word of comfort you send her.” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “I only pray she will last until my return. She is failing.”

Céline searched his face, wondering if he was referring now to the state of things in France. “Oh, dear. Is there anything to be done?”

“Not tonight, my dear. You may return to your party and perhaps write to her tomorrow.” He stood and bowed over her hand. “I shall bid you good night.” As he leaned over her hand, he whispered, “Meet me tonight after your guests have left, at the Boar and Rabbit. Is two o’clock sufficient time?”

It was their usual meeting place, although usually it was Gaspard who ventured out. “Better make it three before everything quiets down here.” Her mind considered the options. “Wait,” she whispered, touching his forearm. “I might be followed by my ‘resourceful’ butler.” She brought her face up to his ear and whispered some instructions.

He squeezed her hand and let it go, taking a step back. “I can see myself out. Do not trouble yourself.”

Before she could move, he had already crossed the room and opened the door. “Ah, my good man, I shall be on my way.”

MacKinnon was standing close to the door, which wasn’t unusual in itself, Céline told herself.

As he escorted Roland toward the front door, Céline rose and made her way to the foyer, waiting until MacKinnon had shut the door.

He cocked an eyebrow. “Is anything amiss?”

She clasped her hands, looking up in mute appeal. “I have just received some . . . disturbing news.”

“What is it—my lady?”

She drew out a breath. “Mr. de Fleury came to bring me word of a family member’s illness—an aunt of mine.” She sniffed, digging for her handkerchief. “He risked much to make the crossing.”

“I am sorry, my lady. Is it very serious?”

“Yes. I was quite close to her when I spent some time in Paris.” She moved away from him. “I must return to my guests. Thank you, Mr. MacKinnon, for alerting me to Mr. de Fleury’s visit. I will be in the drawing room if anyone else should call.”

“Very well, my lady.”

She climbed the stairs, feeling her butler’s gaze on her until she was out of sight. Had he believed her tale? She’d hardly been able to keep her thoughts straight with his eagle eyes homed in on her.

Now she must ensure that all went according to plan at the rendezvous with Roland. Céline entered the drawing room, her mind already planning the details for the meeting in the tavern after the ball.

If her butler was indeed someone planted in her house to spy on her, tonight would confirm it beyond a doubt.

Rees stood in the basement corridor just outside his door, his ears cocked for the slightest sound of movement. He would have to meet Bunting again tonight.

He hadn’t been able to hear what had transpired between Lady Wexham and the mysterious Frenchman this evening. He dismissed at once her tale of a sick aunt. It was too obvious a story. The whole visit had been odd to begin with.

The house had finally settled down for the evening. He knew it was almost three. The guests had not begun leaving until after one. Then the servants had been busy putting everything to rights. The drawing room still stood bare of most of its furniture, but they had swept the floors and tidied everything.

Rees and the footmen had finally locked up all the doors and checked the windows. He had heard the servants trudge up the back stairs to their rooms.

He had sat for some minutes in his own bedroom, fully dressed, though he longed to stretch out on his bed.

Had the Frenchman come to give Lady Wexham a message? How could he discover it? Lady Wexham had gone back to her ball and behaved like any hostess, continuing to circulate among her guests, rarely dancing and never stopping too long with any one person.

Rees froze, hearing a step on the stair above him.

Yes, someone, a female by the lightness of the tread, was coming down the main staircase.

After a few seconds, the footsteps continued. If he hadn’t been so alert, he would probably not have heard them.

A minute later he heard the front bolt being drawn and then the door opening.

Could Lady Wexham be leaving? At this hour? His heart thundering so he could barely make out anything more, he walked up the service stairs.

He reached the top in time to hear the front door close with a soft thud.

Giving the person only time to leave the immediate area, Rees hurried forward and opened the door a crack. Seeing and hearing nothing, he widened it and made his way up the steps to peer down the street.

He managed to make out a cloaked figure striding down one end. A second later, she turned the corner.

Was it Lady Wexham? Was she going to meet Monsieur de Fleury? Or, someone else? Without waiting to think things through, he slipped out, shutting the door behind him as silently as she had. He didn’t bother to hide himself as he rushed down the street, since she was already out of sight.

But as he turned the corner, he paused. She was walking rapidly eastward along a side street. He assessed the street, determining how to follow her without being detected. Thankfully, a mist had risen, and the sections of street between the street lamps were dark.

Once she was about a block ahead of him, he made his way after her, thankful for the soft pumps he wore as part of his butler’s uniform. Boots would have kept his feet drier but would have made too much sound against the pavement stones.

Instead of following a clear course, she kept turning, left then right as if in a zigzag pattern. She avoided the watchmen’s boxes. Rees finally realized she was heading toward Piccadilly. She frequently looked over her shoulder, so Rees had to stay a good block behind her and out of the orbs of the street lamps.

But once she reached Piccadilly, she stayed on it, continuing to head eastward. If she went much farther, she’d leave the West End and enter less savory neighborhoods.

His concern deepened. The normally heavily trafficked street was almost deserted. Only those with shady business were about now. Didn’t she realize how exposed and vulnerable she was, out by herself at this hour? How could the Frenchman send her out on so dangerous an assignation?

He fumed, his alarm and anger growing as she left the relative safety of Mayfair and skirted around Leicester Square. She scanned the area, as if aware of the dangers lurking in corners, and kept her pace up.

Once someone called out from the shadows, and she hurried on.

Rees wondered what he’d do if someone tried to molest her. Try his best to save her although he carried no weapon.

What he could do now was pray for her—and for himself.

His breath was coming fast and furious and still no signs of her slowing. They entered the darker and more dangerous area surrounding Covent Garden. The theater was long over, and the only activities remaining at this hour were women plying their nightly trade in alleyways and patrons staggering from disreputable gaming houses and seedy taverns.

A stray dog crossed his path, and the smell of rotting fruit and vegetables filled his nostrils as they neared Covent Garden market. The stalls were dark square silhouettes rising from the piazza, waiting for dawn to come to life again.

Rees’s quarry turned so abruptly down a narrow side street that he almost missed her. She stopped in front of a tavern and entered it. Rees waited outside for some minutes before approaching the heavy studded door, hardly believing Lady Wexham would come to such a place. He wished he’d thought to bring a cloak to draw up around his face. The night air was cool, but he was sweating from the long, brisk walk.

Uttering a quick prayer for guidance, he entered the taproom. The noise and smoke hit him like a heavy curtain. Thankfully, the room was poorly lit and still full of people. Knowing his height would draw attention, he quickly looked for an empty seat where he could conceal himself.

Only after wedging himself between two others on a rough-hewn bench did he allow himself to look more carefully around him. It was difficult to make out people in the murky light. He craned his neck to look into the farthest recesses of the room. Where had she gone? He didn’t dare stand up again. Had she gone into the back, he wondered, seeing a waitress slip through a doorway there.

“What’ll ye have?” A large-boned waitress stood beside him, wearing an apron smeared with soot and grease.

“A half pint of porter.”

She left him, and he continued his scrutiny of each customer’s face. The search only deepened his fear for Lady Wexham’s safety.

He jumped as a pewter tankard was plunked down in front of him. Quickly, he dug into his pocket for a coin.

At least now he would blend in better with the crowd, he thought as he brought the dark brew to his lips.

His gaze stopped then doubled back to a cloaked figure in a shadowy corner of the tavern. The person moved, and he caught the outline of a smooth cheek. Was it a lad or lady?

He continued staring over the rim of his tankard at the figure hunched over the dark table, growing more and more certain it was the same person he had followed across town.

He couldn’t help the unpleasant jolt at finding the beautifully attired and coifed Lady Wexham of the ballroom transformed into this . . . this woman sitting in a disreputable tavern, speaking with who knew what suspicious character. If it was the Frenchman—and who else could it be?—then Rees would have a hard time refuting the evidence before him.

It was only then he realized how much he had not wanted Lady Wexham to be a spy.

He tried to get a glimpse of her companion, but his view was blocked. He didn’t dare make himself too visible. He’d just have to be patient and wait until they got up to go. Meanwhile, he continued sipping his tankard slowly, keeping the brim of his hat low over his forehead.

He only had to wait a few minutes before the cloaked figure raised her hands and drew off the hood.

Rees sucked in his breath.

It was Valentine.

Céline planted her forearms on the tabletop, facing Roland. “Well? Did he come?”

Roland merely smiled and slid a tankard toward her. “Here, it will help take the chill off you.”

She fanned her face with her hand. “Refresh me, you mean. It was a long ride from Berkeley Square in a stuffy hackney.” Taking a sip, she focused on what was uppermost in her mind. “What happened earlier? Did Valentine spy anyone following her?”

Roland smiled. “Yes, she is quite certain your tall butler was on her heels. I did as you suggested and had someone come in my place as well.” His smile deepened. “I think they both found it a lark. She said she did as you instructed and kept her head covered until certain your man could see her.”

Céline sucked in her breath. Could MacKinnon really have followed her? Even now, she found it difficult to believe.

“You shall have to ask Valentine for details. I spoke to her but a moment. But she seemed vastly entertained.”

Céline could well imagine. Valentine had been waiting for her revenge from whatever perceived slight she had suffered at MacKinnon’s hand. Céline herself had not liked resorting to these tactics but had seen no alternative.