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If Lady Wexham had meant to tie his hands, she had done an effective job by asking him to look after her mother. After dinner, he had to position himself near her card table. It was a wonderful vantage for overhearing their talk—useful if it weren’t a foursome of older persons who spent the hours bickering over their play or reminiscing about their life in France.

So far he had not had to report Madame de Beaumont to her daughter. Céline’s mother had had a streak of luck, walking off with a tidy sum each evening. She’d taken a fancy to him, which helped him convince her to leave the tables while her luck held.

He had made a habit of patrolling the grounds at night, once the dinner was over. This was usually not until very late, since first he usually accompanied Madame de Beaumont for a turn or two the length of the terrace. He had seen little of Lady Wexham herself, unless it was on the terrace with a guest or guests, but for all he could make out, it was in lighthearted conversation.

What was left for him, if he did not complete this assignment with satisfactory results?

He could always advertise as a butler.

The bitter jest did nothing to alleviate his pessimistic thoughts.

Without a promotion, he could never hope to have a career on the diplomatic field.

His thoughts turned to Jessamine. Without a job with prospects, he would never be able to marry. Another dead end faced him, and he had no inkling of which way to turn or what was the answer.

He had spent hours sitting on the banks of the creek, walking or riding the fields and forest, his thoughts going around and around, praying for direction, and all he felt was he must wait.

Wait and see things through, even when he saw nothing good ahead.

Céline guided her mare through the sparse trees of a wooded area along the stream. She had finally escaped the rest of the company and gone on a ride by herself.

The trees were in full leaf, though they retained the tender green color of spring, and the ground was soft and moist from the rains.

She wondered when and how she would be approached by Roland.

She had plenty to tell him, although she didn’t know how much was accurate or even useful. The Comte and those closest to him spent their days planning their triumphant return to Paris. Louis trusted her because both her parents came from long and noble lines and he had known them in France.

She felt no qualms about informing on what went on at Hartwell. She didn’t consider it part of the British government but of the old French regime. Only England and the other Allies would wield power on the Continent once Napoleon fell. Louis depended completely on their sovereigns, particularly England’s, to obtain the throne in Paris.

Although fond of him, Céline thought the Comte would be disastrous for France. He really had no right to the throne. He’d declared
himself the regent before ever his brother or the crown prince had been executed, and had been jockeying ever since to claim the title of king.

But more importantly, it would be a step back for France. Being at Hartwell House convinced her that to return to the old ways, after so much sacrifice and bloodshed to do away with the injustices of the
ancien régime
, would be France’s death knell
.

Bonaparte had turned into nothing but a despot, but at least he had kept much of what the Directory had voted into law.

Céline sighed, wondering what was to become of France, and what, if any, role she might have. Would she end her days in London, on the endless round of social calls, living in town during the season, traveling about from country house to country house in the warm months and hunting season, no longer able to claim the earl’s country seat as her own, since the new heir had taken occupancy? Or worse, would she end hanging from a noose?

Pushing aside the morbid thought, she made an effort to take in the lovely scenery.

She brought a hand up to shade her eyes, detecting someone fishing along the bank of the stream. Perhaps it was MacKinnon. She had given him permission. But the low-crowned, wide-brimmed hat shaded his features.

Feeling an unaccountable lightening in her spirit, she nudged her mare in his direction.

She smiled when he looked up, enjoying the sight of someone completely at ease in his surroundings. “Good afternoon.” How different he appeared from the dignified butler—and yet how well—in his country buckskins, high boots, and dark blue jacket.

He made as if to get up, and she motioned him back. “Stay put, you might disturb the fish.” Without giving him a chance to react, she slid off her horse and tossed the reins over the saddle. “Catch anything?”

“No, nothing today, but I have caught some carp on other occasions, which has made me popular with the chef.”

She found a nearby rock and decided to join him awhile, telling
herself this was a good time to discover a little more about him. She ignored her quickened pulse at his proximity in this more relaxed setting away from everyone.

Seeing her intent, he again began to stand. “Here, let me put my jacket on the rock if you are to sit.”

“No, please don’t bother. It’s perfectly clean.” She demonstrated by removing a glove and dusting its surface with her bare hand. Settling upon it, she pretended to enjoy the scenery as she decided how best to proceed.

They sat in silence as he resumed fishing.

“How is your uncle?”

The question brought no reaction. MacKinnon continued looking out at the water, the long fishing pole in his hands. “He is well.”

“Does he say when he will be back?”

His gaze flickered to hers. “He is anxious to come back. Perhaps in a fortnight.”

Instead of relief, Céline felt an instant of alarm at the thought that MacKinnon would leave her household so soon. “Please tell him not to fret . . . a man his age . . . it takes more time for bones to knit. There is no need to rush things.” She smiled, slowing her words. “You must reassure him that his nephew is filling his shoes splendidly.”

“I thank you, my lady. I must confess I was . . . nervous of taking over his position, albeit temporarily.” He focused on the cane pole as he spoke.

She removed her other glove and set the two on her lap. “Well, you have done an excellent job.” After a pause, she continued. “Are you happy here at Hartwell?”

“Yes.” Was it her imagination or was there a wariness in his tone?

“I’m glad of that,” she repeated, thumping her gloves against her knee. She knew her emerald-green riding habit suited her. What did he think of her appearance? Oh, dear, what a silly thought. To hide her confusion, she concentrated on her gloves, folding them together as she cast about for another line of questioning. “Did you always wish to go into service?”

He regarded her sidelong. “Why do you ask?”

She eyed the length of him, her lips pursed. “You don’t strike me as a butler.”

He said nothing, continuing to watch her in that steady way he had.

“I mean, you perform the duties flawlessly, don’t misunderstand me. It’s just that you seem . . . how shall I put it—” She brought a finger to her lips. “More than a butler? Your speech is refined, for one thing.” Her lips curled up in a smile. “You could pass for a gentleman.”

Something flickered in his gray eyes. “I had good teachers.”

She cocked an eyebrow, wondering if he would be forthcoming with more personal information. “Did you?”

“I mean those above me always corrected my speech,” he hastened to add. “I think my mother did wish me to do more. She always admonished me to . . . to emulate my betters.”

She tried to picture what kind of mother he had had. “She must be a remarkable woman. She was also in service?”

“Yes.” Before she could ask him something more about his relations, he said, “I was not always in service.” His voice was low, as if the words were dragged out of him against his will.

“I knew it!” She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her excitement rekindled. “What else have you done?”

“I was in His Majesty’s navy as a youth.”

“How romantic.” A sailor. “Were you very young?”

He shrugged. “Fifteen—not so very.”

“Did you fight under Nelson?”

He gave a brief nod of his chin.

She was more intrigued than ever. “How utterly fascinating. Tell me what he was like.”

His gaze strayed beyond the water, as if he were picturing the admiral. “He was a brave commander, utterly fearless. His men would trust him in any battle, no matter how outnumbered we seemed at the outset.”

She nodded. “I met him in London once during my first season. He was being fêted by all the
ton
after his victory on the Nile. But he
had eyes only for Emma Hamilton. Such a dashing figure he cut, even with the loss of an arm and eye.”

When MacKinnon said nothing more, she prodded gently, “But you didn’t continue in the navy?”

She waited several seconds.

“I was wounded.”

She drew in a breath. “Dear me, was it serious?”

“Serious enough.” After a moment he added, “I was some months recovering.”

“Were you discharged?”

He nodded.

“Was that when you became a footman? Was there nothing else to do?”

He focused once more on the fishing pole. “My mother needed me home by then.”

“Were you her only son?”

“Yes.”

Her curiosity was growing. “Do you have any sisters?”

His answer seemed long in coming. “One.”

“How nice that must be,” she said wistfully.

“Are you an only child?” He looked at her now and she felt the tables turned on her, as if in that moment she would tell him anything he wished to know. “Yes.” The word came out a whisper.

He looked away, and she could breathe again. “Forgive my impertinence.” His butler tone was back.

“There is nothing to forgive.”

He shrugged again. “I was only a seaman. During the peace, there was no hope for advancement. My father, who was in service as a groom, found me a position as footman at Telford House, where I have been ever since.”

Disappointment surged in her breast. When had his words become a fabrication? How much was truth? Was any of it? “It must not have been easy after a life at sea . . . to be bound to one place, one household.”

“Not so very different. A ship is a confined space, and the discipline,
by consequence, very rigid, even harsh at times.” He shrugged again. “Life on a large estate in the country offers certain benefits as well.” His tone was expressionless.

“Yes, that is so.” She bit her lip, wondering how to get him to tell her more. “If you had been born in France, you would have achieved something greater, perhaps even a position in government.”

“If I hadn’t been conscripted into Bonaparte’s war machine.”

Well, she could see he was British to the core, judging Napoleon as only a monster. She sobered, remembering Stéphane’s untimely death. “Yes, that is so. Likely you would have been killed on the battlefield.”

Again, there was silence. A cricket chirped around them.

“Do you miss France?”

Was he going to ferret out whether she was a Bonapartist? She took her time responding, rubbing at the stone she sat upon. “It has been so long since I left. I was only a child.” She shook her head with a smile. “So, no, I do not miss France day by day. I consider myself British in many ways.”

“Would you go back now, if not for the war?”

When had her interrogation been taken over by him? She was more amused than alarmed. There was an underlying force to the man, and she wished to pursue whatever game they were playing. “For a visit, I would undoubtedly go.” She sighed, letting her gaze drift over the dark water. “Though I dread what I would find.”

At the question in his eyes, she explained. “The war has undoubtedly devastated the country, but it has survived much in its long history. I know it will recover.” She smiled. “Yes, I should like to visit it again. And, of course, Paris is a beautiful city. Very different from London. Have you never been?”

He shook his head. “We blockaded many French ports.”

“The British navy certainly wreaked havoc on the French.”

“If Bonaparte hadn’t been so unreasonable in banning all trade . . .”

“It is a pity he came when he did. Who knows where France might be today had she been allowed to develop as a . . . republic.” She had
to tread carefully or he would suspect her loyalties. “There might have been a chance for footmen to become statesmen . . . and thousands of young men’s lives would have been spared.”

Their eyes met. “Yes, it is a pity . . . But then France might have continued in her extreme Jacobinism.”

“My father was a victim of the Terror,” she said softly.

“I’m sorry.”

In that moment she thought she read sympathy in his eyes but was no longer sure what was real and what was part of his masquerade. If he was indeed a spy, he undoubtedly knew everything about her past. It would be easy enough to feign the appropriate emotion.

Why was there this yearning in her heart for something genuine and honest from him?

Rees walked back from the stream, carrying his fishing pole, unmindful of the vegetation around him, his thoughts filled with his encounter with Lady Wexham.

The woman fascinated him more than ever. What other highborn lady would spend an hour talking with a servant? Was it because she was indeed a French Republican, seeing no class difference between the two—or was it that she knew he was no butler? More likely the latter.

His hand clenched around the fishing pole. He had been foolish to share those bits and pieces of his past, interweaving the truth with fabrication. It was easy to tell himself she’d ensnared him with the sympathetic look in those darkly fringed eyes. She’d shown herself such an attentive listener that he’d wanted to tell her more about himself—the real him, not a man pretending to have been raised as a servant. Vain, foolish man! Was she playing with him as a cat with a mouse?

At least he’d stopped himself before revealing his time in the French prison.

He neared the various outbuildings surrounding Hartwell House. Many of the impoverished émigrés living on the count’s generosity had been permitted by him to convert the outbuildings into shops
of all kinds, from artisanal specialties like lace making and painted porcelain vases to more practical businesses like a bakery and pastry shop to serve the main house.