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Rees had never been to Versailles but imagined this as a scaled-down version from what he had read of it.

His thoughts returned to what he’d gleaned from Lady Wexham. Most of all, they focused on one remark of hers. She seemed no lover of Bonaparte. Most remarkable of all, she’d posed the question, what if the emperor had never been?

The more he mulled over her words, the more they sounded like that most appalling of French political factions, the Jacobins. His jaw tightened at the thought of those revolutionaries who had torn down all the traditions of France, killing their own king and sending all who disagreed with them to the guillotine.

But he could hardly believe it of Lady Wexham, whose own father had been sentenced by those radicals.

She and her mother had had to flee France, leaving their home and lands behind to live as impoverished immigrants in a strange land.

He sighed, reaching the main house. It was past time to put aside personal thoughts of Lady Wexham and focus on relaying this information to Bunting.

Rees entered one of the side wings of Hartwell House and headed to the storage room from where he had borrowed the fishing pole. It was filled with all sorts of sporting and hunting equipment, boots, umbrellas, and croquet sets, everything jumbled and covered with dust.

He set the pole on a rack with all the others, the Scripture “be not unequally yoked with unbelievers” flitting through his mind. He had no idea what Lady Wexham’s spiritual beliefs were, but he had seen no evidence of her attending church while in London.

He knelt down to put away his fishhook in a box of tackle. Looking at an array of fishing lures, he stiffened when he heard a masculine voice just outside the door.

“I am watching her.”

The words were in French. Without thinking, Rees ducked lower, crouching behind a stack of crates.

The men’s footsteps sounded entering the room. “Céline Wexham? Do you think that is necessary?”

Rees’s heart began to pound.

“I don’t trust her.”

He tried to place the soft-spoken tone.

The other masculine voice protested. “But she is one of Louis’s favorites. She is Sophie’s daughter! There is no more loyal subject. No, this time you’ve let your suspicious nature run away with you.”

“We shall see.” The man’s tone remained cool.

Since their voices indicated they stood on the other side of the small room, Rees dared inch forward around the crates. The two gentlemen were facing a window.

Monsieur de la Roche. The other one, a short, stout man in a dark blue frock coat, he didn’t immediately recognize. He must be a visitor. Rees eased back behind the crates.

The shorter man spoke. “Has she done anything to warrant your distrust?”

“Perhaps. What I am certain of is we are reaching a critical time and must not allow any information to leak out. We cannot let anyone stand in our way. Many do not want to see the House of Bourbon reascend the throne.”

The other man sighed. “A pity the lovely Céline should prove a traitor to our cause.”

“Whether or not a pity, she must not be allowed to hinder it. I will continue watching her, and if she should prove detrimental, she will be stopped.”

The words sent a chill down Rees’s spine.

The men turned and left the room.

As the echoes of their footsteps faded, Rees eased back on his haunches, his heartbeat gradually easing.

What was Lady Wexham involved in? Didn’t she realize the danger?

An image of her flashed into his mind—her smiling face, those golden eyes alight with amusement as the sunlight shone on her chestnut locks.

His chest constricted at the thought of anything evil befalling her.

It couldn’t be possible.

He clenched his hands.

He couldn’t allow it.

Not only would he have to shadow her now to watch her movements.

He must shadow her to protect her.

12

C
éline wandered through the salons, feeling restless after dinner. She entered the card room, her eyes scanning the various tables for her mother.

She felt an immediate sense of ease at the sight of Mr. MacKinnon standing a few feet behind her. Ever since she had asked him to look after her mother, her mother had left the tables at a decent hour.

“
Ma chérie
, what a lovely man your new butler is.
Que beau! Que large! Que gracieux!
” her mother had told her the day after meeting MacKinnon.

Céline forced a careless laugh at her mother’s raptures. “Yes, he cuts quite a handsome figure.”

“You must find a way to keep him when your old butler returns.” She wagged a finger at Céline. “Perhaps I can keep him on here.” She winked at her daughter. “If you would give me an allowance for a manservant.”

“I will gladly do so, but I fear MacKinnon is merely on loan to me. He has his own situation, which I believe he is quite satisfied with.” A position she feared had something to do with the Home Office.

Now, she observed the two. Her mother turned to say something to MacKinnon, and he bent toward her, nodding his head slightly, his demeanor looking as if he took everything she said with utmost absorption.

She must remember to do something for him for being so thoughtful to her mother. She mentally shook her head, reminding herself that he was no servant and likely would not be with her household long. The question was—who would have the upper hand when he left?

She approached her mother’s table, nodding to the company who greeted her cheerfully. Lastly, she glanced at MacKinnon, with a brief smile and nod.

Old Monsieur Villiers looked up from his hand. “
Ma chère
Céline, what do you think?”

She glanced at his cards. “Hm.
Maman
, you shall have to have a care.”

Her mother tossed her powdered curls. “Bah, he is bluffing. I know all his tricks.”

Céline moved to stand beside MacKinnon, knowing she mustn’t single him out any more than any of her servants, yet feeling drawn to him as an animal to a lure. “I hope this is not too tedious for you.”

“Not at all. Lady de Beaumont will play only a hand or two more and then ask me to promenade her on the terrace.”

“Thank goodness she is no longer playing faro.”

“Yes. She was persuaded to stick to quadrille with these fine gentlemen,” he murmured with an indication toward the pensioners seated at the table with her.

She dared glance at him under her lashes. “I am sure you are responsible for that. I can only offer you my deepest gratitude.”

He kept his eyes on the card players. “She was convinced of the healthful benefits of a promenade on the terrace before retiring.”

She swallowed a laugh at his acumen. “Let us hope the weather remains clear.”

“Yes.” His tone echoed the amusement in her own. “I have not yet thought what to do if it should rain.”

“Oh, there are miles of galleries you can stroll.”

He chuckled.

She quickly scanned the room to make sure no one had noticed
the enjoyment they were exhibiting in their conversation. She caught sight of Monsieur de la Roche, who had looked up from his hand of cards across the room.

Quickly, she erased her smile and fixed her gaze on her mother. “I do thank you for watching out for my mother. You have eased my mind immensely.”

“It is my pleasure.” They kept their tones low as if by mutual consent.

Knowing she must soon excuse herself and move on, she nevertheless added, “My mother is figuring out a way to have you stay on at Hartwell when we leave.”

“I am perfectly happy where I am.”

At the Home Office or in her household? Despite her realization that it must be the former, she couldn’t help the gratification that spread through her at his simple words. Once again, she felt they were talking on two different levels. “That is what I told her,” she answered lightly, although her heart was thumping.

“Do you have any idea when you are returning to London?”

She glanced at him, but he continued looking forward. “Not as yet.” She moistened her lips. “Are you anxious to return to town?”

“I was merely enquiring”—he cleared his throat—“to be able to inform the servants—”

Was he feeling as nervous as she, as if they were both walking a tightrope yet neither would welcome the safety of the net below? With reluctance she took a step away from him. “Well, I shall not distract you any longer. I just wanted to thank you—for your patience with my mother.” She lifted her gaze to his. “Good evening.”

His gray eyes locked with hers and he nodded once. “There is no need . . . my lady.”

She inclined her head in response.

Assuming a lighthearted tone, she bid her mother and her cronies good night and moved to another table as if she hadn’t a care in the world. As she greeted another old lady, she allowed herself to search for Monsieur de la Roche.

He was playing to the trick. As if sensing her gaze, he looked up just as he laid down his card and lifted a brow. She nodded, forcing a stiff smile before turning away.

She left the card room, keeping her pace slow, though she felt more than one person’s attention directed toward her.

MacKinnon and de la Roche? And other potential enemies?

Later in the evening, she made her way to the terrace, telling herself it was not to catch a glimpse of MacKinnon accompanying her mother.

But there was no sight of him or her mother. They must have gone up. She shook aside her disappointment.

She walked the terrace’s wide perimeter. She stopped and chatted with the few individuals who still lingered there. It was almost midnight, so most had retired for the evening.

Alone again, she hugged herself, fighting disappointment as she leaned against the balustrade. The sculptures and clipped bushes were shadowy figures between the remaining torchlights.

“Céline?” The whisper was so low, she mistook it at first for the sound of the breeze against her ears. “Say nothing.” It was not her imagination. “Just listen.”

She stood as still as the statuary, not daring to gaze downward to where she thought the voice came from.

“Meet me at the temple of Apollo in one hour.”

She remained there several more minutes, but the voice came no more. Finally, she dared step away, wrapping her shawl more securely around herself to keep from shaking.

She spent the intervening hour in her room, alternately pacing and standing lost in thought, gazing out at the stars. Finally, slipping into a dark gown and shawl, she was ready.

“Be careful,” Valentine admonished her. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“Better not.” She gave a nervous laugh. “If I do not return within the hour, you know where I am. It is likely Roland, though I could not recognize the voice.”

Valentine planted a hand on her hip. “And if it is not?”

Pushing down her fears, Céline shrugged. “I shall soon see.”

Before Valentine could protest further, Céline exited the room. No one was about. She went quickly down the back stairs, checking behind her often to make sure she was not being observed or followed.

But the house was silent. She slipped out a side entrance. The night air felt cool against her skin. The gravel path beneath her slippers sounded loud to her ears, so she left it and walked alongside on the grass, using the light-colored gravel to help guide her way. Her slippers were soon wet with the dew.

As her eyes became accustomed to the dark, she was able to make her way more easily. There was a scant half-moon, so the night offered some illumination. She crossed the formal gardens, staying away from the path with its torchlight. The temple in question was situated high on a hill, offering a vista of the entire estate.

She continued glancing behind her but saw nothing. She doubted anyone was still up. There were only a few lights visible behind the curtained windows on the upper floors of the mansion. But most were dark, their inhabitants long since in bed.

Finally, she reached the temple with its domed roof and columns encircling it. Its white stonework shone like a beacon in the night.

Having half run the last portion, she was out of breath by the time she entered its arched doorway. She turned around, her eyes scanning the area, but nothing moved.

She was alone. She shivered, feeling vulnerable and exposed. The temple was surrounded by shrubbery, dark and menacing. She moved farther into the temple, debating whether she should wait outside, perhaps hide herself in the shrubbery. She was about to do so when a shadow detached itself from behind one of the slim columns and approached her.

Her heart pumping furiously, she waited, clutching her shawl tightly around herself.

When the man was close enough to identify, she almost collapsed with relief. “Roland.”

“Yes,” he said, in as low a whisper as he had used on the terrace. “I thought it best to come myself. We can trust no one.”

She nodded.

He took her by the arm and led her back outside to an area of shrubbery. “What can you tell me of things here?”

Quickly, she collected her thoughts and reported everything she’d heard since she’d arrived.

He nodded once or twice. When she ended, he said only, “Good.”

He took a step away. “Is that all?” she asked, feeling as if she were being abandoned.

“Yes. I shall convey your findings to France.” He suddenly reached up and squeezed her shoulder. “I will return in another few nights. Is there any evening activity planned, where everyone will be distracted?”

She thought quickly. “There is a masquerade three nights hence.”

“Perfect. I will meet you”—he pointed toward some shrubbery across the temple—“there by the highest yew. It’s better we stay out of sight that night. This same time.”

“Very well.”

When she turned to look, he was gone.

Rees stood behind a tree and watched as Lady Wexham left the shrubbery and made her way back to the house, almost running.

He continued watching to make sure no one else had followed her. Then he waited until sure her contact had gone. Slowly, he made his own way back to Hartwell House, his heart heavy.