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Despite Rees’s efforts to distract himself from his cramped confines, the minutes stretched out. He heard nothing more beyond the thick walnut panels of the armoire.

His feet grew numb, then his fingertips from the strain of holding the door in place. Drops of perspiration began to course down his temple and trickle into one eye. He dared not move to wipe it away. The air grew thick and stuffy. He wondered idly if a person could be asphyxiated inside a wardrobe.

He imaged the headlines: “Lady’s Butler Found Dead in Her Walnut Armoire Among Her Petticoats.”

Don’t be so chickenhearted. It’s no worse than sleeping in the hold of a ship.
You
survived enough years of that
. Of course, he’d been
more than a decade younger and a few pounds lighter when he’d been in His Majesty’s navy.

Perhaps another maid had come in to turn down the bed and she’d be gone in a few minutes.

At the sound of the door to the dressing room opening, his body tensed anew, every sense on alert. A few footsteps followed by silence. The intruder must have stepped on the carpet.
Intruder?
Rees caught himself.
He
was the intruder.

A soft humming came through the crack in the door.

He knew that hum. He’d heard it before. Lady Wexham stood on the other side of the armoire’s doors, just inches from where he lay crammed like a sausage in a bun.

What was she doing home at this hour? Perhaps she’d forgotten something and returned to fetch it?

It didn’t make sense. Valentine was there to ensure that her mistress had everything she needed when she went out.

Or could it be that she was home for a reason that had nothing to do with her social life . . . but with something clandestine?

His heart began to pound as anticipation grew at the thought that perhaps this evening he’d uncover something tangible about Lady Wexham’s loyalties. If he could prove she was a French spy, he’d be done with this cursed assignment.

The next instant he pictured the sly look of triumph on the senior clerk’s face and realized he would get little credit for his discovery. His excitement faded, replaced by disgust at the depths his job had forced him to.

Playing a servant in a countess’s household just so his superior at the Foreign Office, young Alistair Oglethorpe, could boast of the accomplishment to the foreign secretary.

“Tsk!”

His senses back on high alert, he strained to hear more. Lady Wexham sounded vexed.

Wishing he could peer through the crack, he remained as still as stone, not moving so much as an eyelid.

“Drat!”

What was she doing?

Then footfalls again and silence.

Had she left? He waited, still not daring to move. His neck developed a crick from the angle it was bent. His feet ached from lack of circulation, and he was forced to shift them a fraction.

What seemed an eternity but was probably only several minutes later, the sound of two female voices neared the wardrobe.

“I do beg your pardon for getting you out of bed, but I find I can’t manage these stays myself.”

“Of course not, my lady, with all the lacing down the back.”

It was one of the young housemaids with the countess. He still didn’t have all of their names straight. Was it Virginia or Sally?

“I’ll undo it for you in a thrice.”

“Valentine’s not here and I really didn’t want to disturb anyone else.”

“It’s no bother at all, my lady. I went to bed because I didn’t expect you home. But I’d a’ waited up if I’d known you’d be home this early.”

“Indeed you shouldn’t have, since there was no way for you to have known I couldn’t abide the crush at Princess Esterhazy’s.” There was wry amusement in Lady Wexham’s tone.

A few seconds later, the maid spoke again. “There you go, my lady.”

“Thank you,” the countess breathed out in obvious relief.

“Is there anything else you need, ma’am?”

“I hate to be a bother, but perhaps some tea. I have a bit of a headache. I daresay it’s this wretched fog. That’s really why I came back so early.”

The maid clucked her tongue. “I’m sorry you’re feeling poorly. You do look a mite pale. I’ll fetch you that tea straightaway.”

The maid’s voice came from different distances as if she were moving
around. He imagined she was putting things away. As long as she didn’t decide to put her mistress’s gown in the wardrobe . . .

“I think one of those tisanes would be better for me. Perhaps a chamomile?”

“Very well, my lady. There you go, you’ll probably feel a lot more comfortable in your nightgown.”

“Oh yes, much, thank you, Virginia. You’re a dear.”

So it was Virginia who had responded to the lady’s summons
.

“Let me get your wrap.”

“There is no need. I am going right to bed as soon as I wash my face and clean my teeth.”

“When I come back, I’ll brush out your hair, my lady.”

“Thank you, but I can manage that myself tonight.”

“Very well, I’ll return in a moment.”

Rees waited, expecting the door to the wardrobe to be thrust from his fingertips at any moment. But all he heard was water poured from the pitcher and then some splashing.

Again, he waited what seemed an age before he heard the maid’s voice. “I’ve put a mug beside your bed.” Her voice moved away from him. “Here, let me plait your hair.”

Lady Wexham said through a yawn, “No, I shan’t bother tonight.”

“Oh, my lady, are you certain? It’ll take me only a moment.”

“That’s quite all right. It’s only for tonight.”

“If you’re certain, my lady.” The maid sounded doubtful.

Rees pictured Lady Wexham’s chestnut locks, which she usually wore coiled or braided above her head with shorter curls left loose around her face as was the fashion. How long would it fall? At least to her waist, he calculated. He forced such unseemly thoughts from his mind.

“I’m certain, Virginia.” Lady Wexham’s voice was firm. “I shall drink the tisane you were such a dear to prepare for me at this hour.”

“Very well, my lady.”

Suddenly Rees heard Virginia’s voice right outside the wardrobe door. “Let me know if you should need anything else.”

“Oh, don’t bother with those. Valentine will tidy everything in the morning.”

“I’ll just put this gown away, my lady.”

Rees’s heart thudded in his chest loudly enough to vibrate the door panels. Would she notice that the door was not latched?

“Just drape it across the chair for now. Valentine will have a fit if things are not done precisely to her liking. Now, you run along to your own bed. It will be light soon enough.”

“Very well, my lady. Good night then, if you are sure you don’t require anything more.”

“Nothing more tonight. Thank you.”

The voices faded from the room.

Rees counted a full minute in his head before allowing his body to relax the least bit.

Now, to find a way out of this room. There was only the door through Lady Wexham’s bedroom. How long would it take for her to drink her tea and fall asleep?

Clearly, he was in for a long wait yet. He daren’t tiptoe through her room until she was in a deep slumber.

Praying that chamomile tea had sedative properties, Rees eased his cramped feet and loosened his hold on the door. He flexed his fingers to restore feeling to them.

How long he lay curled up in the armoire, he had no idea. He must have dozed eventually. He awoke with a start, dreaming of something. He strove to remember, and it came back to him. He’d been in a coffin, everything completely black before his eyes.

He blinked, realizing just as in the dream, he couldn’t see a thing. Then he remembered where he was and why.

Hearing nothing, he pushed open one of the wardrobe doors a few inches. More darkness and stillness greeted him, so he pushed it a little farther.

Seeing no light from the other room, he dared to open the other door all the way and stretch his legs out of the wardrobe. Immediately pins and needles shot through his feet.

He had to wait a moment for the sensation to ease. Then he set his candle on the floor and eased his body out of the confining shelf space the rest of the way.

He paused, cocking his ear. Still nothing. The countess must have fallen asleep.

He crouched on his hands and knees, rolling his head around to ease the kinks from his neck and shoulders. Then he attempted to put some semblance of order to the shelf he had lain in for some hours. What would Valentine think when she saw the rumpled clothing? Would she ask her mistress about it? He tried to fold the garments in the dark and pile them atop one another.

Then he stood, picking up his candle and its holder and placing them in his pocket. Pausing again to listen, he carefully closed the doors, quietly securing them.

His eyes, adjusted to the dark, made out the shadowy space of the open door to the bedroom. Feeling in front of him with his outstretched arms, he made his way there step by hesitant step. His feet made no sound on the carpet, but when he reached an area of floorboard right before the door, he slowed his pace even more.

Finally, he was through the door. Now, the faint sounds of even breathing came to him. The curtains around the wide, four-poster bed had been drawn, hiding its occupant.

Rees reached another carpet and was able to walk more easily until reaching floorboards again as he neared the door to the hallway. Two steps later, a loud creak sounded under his sole. It reverberated in the still night. He held his breath, not moving a muscle.

Lady Wexham didn’t stir.

Rees shifted his weight to his other foot and slowly eased his first foot—heel, ball, toe—off the noisy floorboard, expecting another creak.

“You mistake me, sir.”

Rees froze, turning halfway and peering at the shadowy bed.

Lady Wexham mumbled something in French, and he realized she was talking in her sleep. Her bedclothes rustled, and she sighed.

Rees waited, counting the seconds until deeming her fully asleep.

He reached the door with no further creaks and paused, his hand wrapped around the brass knob. He turned it a fraction. It gave easily. Completing the revolution, he pushed the door open a crack. A second later, he widened it just enough to ease his body through.

He was in the corridor. A faint light from a street lamp at the front of the house shone through the window at that end of the hallway. He shut the door behind him, taking extra care in turning the knob back to its original position. Just the faintest “click” signaled it was fully closed.

He allowed himself to rest a moment against the hallway wall and wipe his brow with his hand, not daring yet to grope for his handkerchief. Time enough when he reached his room below stairs.

The night had proved fruitless. He hadn’t been able to complete his search of Lady Wexham’s rooms, and who knew when he’d be given another opportunity. Valentine guarded her mistress’s rooms like a jail keeper. Tonight had been unusual for them both to be out. If Lady Wexham had anything to hide, the likeliest place would be in her private quarters.

If the maid had opened the wardrobe this evening, how would he have explained his tall form huddled on the bottom shelf? His body shuddered.

He’d have to be more careful. He couldn’t afford to be suspected by anyone of the household, least of all by its mistress. Everything depended on her believing him to be nothing but a butler.

2

C
éline’s headache was completely gone by morning. She blinked at the clock on her night table. Seven o’clock. She must indeed have fallen asleep right away to be up so early.

Yawning and stretching her arms above her head, she thought about the day ahead. Her best ideas came upon just awakening, so she burrowed back among the pillows and bolsters, reveling in that feeling of relaxation and well-being after a sound night’s sleep.

Her lips twisted at the thought of the previous evening. First a long dinner, then a rout. For engagements which promised brilliant company and conversation over the table and in the drawing room, each had proved sadly flat. When was it that each London season had begun to blur into the preceding one?

Perhaps that’s why she’d agreed to Roland de Fleury’s request.

She punched at one of her pillows, not wanting to think about that, preferring instead to berate the English.

They tried so hard to surpass their rivals across the Channel in thought and manners, but all they succeeded in doing was transforming the dining table into a feeding trough, and as for conversation—she wrinkled her nose.
On-dits
and innuendos instead of stimulating discussion. What did they know of salons where not only the best and brightest convened to debate ideas, but public policy was even
shaped? Céline had grown up on her mother’s tales of the brilliant company gathered in those Parisian parlors.

Holland House was the closest the British came to the French salons of Madame Necker, Madame de Roland, and Sophie de Condorcet. But it was all the way out in Kensington. Paris boasted its best literary and political salons in its heart. Even the Terror had not succeeded in closing down this avenue for the exchange of ideas.

She sat up in bed and tugged on the bell pull. It was likely time for another dinner party. It had been over a fortnight since her last, what with poor Mr. Rumford injuring himself and sending his nephew as replacement butler. She hadn’t dared a dinner party with an untried butler.

In the intervening time, she’d scarcely heard any news worth passing along to Roland. Perhaps it was time to stir the pot and see if anything rose to the top. By gathering a select company of politicians, journalists, and artists around a dinner table, one never knew what one might hear.

Céline studied her nails, wondering whether to have Valentine buff them again. The soft peach color and shine of the oil rubbed into them was already fading, and the pretty almond shape could certainly use a bit of reshaping.