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At least de la Roche had not seen her. He felt a vast sense of relief at that. But for how long would she be able to elude him? She was playing a dangerous game. The British were suspicious of her, and now the royalist French as well.

Where would she be safe?

He caught himself.

Safe.

When had his objective gone from uncovering her clandestine activities to protecting her from her enemies?

Céline sat on a blanket on the grass, holding a parasol against the sun. A group of the émigrés was picnicking on the south lawn of Hartwell House.

“My lady, have some more champagne.” Monsieur de la Roche lifted the bottle and poured some into her glass. “It will put the bloom back in your cheek.”

She glanced at him. There was something about him that repulsed her. Perhaps the way there seemed to be no spare flesh on his bones. “Do I look sickly?”

His pale eyes flickered over her. “A bit peaked, perhaps. Too many late nights, eh?”

She kept her smile in place. What was he implying? “Here? If you think midnight late, you have been away from London far too long.”

His lips stretched in what she could only interpret as a semblance of a smile. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“What think you of Wellington’s chances now that he has reentered Spain?”

“I know little of military matters, monsieur.” Why was he so close these days? It seemed she couldn’t make a move without finding him at her heels like a lapdog.

“I think you are a very intelligent woman. Your salons are well-known beyond London.”

She shrugged. “The secret of a successful salon is to invite people more intelligent than oneself and serve good food and drink.”

He chuckled, a dry, barely audible sound, and raised his glass. “I drink to it.”

She took a sip from her glass in order to have an excuse to look away from him. The champagne tickling her throat, she let her gaze sweep the company. Tables laden with food had been set up at one
end of the lawn and blankets and rugs laid on the grass. Waiters went about serving the guests. She spotted MacKinnon bending to offer her mother something from a platter.

With effort, she turned her attention away from him.

The picnic was set up near the same stream where she’d sat beside MacKinnon but closer to the house. Here the waterway was wider and a pretty oriental-style bridge spanned it. A group of the children—children born and brought up in England by their émigré parents—was standing on the bridge, gazing downward. Others were running around the lawn, their French governesses trying to keep them in order.

Would they grow up as she had, torn in her loyalties between two countries? Or were they thoroughly British? She heard a mixture of English and French floating over to her from their laughing voices. A string quartet playing in the background vied with their childish shouts.

In truth, she found it difficult to sit at ease this afternoon and pretend to have no other thought in her mind but sampling the lobster mousse and lemon ice. Her thoughts were on Hartwell House. She had returned from her early morning ride to find a messenger from London for the Comte.

She had gleaned from a gentleman-in-waiting that the courier came directly from the prime minister’s office.

What could be so crucial to bring someone all the way from London to Louis? She must find a way to discover what communiqué the messenger brought.

She tapped a finger against the side of her glass in time to the quartet.

“A strawberry, my dear lady?”

“I beg—” She turned to find a plump strawberry almost at her mouth. She took the fork from de la Roche, not allowing him to feed her and careful not to brush her hand against his. “Thank you.”

“The first of the season.”

She bit down on its juicy, tender flesh. “Delicious.”

As she savored the fruit, her mind went back to her problem. The
Comte rarely left his chambers since he suffered from gout so badly. But she’d heard he was following a rigorous diet in order to be well enough to attend the masquerade.

The
bal masqué
would be ideal. Everyone would be attending, including the servants. It would give her the opportunity to don a disguise as well.

She had planned on dressing as a simple shepherdess, but now she considered something that would hide her identity more thoroughly. It would have to transform her and not hinder her movement. She would have to find a way to enter the Comte’s private study and leave quickly.

“Lady Wexham, could you tell us who makes your gowns?”

Céline shook herself out of her absorption. Two young ladies, who were sisters, had approached her blanket. Daughters of émigrés, they were younger than Céline by a decade at least. She felt a twinge of compassion for them. They were of an age to have their first season in London, but their parents probably could not afford to give them one.

“Certainly. Come, have a seat.” She patted the place beside her, relieved to have an excuse to end her exchange with de la Roche. “I have a very clever Frenchwoman who makes my gowns. She is the envy of all London but is very selective of whom she takes on.”

“Yours are so pretty and so different from what we are forced to wear.”

She eyed their white muslin gowns identical except for the color of the sash.

“Your gown is of such a rich hue and such a striking pattern! May I touch it, please, madame?”

“Certainly.” She smiled, holding out a length of her skirt, glad to see that de la Roche had moved off. “This is turkey red print. Madame Delantre assures me it is all the crack.”

“It is so vivid.”

They discussed the merits of embroidered muslin to the newer roller printed cottons. Céline’s mind returned to the dilemma of getting hold of the courier’s message to the Comte.

Shouts from the stream jolted them from their conversation.

“He’s fallen in! Jacomo has fallen in!” A group of children jumped up and down on the bridge, pointing to the water.

Céline stood at once, peering toward the stream. She didn’t think it was too deep. Still, if it was a child who didn’t know how to swim, it could prove fatal.

She spotted MacKinnon at the edge of the grassy bank. He’d stripped off his jacket and boots and was already splashing into the water. In seconds it was over his waist, so it was deeper than she had supposed.

He swam to the center and reached the boy, whose arms were flailing about as his head bobbed in and out of the water. MacKinnon grasped the boy under his arms and hauled him out. They reached the edge of the stream to cheers from the onlookers who crowded around its grassy bank.

Dripping wet, he carried the boy to his awaiting mother.

The woman hugged the boy to her breast, thanking MacKinnon in a mixture of French and broken English.

“It’s all right. I’m sure the lad is fine, just a bit frightened.”

The other children had run off the bridge and were clamoring to get near their companion.

The boy finally looked up from his mother’s shoulder, tears mixing with the water dripping from his dark hair. Suddenly, he smiled and everyone applauded.

Céline had moved with the crowd and now approached MacKinnon as he turned away from the mother and child. She offered him the blanket she’d been sitting on. “That was very quick thinking of you.”

He took it, murmuring his thanks, and rubbed it across his front and head, leaving his hair in disarray.

“Thank you, but any number of people would have done the same,” he said, continuing to pat the blanket against his sodden garments. “I just happened to reach the boy first.”

She shuddered, looking at the stream. “I didn’t think the water was so deep, but the child could have drowned.”

“Yes. It only takes minutes. I saw enough men drown at sea.”

His story of serving under Nelson must at least be true. His tone was too sober to be otherwise. In the direct sunlight, the small scar on the edge of his chin was more visible. It only added to his allure. Had he received it in a fight at sea?

“It is not a pleasant death, but then none is in war.”

Longing to offer him some comfort, she clenched her fist to keep it at her side. “I’m sorry.”

He seemed to shake aside whatever memories he was recalling. “It was long ago.” He glanced down at his garments with a rueful smile. “I suppose I should go and change.”

“Yes, please, before you catch a chill.”

He held up the damp blanket. “I’ll find you another.”

She shook her head with a laugh. “That’s quite all right. I can manage.”

“Thank you for your thoughtfulness. I’ll return to my post as soon as I’ve changed.”

“Please, don’t bother. There are more than enough servants here.” She smiled at him. “After all, you are the hero of the hour. You deserve some time to recover. You may have the afternoon free.”

With a small salute, he turned and left the field. She continued watching him, his stride long and sure. How little she knew about him—and yet how drawn she felt. He didn’t resemble Rumford in the least. What sorts of horrors had he seen in battle? How had her old butler become acquainted with him?

She should ask Valentine to search his quarters. Tit for tat. Mulling over this manner of obtaining more information on her butler, she made her way to the mother to ask after the boy.

13

S
ince overhearing de la Roche’s conversation in the storeroom, Rees had been keeping an eye on him. What he saw only deepened his worry over Lady Wexham.

De la Roche approached Lady Wexham at every opportunity. The Frenchman seemed to be at her side at dinner, beside her in the evenings in the drawing room, and when he wasn’t talking to her, he was watching her.

Rees didn’t like the man’s single-mindedness. Lady Wexham, he had to admit—and admire despite himself—never seemed fazed by his attention. She smiled and welcomed him whenever he approached. But whenever he left, her smile would fade and a brooding look replaced the amusement in her eyes.

It was clear from Rees’s observation that she did not welcome the Frenchman’s attentions. The fact that she didn’t let on told Rees more clearly than anything else that she wished no one to know. A normal woman would berate the man behind his back. The more Rees observed Lady Wexham, the stronger his belief that she let few know her real thoughts.

What worried him most was the belief that sooner or later, she was going to make a mistake.

That’s when he made up his mind to attend the ball as a guest
and not stand against the wall as a footman. He must do it to protect Lady Wexham.

Whatever Valentine had told her mistress about him, Lady Wexham seemed to have a regard for him. He’d seen that most strongly when he’d rescued the lad from the water. Lady Wexham had been right there, not rushing to the child as everyone else but coming to him first with a blanket. He didn’t want to allow himself to take it as a sign that it was more than the normal attention a lady would give her servant, but it was becoming harder to keep his hopes and yearnings in check.

He tried to shake aside such thoughts. He must remain objective if he were to finish his assignment. The night he’d followed her had proven she was involved in something clandestine.

She had met a man, that much was certain. Whether it had been an amorous assignation or one involving a French contact, he couldn’t be sure, but he’d wager it was the latter. He had discerned no special favor Lady Wexham bestowed on any of the male guests.

Despite inviting her male callers into her bedroom after her niece’s ball, Lady Wexham’s behavior was exemplary from all Rees had observed. The longer he was in her company, the more convinced he became that she was not bestowing her favors on any man—sinfully or otherwise. The fact would bring him relief if the alternative weren’t so distasteful.

Which brought him to his decision. Tonight was the masked ball. He had spent every evening hidden outside after midnight, watching for Lady Wexham, but she had taken no more solitary walks to the temple. If she was meeting this person again, Rees thought it likely to be during the ball.

By donning a disguise and mingling freely with the guests, he would be able to observe without being seen. He’d gleaned enough from the servants to know that many people were invited from as far away as London. One more person in costume among a hundred would attract little notice.

Doubtless, de la Roche would be watching Lady Wexham’s every step as well.

Rees was taking a gamble, he knew. Lady Wexham likely expected him to keep an eye on her mother although she had not given him any specific instructions. What would he say if she searched for him during the ball? He decided to make up some excuse that he had been needed down in the kitchens. The palace was so vast it was unlikely she would discover he wasn’t there. By the following day, he hoped all would be forgotten. All he knew was he had to protect Lady Wexham this evening.

Carrying out his plan proved tricky. Here, he had no room to himself but shared a small chamber with Tom. He had to find a way to obtain a proper masquerade costume and keep it hidden until the event. He had to find a place to change from his butler’s togs into his masquerade sometime during the evening.

Thankfully, Tom had been busy downstairs between the dining room and kitchens since early evening. Rees, too, had been there, but now that the ball was fully under way, he left his post against the ballroom wall and climbed up to one of the many garrets above the mansion.

He retrieved the clothes he’d procured earlier in Aylesbury. He’d found a shop where he was able to rent a pirate’s outfit. It had been either that or Turkish garb with a turban. Both offered the advantage of sufficient head covering to hide his hair. He had hidden the clothes and sword in an old trunk in an unused attic. Now, as he donned the black breeches, glossy black boots, and white shirt with wide, brightly colored sash around the waist, he felt a sense of freedom he hadn’t experienced in a long time.

He paused, gazing at his reflection in an old, spotted looking glass. He was no longer a serious butler but a daring, dangerous rogue. He took up the fake sword, a curved scimitar, and stuck it into his sash then wrapped a scarf around his head, tying it tightly at the base of his skull. He placed the black domino over his eyes and nose, tying it behind his head. The half mask covered most of his face, reaching down to almost his upper lip.