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She brought a forefinger up to her lips and bit on the nail, her thoughts returning to that which she’d rather avoid.

Even after six months, she did not like—or feel at ease with—the task of collecting information. But the cause was a worthy one, as Roland had pointed out. Not only worthy but of the utmost urgency. France needed her help. Whatever happened to Napoleon, the royalists must not regain power.

Céline shuddered, picturing the fat, aging Comte de Provence living in exile at Hartwell House, just beyond London, waiting to return to France as Louis XVIII if ever Napoleon should fail.

With the abysmal news from the Russian front, that likelihood was growing stronger each month. She sighed, not liking to think what
would happen to her beloved France in the aftermath of this wretched war. She longed for the day of peace, but at what price would it come?

She forced her finger from her mouth, looking in dismay at the damage she’d done. Valentine would scold and file her nails with enough vigor to draw blood.

Napoleon would
not
fail. He had always managed to overcome his adversaries, and he would do so again.

Céline threw aside the bedcovers just as her maid entered the chamber with a can of hot water in one hand and a pile of towels in the other.

“
Bonjour
. How are you feeling this morning?”

“Perfectly fine.” She yawned. “I haven’t slept so well in an age. Virginia fixed me a tisane.”

Valentine stopped before her, eyeing her critically. “You look as pale as bleached muslin.”

“
Merci, chérie
, for your fortifying words.” Even though Céline strove to speak English with her two French servants whenever anyone else was around, in private they usually lapsed into French.

Valentine ignored her sarcasm. “And the headache?”

Céline waved a hand. “Completely gone. But it was enough to make me ill disposed to stand the crush at Princess Esterhazy’s last night.”

Valentine harrumphed. “And your hair!
Quelle horreur!
Couldn’t that good-for-nothing maid manage a simple plait?”

Céline touched her loose locks. When she tried to run her hand through them, she understood Valentine’s horror. “I sent her to bed. The poor girl had been asleep when I rang for her—and I only did so because I couldn’t manage my stays. My head was certainly not up to having someone pull a hairbrush through it,” she ended with a significant look at her maid.

Valentine appraised her a few seconds more,
tsk-tsking
before she was satisfied that Céline was not suffering from a worse ailment than a head of tangled hair. “
Bien.
I will pour this water. Sally is bringing your
chocolat
and croissant. I hope that will do something for your looks.”

“Am I that washed out?” Céline walked to the dressing table in the
next room and peered into the mirror. “Oh, my.” Her hair did indeed look a fright.

Valentine poured steaming water into her pitcher and mixed it with cold. “
Pardonnez-moi
that I was not here when you came in. If I’d known you’d return so early, I, too, would have come back.”

“How were you expected to know?” Céline leaned over the porcelain basin, lathering her hands and face with the lavender-scented soap and then rinsing them off. She grabbed up a towel and patted them dry. “Pray, how was your evening?”

Valentine paused from shaking out Céline’s gown and gave a Gallic shrug. “Bah! The usual. Those English, they are so
bêtes
!”

Céline laughed. “Stupid only in that they don’t appreciate your French charm?”

Her maid picked up her garments from the chair where Virginia had laid them. “What can one expect from a land so drenched in fog? Where people eat roast mutton and boiled potatoes without a hint of herbs or wine?” She examined the overskirt of the lemon-yellow gown for any stains or rips.

“Well, you cannot complain in this household. Gaspard is an excellent Provençal cook.”

Valentine checked the chiffon slip. “If one can overlook his tantrums, then, yes, his cooking is worth it.” She frowned at a stain. “You spilled something on this.”

Céline glanced over the towel. “Likely champagne. That bumbling fool Orrington bumped into me before dinner. I think he was already foxed long before he arrived.”

Valentine sniffed her displeasure and set the gown aside. She picked up the silk petticoat and muslin shift from the chair and slung them over her arm.

Céline turned back to her washstand and attempted to run a hand through her hair again. What a tangled thicket. Hopefully, she wouldn’t end with another headache brought on by Valentine’s comb and brush.

Her hair fell to her waist, and sometimes she was tempted to hack it all off like Lady Caroline Lamb. Valentine would have a fit.

“C’est quoi cette saloperie?”

She turned at her maid’s exclamation of outrage. “What’s the matter now? Have you discovered my shoes to be soiled or my tippet to have lost some feathers?”

Valentine was kneeling before the lower shelf of one of the armoires. Céline frowned. “What is it?”

An unintelligible sound issued from the abigail’s throat as she gestured at the rumpled mound of garments spilling out onto the floor.

“Don’t glare at me. I haven’t been rummaging about in there! I know better than to do any such thing.”

“Then it must have been that lazy, good-for-nothing Virginie. I knew I couldn’t trust her to take my place for one evening.”

“I assure you, my dear, poor Virginia had nothing to do with it. I dismissed her as soon as she’d helped me undress and brought me a tisane. I know how particular you are about my clothes, so I told her you would see to everything on the morrow.”

The news did not allay Valentine’s ire. She began pulling out the garments one by one, muttering Gallic imprecations. “Then who made such a mess of your gowns?” Angry sounds issued from between her teeth as she began refolding the gowns. “Do you think I would leave things in such a state? I shall have to iron these anew. Ohh!”

Céline turned at the sudden exclamation. “What is it now?”

Valentine’s mouth a thin, hard line, she said nothing but marched to where Céline sat and thrust a pale blue satin gown under her nose.

Céline stared at the blotch of hardened wax the size of a button on the bodice. “Oh, dear.” She took the gown from her maid. “What a pity. Do you think it will come out?”

“It is ruined.” Valentine’s chin trembled with ire.
“C’est abominable.”
Once again, a string of French imprecations followed, among them how one couldn’t trust this household of English pigs.

She narrowed her eyes at Céline. “I will find who was responsible, and they will pay!”

“I wish you luck, since the maids know enough to leave my things alone. They go in too much fear of you,
ma chérie
, to risk your displeasure.”

Valentine said no more, her back rigid as she put things back to order. Céline returned to her bed and picked up a writing tablet and pencil to begin composing a guest list.

A few moments later, Sally, the other housemaid, entered with Céline’s breakfast tray.

“Thank you. It looks delicious.” Céline pulled the tray toward her and unfolded the napkin, realizing how hungry she was since she had scarcely enjoyed her dinner last evening.

She pulled apart a croissant and inhaled its buttery fragrance. “Nothing like the French to produce a pastry that melts in the mouth.” Spooning a small dollop of marmalade onto the piece of croissant, she anticipated the first bite. “At least the British know how to make jam.” She smiled at the young maid.

The girl smiled back at her. “That they do.”

“I’m glad you brought me my tray and not Virginia.”

Sally stopped in the act of plumping a pillow. “Why is that, my lady?”

“Valentine is quite cross with her—without cause, please assure her.”

The young maid’s eyes widened with worry. “Oh no. What did she do?”

“Nothing at all. Valentine is likely just jealous that I had to ring for Virginia last night when I returned early. Anyway, it’s nothing for her to worry herself about. Just tell her to stay out of Valentine’s way for a few hours.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’ll be sure to warn her.” Sally returned to her task, her tone still betraying concern.

Céline poured out a cup of steaming hot chocolate from the silver
pot and unfolded the edition of the
Morning Post.
No earth-shattering news on the front page. “Speaker Addresses Committee in Opposition of Catholic Relief Bill”; “Ackermann’s Repository Illuminated by Gas Light.” Hmm. At least the prints would be more visible. She would judge for herself at Wednesday’s literary reception. She wondered whether the poor émigrés employed in the back room painting screens and flower stands would benefit from this new lighting.

Céline continued perusing the headlines and skimming through the articles that interested her. “Sense and Sensibility: Princess Charlotte Ignores Father’s Advice and Visits Her Mother after Grandmother’s Funeral.”

Céline’s lips curved into a smile at the revised account of the crown princess’s visit to her mother despite the Regent’s estrangement from his wife. Only a few days ago, the
Morning Chronicle
had published an account of Princess Charlotte throwing herself upon her father’s chest in gratitude for allowing her to attend her maternal grandmother’s funeral.

Who knew what to believe in the newspapers? One paper was Tory, the other Whig, the one defending the Prince Regent, the other decrying all his excesses.

Her smile grew at the next story. “Russian Cossack Gives Riding Exhibition in Hyde Park.” She read the article of the visiting military hero performing stunts in his baggy trousers, red tunic, and fleece hat, his shashka at his side, his musket slung on his back.

Despite the amusing account of the man’s skill and bravado, a wave of sadness passed over Céline at the thought of how many brave young Frenchmen had so recently perished in the forests and fields between Moscow and Minsk. How many at the hands of this one Cossack?

All the more reason she must help her countrymen.

Céline laid aside the newspaper and returned to thoughts of a dinner party. Parliament was in session. By now, everyone who was anyone in politics and foreign affairs was in town.

She sipped her chocolate, ticking names off in her head. Yes,
Castlereagh and Lady C., Lord Wellesley—perhaps she’d learn something of his brother on the Peninsula. Would he bring Lady Hyacinthe? She was scorned by all, but at least Céline could speak French with her. Poor woman, if she had lived in France, she would have been accepted everywhere. Even though Wellesley had finally married her, the
ton
still snubbed her because she was a former actress at the Palais Royale. Of course, it didn’t help that she didn’t make the effort to learn English.

Planning successful dinner parties took the skill of an officer laying out a battle strategy.

Sighing, Céline moved aside the tray and rose. “Valentine, set out my habit.” She would go for a ride in the park then go over the dinner preparations with her housekeeper and butler at their morning meeting. Would her new butler be up to a dinner party? He’d scarcely been here a week.

“Are you sure you are well enough?”

Céline laughed aside her maid’s concern.

“All that bouncing around in a saddle could bring on the headache again.”

“Nonsense. The fresh air will dissipate any lingering effects of that stuffy drawing room last night.”

Valentine sniffed and flounced back to the dressing room.

3

I
t was a quarter after ten when Rees opened the front door to his mistress. He’d sent both the footmen from this post, setting them to polish the silver, even though it looked perfectly shiny to his untrained eye.

He wanted to assure himself that the countess had seen or heard nothing suspicious in her bedroom the night before.

He inclined his head to Lady Wexham as she entered. “Good morning, my lady. Did you have a pleasant ride?”

She handed him her crop with a smile. “Good morning, Mr. MacKinnon. Yes, it was lovely, thank you. How are you this fine morning?”

Her smile never failed to disarm him. It had nothing haughty or sly about it. He hadn’t known what to expect of a possible lady spy, but it wasn’t the open, friendly look she bestowed on him—and on every one of the servants, as far as he’d observed in his short stay in her household.

She was also the loveliest woman he’d ever met. Her skin was like a porcelain figurine’s, though unlike the pale and pink coloring of one of those, her cheeks were duskier, betraying her southern French heritage. Her hair was a rich chestnut brown. His gaze slipped a notch to her lips, which were generous. Her even white teeth made a lovely contrast to the light olive tone of her skin.

“I am perfectly well, thank you. And yourself, my lady? Virginia said you suffered from a headache last night?” Would her old butler have asked her such a question, or would she think him too forward? But Rees wanted to gauge her reaction to mention of last evening. He watched her face closely.

She laughed—a sweet, tinkling sound—as she untied the filmy pink scarf that wound loosely around her neck and removed the top hat perched at a jaunty angle on her dark locks. “I am pleased to hear that you are well. As for me, it was nothing—a very slight headache. Completely gone, thank you.” She glanced around. “Where is William?”

It never failed to surprise him how much notice she took of each servant no matter how lowly the position. “He and Thomas are polishing the silver.”

“Wonderful.” She handed Rees her soft kidskin gloves and turned to pat her hair in the glass. “I always enjoy the park at this hour. Hardly a soul except the squirrels scampering up the trees and the livestock grazing in the distance.”

“Indeed, my lady.” What more could he say, never having had the leisure nor opportunity to own a horse in London to ride in Hyde Park?