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But that was neither here nor there. This was her city now, and she’d best be about her business before nightfall. She tightened her hold on the roll of papers she carried and made her way down the street.

“Lady Wexham!”

She stopped so quickly, a pedestrian bumped her from behind. After a hurried
pardonnez-moi
, she glanced beyond the people nearest her, searching for the male voice that had hailed her.

She hadn’t been addressed by that name since leaving England. She could have sworn it sounded just like . . . like . . . she hardly dared utter his name.

Her eyes scanned the street as a jumble of thoughts of those last months in London went through her mind.

Her gaze was arrested by a gentleman standing across the street, as still as she, his eyes fixed on her as the people pushed past him.

She stared. MacKinnon? Could it truly be? The man resembled him in stature and broadness of shoulder, yet in nothing else. This gentleman looked just that—a gentleman beneath his high-crowned beaver. She tore her gaze from his and took in his appearance. Well-cut tailcoat and white cravat, fawn-colored pantaloons tucked into tall Hessians.

Feeling the pull of his eyes still on her, she met his gaze once more.

Only MacKinnon looked at her with that intensity.

She waited, her heartbeat thudding like a kettledrum, as he crossed the street with barely a glance in either direction, like a man with a single-minded purpose. A moment later he stood before her, his gray eyes searching hers.

A kaleidoscope of emotions collided in her—disbelief, shock, longing, joy, wonder. MacKinnon here—why? How? Could it be?

She had never thought to see him again and had spent months attempting in vain to banish him from her thoughts only to be reminded by the merest sound or sight—a man’s broad shoulders, a shade of gray, a certain stride or tone of voice.

And now, here he stood mere inches from her, looking so dashing, it quite robbed her of the ability to speak. She wanted to laugh at the thought of how passionately they had kissed and yet had never gotten beyond the formalities in their address.

“Is . . . is it truly you, Mr. MacKin—” She smiled slightly. “But that is not your name, is it? What am I to call you?”

His gray eyes flickered in acknowledgment. “No . . . it is not.” His low voice grew firmer. “My name is Phillips, Rees Phillips.”

She took the information in, trying to accustom herself to the
unfamiliar name. Rees. She allowed the single syllable to linger in her mind, finding she liked it.

The color rose in her cheeks as he continued looking at her. He certainly must see a woman quite different from the one he had known in London.

“What are you doing here—?”

At the same instant, he said, “I tried to fi—”

They both stopped. She gestured for him to finish speaking.

“I arrived Monday last and have been searching for you since then.” A smile glimmered in his eyes. “You have proven most elusive.”

Natural caution returned. Why had he been looking for her? Was he sent by the British? Were they still after her? “One cannot be too careful,” she parried.

A slight frown creased the space between his heavy dark eyebrows. “You are not still in danger, are you?”

She shrugged. “The Ultras in power now would silence all voices of opposition if they could.”

His frown deepened. “It is not what Britain wants. That is why they have appointed Wellington as ambassador.”

When she said nothing, he cleared his throat. “You left London so suddenly.”

“I tried to tell you.”

“With your coded message?”

She met his smiling eyes. “It was all I dared give you.” She laughed, suddenly feeling happier than she had since arriving in Paris. “After all, you were spying on me. I had every confidence in your ability to decipher it.”

He merely tipped his chin in acknowledgment.

She sobered, recalling those days. “I hadn’t only my own safety to consider, but Gaspard’s and Valentine’s—and others.”

“And I had my loyalties as well.”

“Yes.”

He shook his head ruefully. “I fear I made a very poor spy. All the
time I was supposed to be spying on you, I was trying to protect you as well.”

“From the highwaymen.”

He nodded.

“I always wondered. And yet, I could never fully trust you. You were, after all, working for the other side.”

“The British were not your only enemies, it seems.”

She thought of de la Roche.

“When you left London, I did not think ever to see you again,” he said softly.

The words sounded like those of a man . . . in love. Could he have any feelings left for her—a traitor to his country?

Her heart began to hammer as she told herself not to read too much into his tone. She moistened her lips. “Did you wish to?”

“Very much.”

“Y-you said you were looking for me?”

He nodded. “I could only guess you were headed to France when you quitted London.” He paused. “I deciphered your message shortly after your carriage departed. I followed you.”

Her eyes widened. “To Dover?”

“I surmised you were heading for the coast.”

She nodded slowly. He was an intelligent man, just as she’d always suspected. She knit her eyebrows, still marveling that he had followed her. “Did you find me?”

“At an inn.” He paused. “And then a beach outside of town.”

She drew in her breath. “You followed us that night—and didn’t stop us?” she breathed, realization dawning.

A shadow crossed his features. “You were in grave danger. De la Roche was on your heels. France was the only place that was safe for you.”

“De la Roche! I should have expected him. That is why I was told to leave England so quickly.” She shook her head sadly. “Between the British and the French royalists, it was a wonder I am alive to tell the
tale.” She frowned. “How did you know about de la Roche?” Her mind went back to Hartwell House. “Wait—is that why—at Hartwell—” She stopped before blurting out about the kiss.

But he had followed her thoughts and nodded. “He began suspecting you at Hartwell. I overheard him talking with another gentleman. That’s when I . . . I determined to keep an eye on you both and decided the night of the masquerade to go in costume.”

They stared at each other, and she knew in that moment he, too, was remembering the kiss. “It took me most of the evening to discover who you were. You were very clever in your choice of costume.”

She felt her cheeks grow warm at his gaze. “And you were the dashing corsair,” she murmured.

When he said nothing of the kiss, she took it as indicative of his gentlemanly tact. “So, you were after me too, were you not?”

He didn’t flinch. “I was placed in your household by the British government to . . .” He paused, as if seeking the right word.

“Spy on me?”

“To ascertain if you were passing on information to the French.”

“I see.” How she longed to throw herself in his arms. The next second she reined in her emotions. She still knew next to nothing about him. Was he married now? Why had he been searching for her? Her mind returned to that evening in Dover. “You saw de la Roche in Dover?”

“You left in the nick of time. I fear both the British and the French royalists were becoming very suspicious of your behavior. The shooting proved the danger you were in.”

She shuddered, remembering. “I never meant to put your life in danger.”

“It was not your responsibility. I was working for the British.”

“Did Rumford take part in your masquerade? I must admit I could hardly believe it of him.”

He nodded. “The Home Office convinced him it was his duty to find where your loyalties lay. Don’t think too harshly of him. He was very torn, and refused to believe you would betray England.”

She flushed, looking away. “Dear Mr. Rumford. I am sorry to have put him in that difficult position. Perhaps someday he will be able to forgive me.” She sighed. “If I should ever be allowed to return to England.”

“Would you want to?”

“I could hardly do so now, could I?”

“I expected to find you easily here in Paris. Your family is a prominent one, is it not? Yet, no one seems to know of you.”

She smiled without humor. “I am not traveling in the first circles anymore since there is a new court at the Tuileries.”

It was her first reference to her political allegiance and the present state of things in Paris. “Is everything all right? You are not in trouble, are you?”

She laughed then and shook her head. “Oh no. If I am not a leading lady of society, it is by choice.”

His gaze traveled downward, and she wondered what conclusions he was drawing from her appearance, very plain compared to her gowns in London. “It seems I am keeping you from something.”

She remembered the article. It must be delivered to the newspaper office by five o’clock. “I must go.” Would she see him again? Did she want to? Was there any hope? It seemed she lived with so little hope these days. Did she want to resurrect the feelings he had stirred in her? Would it be fair to him? With an effort, she took a step away from him. “I . . . must go,” she repeated.

As she began to walk away, he seemed to come alive. “Wait! I can take you. Where do you need to go?”

She blinked at him. “You are not on foot?”

He indicated a carriage parked across the street. “I was, when I thought I recognized you.”

It appeared a fine-looking equipage. Everything seemed so topsy-turvy, it added to her confusion. She should be the one offering him transport. She lifted a brow, finding it hard to reconcile herself to the gentleman whom she had only known as a manservant. “A butler
traveling by private carriage. How odd. But then you were never a butler, were you?”

His mouth tilted upward on one side. “No, my lady.”

She smiled faintly. “And I am no longer Lady Wexham.”

He lifted a dark eyebrow a fraction. “No?”

She held out her hand. “Just plain Céline de Beaumont.”

He took her hand in a firm grip. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” Then before she could remove her hand from his, he bowed over it. Her breath caught in her throat, thinking for a moment that he would kiss it in the French manner. But he straightened, letting her hand go, and she had to stifle the sense of disappointment.

He shrugged. “In any case, it is not my own carriage. It belongs to the British embassy. The Duke of Wellington has given me use of it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “It seems your fortunes have risen if you are on such close terms with the duke.”

“They have.”

What was it she read in his eyes? Before she could analyze it, she reminded herself that he might be dangerous, if he was working so closely with the British embassy. “I must go—” Again, she forced herself to take a step away.

“Don’t run away from me—please!”

She could not resist the plea in his voice. She turned around. “Who are you working for now, Mr. . . . Phillips?” She had to remind herself of his new name.

“I am still working for the British Foreign Office.”

“Ah. I thought perhaps it was the Home Office when you were under my roof.”

“I was on loan from the F.O. to the Home Office for the duration of my time at your residence.” He cleared his throat lightly as if in embarrassment. “As for why I was searching for you—that was for . . . for personal reasons alone.” A flush crept up his cheeks as he said the last, and her insides began to melt at that familiar sight. When had she grown to be able to read the telltale signs in his
features from the merest flicker in his gray eyes to that heightened color along his jaw?

“Please, Lady Wex—Mademoiselle . . . Madame—” he fumbled in confusion.

“Mademoiselle de Beaumont,” she supplied for him, placing a slight stress on her title of single woman.

“Mlle. de Beaumont,” he repeated. “Please.” He gestured to the awaiting carriage. “Won’t you allow me to take you where you need to go? I promise you, I mean you no ill. I am no longer a spy. But I do not feel comfortable talking to you on the street.”

She looked from the coach to him, weighing the risks. They were on her soil now. She might be in opposition to the government, but she was doing nothing illegal—yet.

The city had been crawling with British for a year now. If they had wanted her, they could have found her, she supposed. But what would they charge her with now after the peace?

More importantly, she asked herself as she gazed at Rees, did she want him to know anything about her present life, and she his?

“The war is over, you know.” His soft voice penetrated her thoughts, as if guessing their direction. “No one is after you.”

She gave him a bittersweet smile. “The royalists would silence me if they could.” At his puzzled look, she shrugged her shoulders. “Very well, Mr. Phillips, I shall accept your offer.”

They crossed the street, his hand lightly on her elbow. “Where can I drop you?”

She thought quickly. Better a public place. “Place St.-Germain-des-Prés, by the abbey.”

Once he’d instructed the coachman, he reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out a calling card case and extracted a card. Without a word, he extended it to her.

She took it from him.
Rees Phillips, British Delegation.
“You are with the Embassy?”

“Yes. I’ve been appointed to Wellington while he is ambassador here.”

“From butler to diplomat. What did you do to merit that?”

A shadow crossed his features. “It’s a long story, one which I should like to share with you if I may. But a rattling coach is no place for us to catch up with one another.” His gaze fixed on her. “Would you do me the honor of dining with me this evening?”

“Before I reply, I think I should tell you I write for the opposition press.” She lifted the roll she carried. “Your government might not approve of me.”

His own eyes widened. “You write?”

“Under a pen name, C. de Valois. People assume it’s a gentleman, but those who have the power to shut us down know very well who I am,” she added bitterly.

He nodded thoughtfully. “That is why I had such trouble finding you.” Instead of pursuing the topic, he repeated his invitation. “Will you honor me with your company at dinner this evening?”