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mother, a harlot who had fol- lowed the French soldiers to war. She had died giving birth to Andelot on the field. For reasons unknown, Andelot had been brought here to Chambord to meet “secret” kinsmen that he would not divulge to her. Most surprising of all was that Marquis Fabien had befriended him.
    “I do not think Andelot is the one to help us now,” Grandmère said thoughtfully. She rubbed her temple as Rachelle had seen her do so many times when considering the outcome of a worrisome matter. She arose and walked about again.
    “I think . . . oui, it is to Marquis de Vendôme we should turn at this moment.”
    Rachelle managed a demure expression.
    “The marquis is the highest Bourbon at court, related to Prince Condé by blood and to Sebastien by marriage. It may be that Marquis
    Fabien can allay our fears on this matter. He may even know of Sebastien’s whereabouts. And if Marquis Fabien believes the information Duchesse Xenia gave us on Maître Avenelle is wont of Prince Condé’s attention, then the marquis is the one to contact his kinsman. We must inform him at once, but without drawing undue attention from the court spies.”
    Grandmère exchanged bright glances with Rachelle and Idelette. “We will invite the marquis to tea. Here, we may speak to him freely,
    and who will suspect?”
    “To tea!” Rachelle cried, embarrassed.
    “But yes. Why not? I assure you such behavior is most naturel. What ambitious French Grandmère with two marriageable granddaughters at court would fail to hope that the marquis’s heart would not give birth to amour? She would wish to invite him to a soiree. ”
    “But the marquis knows what it is to dine with King Francis and sit in royal presence,” Rachelle said. “Whereas a mere tea — ”
    Grandmère’s lips quirked with amusement, but her dark eyes studied Rachelle with sympathy.
    “Ma cherie Rachelle, and how would it appear if we, without title of our own, should invite a Bourbon to anything but a simple tea? It is what the courtiers would expect of us, surely not a banquet!”
    Idelette drew her fair browstogether above her trim nose. “Grandmère is right, Rachelle. But Grandmère, could we not send a message to the marquis by way of Nenette?”
    Rachelle turned to her sister. “Nenette is sweet, but unreliable; you know it as well as I. What if Grandmère’s message fell to the wrong hand?”
    “It would only be an invitation to tea,” Idelette protested.
    “Non, if that is all Grandmère tells him in the message, he would ignore the invitation. He must receive dozens of them, I assure you.”
    “Think you so?” Idelette asked with a bit of a smile, her eyes teas- ing. “One wonders if he would ignore it. He may have seen you with Princesse Marguerite.”
    “C’est sotte. Non.” Rachelle turned to Grandmère, feeling the f lush
    on her cheeks. “Marquis Fabien will come if he knows of the danger of Maître Avenelle and that Sebastien is missing.”
    “Yes, we must not neglect Duchesse Xenia’s warnings,” Grandmère said. “I know such a task will pain you, ma cherie, but do take Nenette with you, for two are better than one, and I would not have you risk your reputation going to his chamber unescorted.”
    Idelette laughed. Rachelle ignored her.
    Grandmère looked at the desk, her expression serious and deter- mined. “Yes, this is best,” she murmured, as if to reinforce her decision. “I shall write him at once. I never thought the day would come when I would be urging my granddaughter to take such a bold initiative. Ah, well. The gravity of the times . . .” She walked to the desk, pulling out the cherry seat and sitting gracefully. She drew stationery and inkwell toward her. “You have asked your sister Madeleine about the marquis so many times in your letters. Now fortune has it you are given a respectable opportunity of meeting him,” Grandmère said lightly. She looked over her shoulder at Rachelle who felt her gaze go deeply.