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And several other ladies of our acquaintance.’ She grips my wrist, a fevered light in her brown eyes. ‘
Please
, Maddy! I’m so frightened.’
    A tingle of excitement begins to runs through my veins. I cannot bear to remain in Soho Square for much longer and, more than ever, I want to find my French family. Could we really find a way to travel to France in its present state of upheaval? ‘I suppose we could ask Miss Wollstonecraft’s advice on how to go about it,’ I say.
    ‘We must call on her today,’ urges Sophie.
    ‘But, Sophie, if Charles hears what we’re intending, he’ll put a stop to it. You must ask his permission to travel. If you can persuade him to allow you to go, he’ll have no need to come racing after you. If we leave here before your condition becomes apparent we can live quietly in France until the baby is born. And then…’
    ‘And then what?’ asks Sophie.
    ‘You must have the baby adopted.’ She makes a mew of distress and I grip her hand. ‘If you want to keep Henry at your side, you have no other choice.’ I watch her face crumple. It hurts me to be so brutal but she must face facts.
    ‘So the price of my adultery is that I must choose between my children?’
    I don’t answer. Nothing I can say will change that cruel truth. ‘Let’s ask Charles now,’ I say.
    ‘Will you do it?’ Sophie’s face is full of fear.
    Five minutes later I knock on the door of Charles Levesque’s study. Sophie grips my hand as I ask his permission for her to undertake the journey.
    Charles shakes his head so that all his chins wobble and glares at Sophie. ‘Go if you want to, Madam, but you’re not taking my son.’
    ‘Oh, but…’
    ‘Henry stays in his nursery. I’m not having him dragged about all over the place and at risk of contracting some foreign disease. The continent is full of vermin and dangerous fevers.’ He glances at the clock. ‘You’ve delayed me. I doubt I’ll return for dinner tonight.’
    After he has gone, Sophie weeps on my shoulder. ‘I’ve no choice but to leave Henry behind, have I?’
    ‘Not if you want to see him again,’ I say.
     

     
    A week later, Sophie and I are in my cell at Soho Square, poring over the packing list suggested by our travelling friends
.
We’re arguing over the necessity for a rhubarb grater and two pairs of leather sheets when the maid comes to tell us that a gentleman has called to see us. Hurrying down to the drawing room, I’m surprised and secretly rather pleased to find Mr d’Aubery.
    ‘Forgive me for calling on you unexpectedly,’ he says, ‘but I’ve heard a disturbing rumour.’
    ‘Whatever can that be?’ I ask. Mr d’Aubery is looking very handsome today in a chocolate brown velvet coat, a colour that matches his eyes.
    ‘Lady Georgiana tells me that you plan to visit France.’
    ‘I intend to seek out my father’s family,’ I say.
    ‘And I shall accompany Madeleine,’ says Sophie.
    ‘I cannot permit this extremely foolhardy course of action.’
    The smile fades from my face. ‘I
beg
your pardon? By what authority do you forbid us?’
    ‘Miss Moreau, France is in turmoil.’ He speaks slowly as if we are dimwits. ‘There are riots in the streets. Strangers are regarded with suspicion. And for two young Englishwomen…’
    ‘We both speak the language fluently,’ says Sophie. ‘We have French names and there is no reason for anyone to suspect we are not citizens of the Republic.’
    ‘I beg to differ, Madame Levesque,’ says Mr d’Aubery. ‘Your spoken French has a Huguenot accent. And yours, Miss Moreau, although you are fluent… there are times when you use an outmoded vocabulary. It may be enough to draw attention to you.’
    Stung by his accusation, I say, ‘I converse regularly with the French community here in London and no one has ever mentioned that before.’
    Mr d’Aubery shrugs. ‘Do you have the necessary travel papers, proving that you are French citizens?’
    I glance at Sophie. We