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yours.”
    Henri put one foot up on the andirons of the fireplace in the smaller dining room. He’d pack her off to England. That’s what he’d do. But he must wait until the end of the week and ship her off with the others. He didn’t trust Robespierre not to have her arrested on the way to Le Havre just to spite him if he sent her ahead on her own.
    She was right about England though. Without connections or position, emigrating was a dicey business, and for a woman alone
    …
    He sipped his wine, annoyed. The ornate water clock on the mantel had chimed the hour five minutes ago. He liked to dine sharply at nine. And tonight he had much to do.
    Well, he’d give the girl some money at least. What else could he do? He ’d saved her from losing her head at the Place de Revolution. The rest was up to her.
    He tapped his finger on the mantel. A dull dinner this was likely to be, though she had surprised him with a sharp tongue. She ’d lose her wit and her tongue soon enough when she fell under the spell of his magnetism. They always did.
    The hell of it was that with her around, not even dining alone would be a refuge. Over the years, alone as he felt inside, he had grown to like his privacy at dinner. It was a nice contrast to feeling alone in the crowds of bored revelers and ne ’er-do-wells. The servants thought him mad for serving himself. Let them.
    It occurred to him that he had lost heart. Not courage. A creature such as he was beyond fear. He would keep to his chosen course. It was a matter of will and he still had resolve. But hope had vanished centuries ago. He had seen too much and it all ended the same way no matter what one did. So he had ceased putting his heart into it. Still, he continued. What else could one do except go mad?
    The doors to his right opened.
    One of the servants ushered in the most surprising creature. How long since he had been surprised?
    It was only a few minutes after nine when Françoise came down the curved stairway to the ground floor, following Jean, of the red hair and the sister. She felt like someone else entirely in this dress, not least because Annette could find no fichu to cover her breast. At least none that matched. She wore no jewelry, of course. But the dress itself felt like a jewel. The slippers Annette had produced might not be a perfect fit, but a little tissue stuffed into the soft white satin made them serviceable. Her hair had been coaxed into its usual soft curls, a little longer at her nape. Annette had offered rouge and lip color and something to darken her lashes, but she had refused. She did not want to look like a loose woman.
    He has no interest in someone like you, she recited to herself. You’re just here to see if there is any chance he’ll help Madame. She was about to beard the lion in his den.
    The footman opened the door. “The smaller dining room, mademoiselle.”
    Again the room was not what she expected. She’d thought the duc would prefer a grandiose setting to match his consequence.
    But this was cozy like the library. The ceiling was of carved wood. A round table gleamed with polish in the candlelight. It sat six rather than the twenty or thirty she’d imagined. A sideboard was heaped with covered silver trays. Crystal sparkled. The china set for two was Sèvres, figured in blue and gilt to match the blue and red of the carpet and the midnight blue of the draperies, closed now against the night. The whole was warm and cheery.
    And leaning against the mantel, his booted foot on the andirons of the flickering grate, stood the duc, wine glass in hand. He wasn’t a lion. More like a black panther, sleek and powerful. Dangerous. The room fairly … quivered with his presence.
    Be careful. Don’t let his handsome person befuddle you. She would think of tonight as research. She’d discover why he saved her and use that information to get him to save Madame.
    All the time she’d been dressing, she’d had a most uneasy feeling. That the duc