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How was it possible for a woman to receive a gentleman in her bedroom? Rees was unable to imagine his mother or sister—or any respectable lady—heaven forbid, Jessamine—behaving so indecorously.

His sensibilities were in for further shocks as the afternoon wore on. A few more callers were allowed upstairs. This time, he escorted the gentlemen into Lady Wexham’s boudoir, the room he had searched, where she sat at her dressing table, Valentine arranging her hair.

She was wearing a lacy, frilly garment that looked more like nightwear than a morning gown. But everyone seemed to take it in stride, the gentlemen beckoned to comfortable armchairs where they lounged and gossiped about the previous evening.

Rees left disgusted, determined to expunge this woman from his thoughts. He knew the French had different ideas, but this was going too far.

If not a traitor, then she was certainly a woman of loose morals, someone he had no business thinking about—much less obsessing over—the way he had begun to in recent days.

He must make every effort to report to Bunting as quickly as possible. He would tell him everything he knew. The sooner he was finished with this assignment, the sooner he could quit this unholy household and receive his promotion, and, God willing, do some work that had real value to the nation’s security.

Céline sat at her writing desk, flipping a quill pen back and forth against her cheek as she thought about what to write her mother.

Since she was obliged to go out to Hartwell House, she must inform her mother, who disliked unannounced visits.

How Céline hated visiting the large estate leased to the Comte de Provence for the last several years of his exile from France. Surrounding him there were several members of the émigré community, all titled families who had fled France during the Terror.

In the years since her marriage, Céline had distanced herself from
the French community in England. To her, they represented all that was old and regressive of her country.
L’ancien régime.
Impoverished aristocrats who thought themselves better than everyone, living off past glories. They spent their days on the fringes of the Comte de Provence’s expectations, pinning their hopes and ambitions upon his ascension to the throne.

What France needed was true democracy, to go back to the ideals of the Revolution without reverting to all the excesses that had resulted from leaders who had taken control and brought on the awful Reign of Terror.

She still believed there were men and women who could be trusted to lead the nation.

Men like Stéphane, the one and only man she’d loved, but whose life had been cut short in battle, and now Roland and others who were fighting to keep democracy alive in France. Men whose ideals would not be corrupted by power.

Stéphane had been such a man—idealistic, yet with the strength and pragmatism to build a nation where all could have fair and equal treatment under the law.

She sighed, bringing her thoughts back to the present. It would do no good to think about things that had happened so long ago.
Chère Maman,
she began her letter.

I shall be arriving to visit you in a few days. Please do not put yourself out. You know I bring my own retinue of servants.

Please tell the Comte of my arrival.

She paused again, thinking of all the preparations to be made. When she went out to Hartwell House, it was as if she were temporarily moving house. They needed to take their bed linens, a small contingent of servants, a carriage and horses, even food.

Those servants left behind would enjoy a bit of a holiday, since there was little to do when she was not in residence except wait on
her sister-in-law. Céline made a moue of distaste. Perhaps she could foist Agatha as a houseguest on one of her friends . . .

Her thoughts returned to her impending trip to Hartwell House.

Which of the servants would she take this time? It had been several months since the last trip. The servants didn’t like to go, since all the servants at Hartwell were French and the British felt out of place there, as if they were on foreign soil.

Well, Valentine would go along, of course, and Jacob, her coachman, with a groom, as well as either Tom or William. One of the chambermaids and one kitchen maid. Mrs. Finlay would stay and look after Agatha and the house.

And her butler? If Mr. Rumford were here, she would give either him or Mrs. Finlay a holiday. There would need to be very little done at the house. If Agatha did stay, she would do no entertaining, so she required very little staff.

But what of Mr. MacKinnon? Should she make him stay on here or take him with her?

She rubbed the quill pen against her cheek, considering. She could keep an eye on him at Hartwell—or leave him behind, and ensure that he couldn’t keep an eye on her.

Even while her reason told her to keep him in London, another part of her wished to have him along.

She told herself he could do little harm at Hartwell. He understood no French, the language spoken almost exclusively there. She hadn’t had a chance to talk to MacKinnon since the ball last evening. She felt guilty about the wild-goose chase he had been sent on, even though she knew it had been a necessary step.

Ignoring the voice in her head, she came to her decision. MacKinnon would go along.

She would tell him to prepare for the trip. He would be in charge of the other servants. That should keep him too busy to observe her every move.

Céline finished her letter and then began a list of preparations before the trip.

Rees was in his butler’s pantry with William, inspecting the silver that had been used at the ball’s supper, when they were both surprised by the appearance of Lady Wexham.

“Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon, my lady,” they both answered, standing at attention.

As usual she looked lovely, her peach-colored gown brightening the surroundings immediately.

She turned with a smile to the footman. “Would you excuse us a moment, William?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Thank you.”

When the young man had left, she faced Rees with another smile, her hands clasped loosely in front of her. She wore a matching peach ribbon in her rich chestnut hair, bringing out the warm tints in it.

He had a hard time reconciling the lovely, innocent-looking woman who looked more like a girl than a woman of eight-and-twenty with one who would receive gentlemen callers while still abed.

He cleared his throat, trying to dispel the image that had plagued him all day from his mind. “Yes, my lady?”

“I am going out to Hartwell House.”

“Indeed?” It was a country estate not far outside of London, where Louis XVI’s brother had finally found lodging after years of living in exile across the Continent at the largesse of various heads of state.

She moistened her lips, enhancing their rosy hue. “I usually go out there several times a year to visit my mother. There is a large French community there,” she added in a wry tone.

He remained silent, wondering where she was leading. Was she going to leave instructions for him while she was absent? He curled
his fingers into his palms, trying to think how he could get himself included.

“I usually take a small number of servants with me. It is quite a vast estate, and the émigrés there are for the most part impoverished. Thus, any household help is usually a necessity for visitors.”

“Which servants do you intend to take with you, my lady?”

She ticked them off on her slim fingers. “Valentine, Sally, one of the kitchen maids, a scullery maid, Tom—since William accompanied me the last time—and Jacob, and a groom. I shall take my traveling carriage and hire another with postilions for the servants.”

“Yes, my lady.” He asked, trying to conceal any disappointment he felt at being excluded, “And Gaspard?”

She shook her head. “No. The Comte has his own cook, and the two clash terribly whenever I’ve made the mistake of taking Gaspard along. You may tell the servants to begin preparations for the trip. They know what to do. We need to bring linens and provisions. Enough for a fortnight at least.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“I wish you to accompany me as well.”

He couldn’t help registering his surprise. “Me?”

“Yes. You can help Tom with any of his duties.” Her eyebrows drew together, her amber eyes holding a question. “Do you ride?”

The question caught him unaware since his thoughts were still adjusting to the news that he was to go to Hartwell. “Yes.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “Indeed? That is good. You and Tom may ride alongside the equipage. I wish to take along my mare, of course. Since we are taking such a small staff, you may help Tom with the duties of footman, and give Jacob any assistance with the horses, if you don’t object.”

“No, my lady, why should I?”

Her full lips curved slightly upward. “Because you are the butler, are you not?” Her tone was teasing, the same tone she had used in conversation with the gentlemen in her boudoir.

He didn’t respond to the smile, instead saying stiffly, “I am here to serve you in any capacity you require while my uncle is laid up.”

The humor evaporated from her expression. “I didn’t offend you, did I?”

He blinked at her gentle tone. Except she had no idea why he was offended—nor must she ever. Until he discovered the truth of Lady Wexham’s loyalties, he must act out his role of simple butler. “Of course not. I shall be perfectly happy to assist Tom and Jacob.”

“Good. You may confer with Jacob concerning the travel arrangements. Mrs. Finlay will show you what needs to be packed.”

“Very well, my lady.”

“In recompense for these added duties, you shall find that you have much more free time at Hartwell than you do here. I require very little, so the servants who accompany me find it to be more of a holiday than a hardship.”

“I see.”

“Be sure to pack some suitable attire for the country. There are miles of parkland and we are not far from the market town of Aylesbury. There is also a small village nearby.”

“Very well, my lady. When should we be ready to depart?”

“As soon as possible. Perhaps the day after tomorrow?”

When she had left the small room, Rees found it hard to collect his thoughts. Why was it every time he spoke to her, no matter how brief the exchange, he felt himself once again ensnared by her charm? He needed to keep his focus on his assignment.

Despite this, all he felt was an overwhelming sense of relief. For whatever the reason, Lady Wexham had decided to take him along to Hartwell.

The next day Rees spent crisscrossing London with a list of commissions. Her ladyship needed a special blend of tea from Fortnum and Mason’s, a pair of shoes she had had made at Wood’s, a parasol from Cohen’s, the latest novels from Lackington Allen & Co.

With the house in upheaval, he was doing what he would normally have the footmen do. But they were busy packing up the crates of food and wines under Gaspard’s watchful eye.

Rees exited the Pantheon Bazaar where Lady Wexham had sent him to pick up a pair of lady’s gloves and stepped onto Oxford Street.

“Rees!”

His head snapped up at the feminine voice.

Midway down the next block, his sister hailed him. “Rees!” she repeated, waving her arm. Right behind her stood Jessamine and her mother, Mrs. Barry.

All three stared at him, surprise and disbelief in their eyes.

He’d forgotten his sister’s impending visit. In the same instant he remembered his butler’s garb. He’d been so caught up in carrying out Lady Wexham’s errands that he’d overlooked the fact that he was in the precise neighborhood where his sister and Jessamine were most likely to be.

Panic held him rooted to the pavement.

And Jessamine! What would he say to her?

Without thinking, he swiveled around and pushed past the exiting shoppers and reentered the Pantheon. He could use it as a shortcut to the other side of the block, his only thought that they mustn’t see him.

A few minutes later, he reached Marlboro Street. Then he broke into a run, turning corners until he was almost to Seven Dials, a neighborhood they were sure not to enter.

He halted to catch his breath, keeping a sharp eye for pickpockets.

Had they seen him clearly, or had he been far enough away to pass for someone who only resembled him? How was he to explain when Megan next wrote him? Thank goodness he’d be leaving town the next day for Hartwell. He’d write his sister as soon as he arrived to tell her he’d been sent there by the Foreign Office.

His mother and sister would be pleased, thinking he was receiving a promotion with all this traveling he seemed to be doing. If only they knew the truth. A butler!

His thoughts returned to the encounter. He’d just set his hat on his head, so his features would have been hard to distinguish. But they’d seen his eyes. If Megan wrote him about the encounter, he’d be forced to deny having been in the city. His postmark from Hartwell would prove it. At least he’d already warned her he would be out of town. That should certainly convince her she had been mistaken.

But what if all three of the ladies agreed that it had been he?

How he hated this masquerade!

With a sigh, he turned back toward Mayfair. The sooner he returned to the house, the safer he’d be.

He would have to report this evening to let Bunting know of his departure for Hartwell House.

That should keep the man satisfied for the time being.

10

T
he trip to Hartwell House did not take more than a few hours even though they had not had an early start, with so many things to be seen to.

The carriages assumed a leisurely pace, stopping at two posting houses on the way, to change horses. By early afternoon, they were passing through Aylesbury, then on through the picturesque countryside beyond it. By midafternoon they turned into the gate to the vast parklands surrounding the French comte’s residence.

Céline pushed aside the curtain of the carriage window, watching the scenery. She had not been out here to see her mother since February when everything had been covered with snow.