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“Ouch!” Céline placed her hands on her waist to regain her balance. “I can do very well for a day or two. Virginia can help me with any gown I cannot button for myself.”

Valentine snorted. “That clumsy girl. I do not want to think how I will find your armoires when I return!”

“Well, I am sorry for it, but you must stay behind. I depend on you to finish packing my things and see to everything else.” She sighed, feeling tired and out of sorts. “I shall have to bid
Maman
adieu.” Not a task she relished.

Valentine motioned her to her dressing table to begin her hair. “I will see to her after you leave.”

She glanced at her maid in the mirror. “Thank you.” Behind her gruffness, Valentine would do anything to protect Céline.

Her abigail narrowed her eyes at her. “You look pale. When did you finally retire?”

Céline couldn’t help a yawn. “Late is all I will say. But no matter, I will nap in the coach.” She looked at herself in the mirror, too aware of the shadows under her eyes. “Perhaps a little rouge.” Would MacKinnon indicate by word or look that they had been locked in an embrace just hours before? She couldn’t help touching her lips, still feeling the imprint of his.

Would it throw him when she behaved as if last night had never been?

Or was he too hardened a British spy to be scandalized by her behavior? Would it merely confirm for him the loose morals of the French? Her face burned at the thought that he would think she would allow herself to be kissed by any man.

Slowly, she lowered her hand. Better he think her licentious than suspect the feelings his kiss had exposed in her.

“Very well.” Valentine began brushing Céline’s hair, which only aggravated the pain in her temples from her lack of sleep.

“Please convey my instructions to the other servants,” she said abruptly to Valentine, deciding she didn’t want to face MacKinnon yet. She ignored the longing in her heart to see him again. No! She would not succumb to such feminine weakness.

By eight o’clock Rees finished helping set the dining table for breakfast. No one was up but the servants, and they all looked the way he felt. Eyes full of grit, head in a vise. He had drunk nothing but hadn’t slept a wink when he’d finally been able to return to his room. All he could think of was Lady Wexham’s kiss and the danger she was in.

He returned to the vast kitchens to drink a cup of coffee before seeing what other tasks there were to be done. He expected he would have to help clean up the remains of the ball.

He stifled a yawn as he entered the kitchen and headed for a table that usually had coffee and tea urns for whoever happened by. He had just poured himself a cup of the strong coffee when he heard someone behind him.

He turned to see Valentine. Had she just come from Lady Wexham’s room? How was she this morning? The thoughts flitted through his mind in rapid succession as he struggled to put in place an impassive demeanor.

Valentine came toward him, her look of dislike evident. With a brief “good morning” he moved aside to allow her access to the urns.

Instead of serving herself, she stood and folded her arms. He lifted an eyebrow, lowering his coffee cup a fraction from his lips.

“You are to accompany madame to London zis morning.”

It was good he hadn’t yet taken a sip of coffee. “I beg your pardon?”

She sniffed with a toss of her head. “You heard me.”

“Lady Wexham is returning to London today?” When had she decided this?

“Yes.” As if begrudging every crumb of information she was forced to give him, she turned toward the tea urn and tossed over her shoulder, “You will pack up your zings and go to the stables to assist Jacob with anything he needs. You will ride my lady’s mare, as you did coming here.”

“Shall I go and see about hiring another coach?”

“
Non—
the rest of us will follow in a day or so.”

He drew his brows together, his surprise growing. “You are not returning today?” What would others say? Would it look strange that Lady Wexham was returning all of a sudden to London?

He stopped the rapid progression of his thoughts. He seemed to care more about her welfare than the fact that Lady Wexham must have a pressing reason to return to London—and it was his duty to find out what it was.

“
Non
,” she snapped. “My lady returns by herself in her traveling chaise.”

“I see.” No wonder the maid was so disgruntled. Probably miffed at being left behind.

What was Lady Wexham up to? What did it have to do with last night? He didn’t like it. Not when someone had been following her to her rendezvous.

“Well, what are you standing around for? Madame wishes to leave within ze hour.”

“Does Jacob know?”

“
Non
. That is for you to do.”

“I don’t know if he’ll be ready in an hour.”

She sniffed. “Zat is your affair.” She poured her tea, ignoring him.

Seeing he would get no more from Valentine, Rees gulped down his coffee and left for the stables.

He didn’t like it.

After some effort on Valentine’s part, Céline was finally satisfied with her appearance. A little powder and some rouge hid most of the
ravages of so little sleep. At least her dark green traveling outfit set off her complexion well.

With a final adjustment of her bonnet, she picked up her reticule and turned to bid Valentine good-bye.

“Don’t look so glum. We shall see each other soon.”

“Hah. You have left me with all the work here.” She glanced with contempt at the small valise at Céline’s feet. “That is all you are taking, and I must make sure nothing is left behind.”

“I have more than enough back home.”

Valentine picked up the valise. “I shall take this down to the carriage—if that butler managed to tell Jacob to have it ready.”

Céline paused at the door. “You told him my plans?”

“Of course.” Valentine gave her a sharp look. Before she could question her, Céline walked out of the room. “I shall run to my mother’s apartment and then go to the carriage.”

“Very well. I shall see you at the front.”

Céline knocked on her mother’s sitting room door. Her maid opened the door a crack.

“Is my mother awake yet?”

“Yes, my lady, she is just having her chocolate now.” She moved aside to let Céline enter.

Céline made her way to the bedroom where her mother sat up in her nightcap and peignoir, a tray on her lap.

Her mother blinked at her over her reading spectacles. “
Ma chérie
, are you going somewhere so early after last evening?”

Céline leaned down and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Good morning,
Maman
. I am returning to London.”

“What? How is this? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I only decided last night.”

“Why ever for? You only just arrived.”

Céline chuckled, pretending a nonchalance she didn’t feel. “It has been at least a week and a half. I left many things pending in the city. Don’t worry, I shall return again soon.” Not sure when that would
be, she patted her mother’s hand. “Take care of yourself. Valentine remains behind to finish packing my things. She will see to anything else you may need.”

Her mother shook her head at her. “I shall never understand you. Always flitting about.” She shooed her away from the bed. “Well, be off with you. I want you to arrive before sunset.”

Céline straightened. “Very well. I will write you when I arrive.” Blowing her a final kiss, she turned to leave, feeling the same vague emptiness she did every time she bid her mother good-bye.

Céline reached the main staircase and was just about to make her way down to the ground floor when someone called her name.

She turned to find Monsieur de la Roche at her elbow. The man had a way of appearing silently where he was least wanted.

She hid her displeasure and smiled. “Good morning, monsieur. How are you this day?”

He inclined his gray pate. “Very well, dear lady. How are you . . . after last night’s nocturnal activities?”

She tensed under his steady scrutiny. A vision of embracing MacKinnon came to her, and she struggled to keep her smile steady. “A little worse for the wear, but nothing a good night’s rest will not restore.”

“Yes.” His gaze drifted downward. “I noticed Harlequin wore himself out on the dance floor.”

Fear pricked along the back of her neck. Had he recognized her? Before she could react, he asked, “You are going somewhere?”

“Yes.”

He waited, his pale eyes never leaving hers. “At a distance?”

She gave a careless laugh. “I fear London beckons me back.”

He raised a gray eyebrow. “London.” At the inflection, an image rose in her mind of his brain studying the word from all sides, cataloging it, and filing it away for some nefarious purpose.

She shook aside her fanciful imagination. Really, a lack of sleep was rattling her more than merited. With a careless wave, she proceeded
down the staircase. “I shall see you in town one of these days, I imagine.”

“Doubtless you shall, perhaps sooner than you think.”

“I shall count the days!” Without another glance, she walked down the staircase, keeping a dignified pace.

Rees stood beside his pawing mount, waiting for Lady Wexham. It was scarcely past nine o’clock when she appeared.

He braced himself before looking at her, hoping to have himself well in hand before she approached. But his breath caught and a knot formed in his chest at the sight of her. In a dark green pelisse with a matching hat and plumy ostrich feather, she looked as elegant as any fashionable lady of the
ton
—and a far cry from the roguish harlequin she had played the evening before. She smiled and nodded at Tom, stopping to exchange a few words with him.

Rees stood too far to hear what they said. He had deliberately positioned his horse behind the traveling chaise in order to see her before she saw him. Now, he pretended to adjust the mare’s girth.

Valentine’s nasal tones reached him and then Lady Wexham’s quiet reply, though he couldn’t distinguish the words.

Rees kept his head lowered, focusing on the leather strap between his fingers, straining to hear the sound of the carriage door opening. Maybe he would not have to speak to her at all this morning.

Instead, it was the scrunch of the gravel drive before him and then her soft voice. “Good morning, Mr. MacKinnon. Is all well with you?”

Slowly, he looked up, feeling at once the impact of those brandy-hued eyes on him. He swallowed back the gnawing ache in his gut.

“Y-yes. Yes,” he repeated more firmly.

“Forgive this sudden decision to return to town. I hope you had no trouble readying yourself for departure?”

Clearly she had no notion that he had been the pirate who had accosted her on the path last night.

Not sure whether to feel disappointed or relieved, he searched her face, wondering again why she was returning to London. “None at all, my lady.”

“You are all set to ride back then? Not too fatigued after last night’s ball? I hope you were not kept up too long.” She paused, tilting her chin at an angle. “I didn’t see you after dinner.”

Was there something behind the words? Or was she waiting for his explanation of why he’d shirked his duties as butler?

“I was kept busy below stairs,” he finally managed.

She continued regarding him a moment longer before saying softly, “I see.”

The words reminded him sharply of her whispered commands of the previous night.
You may kiss me.

Finally, she gave a nod and stepped back from him, allowing him to resume breathing. “We shall be on our way then.”

Céline settled back against the squabs as the carriage lurched forward.

Well, that was over. Not sure how she would confront MacKinnon, she was relieved he had no idea she knew of his disguise. Or, was she?

Alone in the vehicle, with a few hours to do little else but think, she was hard-pressed to ignore the part of her that wished MacKinnon had acknowledged what had transpired between them last night. She touched her lips, reliving those moments of abandon.

She tried to rein in her feelings, telling herself that once in London, she would have to decide what to do about her butler. She’d have to consult Gaspard and Roland and assess the damage.

And Valentine? Her maid would demand some immediate action against MacKinnon.

Why did Céline yet feel reluctant to expose him? He was her enemy, yet . . . he had protected her last night. She leaned toward the window, even now fearful that de la Roche or whoever had followed her last night would come after her.

But she saw no one but MacKinnon riding atop her mare, a cloud of dust kicking up around its hooves, and she felt strangely secure.

She picked up her book and opened it. She might as well occupy her mind until they reached the first posting house.

They had been riding for a while since stopping at the last tollgate north of the market town of Watford. Rees calculated they would soon enter Middlesex and then it was only a few more miles to London. But first lay Bushey Heath and Stanmore Commons, open areas with few farmhouses.

He rode behind the carriage, trying to avoid the sight of Lady Wexham as much as possible. The market road to London was in terrible shape, deeply rutted from the heavy cart traffic.

How he wished he were elsewhere. Even a post aboard a cutter with the tedious task of blockading the French ports would be preferable at this moment.

He had spent most of the ride figuring out what he would do when they returned to London. What would he tell Bunting?

He would be truthful . . . as far as he could. That there were certain suspicious signs, but no hard evidence against Lady Wexham. If she was spying on the Comte de Provence, that was not grounds for treason. Let the French solve their own problems of succession. As long as Bonaparte was defeated. He doubted anything Lady Wexham did or didn’t do would affect the outcome of that.

Napoleon had sealed his own downfall with his invasion of Russia. The loss of troops was irreparable. And Spain was proving a continual bleeding sore.