Chapter 1

July 1774

Paris, France

"Morbleu, but it's hot."

Basile Gervain, reluctant marquis of Verdelle, stood on rue Montorgeuil in Les Halles in front of the patisserie Stohrer, whose wafts of emanating heat carried out the scent of fresh pastries. He was dressed elaborately—unlike the raiment he wore on his own estate—his light gray waistcoat embroidered with a black floral pattern peeping out from his dark gray silk coat. His unpowdered hair was tied in a queue under a black cocked hat, trimmed with a somber silk ribbon, and below his slim breeches, clocked stockings disappeared into buckled shoes with the scantest heel as was the fashion of the day.

To his left, his friend Grégoire St. Pierre stood beside a shop with a clanging bell on the vitrified door that sold jewelry to the bourgeois and more modest of the noble class. He was equally distinguished in appearance though more restrained in temperament. A man of few words, Grégoire dressed in as sober a fashion as his long-suffering valet would allow him, a muted style which suited his tall, lanky form.

"'Tis true, en effet." Greg removed his hat and with it gently stirred the air next to his face before replacing it on his head.

They were waiting for their companion, the Vicomte de Galladier, to purchase a token piece of jewelry, for he had fallen in love yet again, to their infinite amusement. Armand de Galladier was born with the soul of a poet and could not resist the call of a blushing face. Unfortunately, he was not gifted with address and had not the success one would expect of a titled man of comfortable means. No one could call him above ordinary in terms of looks, with a weak chin and eyes that had a tendency to bulge. His declarations of love had always carried a tinge of desperation that rather sparked flight in the females he set his eye upon than compelled them to turn a demure face his way.

As they were all three of them young in years, having only just entered their third decade, Basile had no doubt his friend would settle on a woman who was pleased to return his regard before they were in their dotage. For the moment, however, they were pleased to encourage his efforts with teasing and ribaldry.

Opposite to where they waited was a poissonnerie, and the strong smell of fish reached them and mingled with the more pleasant scent of the sweet wine-infused baba, the specialty of this particular pastry shop. If there was any mercy to be had on this hot day, it was that no rain had appeared in a fortnight, and the refuse and horse droppings on the street contributed only minimally to the mingled perfumes of Paris. Another reason Basile preferred his home in Champagne. His chef produced fine meals and pastries only slightly inferior to Stohrer, and the scents there were of wheat and grass and flowers. It smelled clean.

A couple passed in front of them whom Basile suspected were English. The gentleman had a profusion of lace pouring from his sleeves with heeled shoes that were more ornamented than was fashionable. The lady wore a spring green robe à l'anglaise with an open skirt to reveal an underskirt embroidered in pink and silver silk threads. Her brown hair was lightly powdered in a similar tone and matched the color of her large eyes to perfection.

In general, Basile chose to allow the female sex to pass by unobserved. He had nearly become entrapped once, and the passage of time had only shown him how lucky was his escape. He much preferred sport and whatever games he might get up with his friends. But something about this English lady caught his attention, likely in the disparity between her queenly air and intelligent eyes and the stolid bulk and dull expression of her escort. Although she barely glanced at Basile, he had time to appreciate the sweet set of her lips, her aquiline nose, and those soft brown eyes.

As the couple entered Stohrer on his right, he swiveled to its entrance, wishing to confirm his hunch that they were indeed of the English race. Perhaps he and his friends might stop for a cup of coffee and a viennoiserie of some sort. It had been hours since they'd broken their fast, had it not? As he contemplated proposing it to his friend, a finicky English male voice reached him on the street through the open door of the bakery.

"I will have three of those pastries with the cream. You may wrap them for us. We will not be dining here."

A beat of silence fell, and then: "Je suis désolée monsieur, mais je ne comprends rien à ce que vous dites."

The corner of Basile's lips turned up. Stohrer was famous enough to have an English clientele, and the tradeswoman behind the counter likely spoke a little of the language. However, there had been no courtesy of a "good day," and unlike the Englishmen enlightened enough to speak French in a country of French-speakers, this one made no such attempt.

"I said," came the voice, a notch louder and more shrill, "three, THREE of those. The CREAM."

"Perhaps…" a gentle, womanly voice hinted.

"No, Sophie. It's intolerable that they should not speak God's own language. It's those cakes I am asking for. Those ones RIGHT THERE."

Basile listened to the tradeswoman repeat her avowal that she understood nothing, and he shook his head, his grin growing broader as the man repeated his request for the fourth time in a voice that ill hid his frustration. Basile peered into the shop where he spied the Englishman, red around the gills. To his right, the few patrons at the tables leaned in with whispers and muffled laughter.

The pretty Englishwoman stepped forward at last, and Basile managed to catch the low timbre of her words spoken firmly in nearly perfect French.

"Bonjour. Have the goodness to excuse the monsieur. It is not his fault if he is stupid. He would be pleased to take three of your babas if you would be so kind as to wrap them for us."

She stepped back, and the tradeswoman smiled at her and nodded as she set the requested pastries in paper and wrapped them with twine. "Cela fera vingt et un sous."

"The price is twenty-one sous," the Englishwoman repeated to her compatriot. Basile watched as her mask of English indifference shrouded the interesting show of character he had just been witness to when she spoke French.

She couldn't be the man's wife, or that was the greatest piece of audacity he had ever seen. To call him stupid before his face without his knowledge and with not so much as a flicker of her eyelids. It made him laugh to think of it. But the man was stupid if he thought he could endear himself to the French this way. No, it appeared this woman was in need of a rescue from death by boredom at the hands of her tiresome chaperon.

Sophie. That was what the English imbécile had called her.

"Regarde ?a!"

Armand's eager voice sounded at his side, and Basile reluctantly pulled his stare away from the charming Anglaise inside of Stohrer's. In the vicomte's hand was a garnet brooch with gold sprays springing from its jeweled center in all directions like spindly arms of a starfish.

"You spent a half hour in the shop and contented yourself with one brooch? You amaze me. I had been sure you would have purchased half the boutique," Basile said with a lurking smile as he met Grégoire's gaze.

"Well, you see, Apolline and I have only just met," Armand said na?vely. "I should not wish to scare her off by too grand a gesture."

"You are very wise," Grégoire assured him and held out his elbow for Basile to take so they might carry on their path down the street. But Basile had already turned back to the object of his interest and was forced to step aside to allow the Englishman to exit the patisserie. Following him was the charming Englishwoman whose expression remained obscure. Had one not heard her réplique, one might have imagined her spiritless.

On impulse, he swept off his hat, extended his leg, and bowed before the woman, who greeted the gesture with a startled glance. Before she could protest, he spoke to her in rapid French.

"Madame, I beg you will forgive me the forwardness of my address when we have not been presented, but I could not help but wonder if you wished to be rescued from your stupid escort or whether you are bound through the ties of marriage and therefore beyond the hope of deliverance. Behold in me"—he bowed again—"your chevalier, should you need it."

The lady's face tinged with pink as her eyes widened in surprise. She opened her lips as though to answer, but none appeared ready on her tongue. The Englishman turned to see who had dared to address her and frowned.

"What is this, Sophie? I say, sir?—"

Armand had been watching Basile curiously and he now stepped forward. "Have no fear of improper address, madame," he added in French, gallantly coming to Basile's aid. His friend must have sniffed an opportunity to encourage romance. "May I present Monsieur Basile Gervain, Marquis de Verdelle in Champagne. If you attend the salons here in Paris or even in Versailles, you may meet him everywhere. Quite unexceptionable, Monsieur Gervain."

The Englishwoman turned now to Armand, before replying in flawless French, a smile lurking in her eyes. "He is your friend, then?"

Armand bowed low before her. "I have that honor, madame."

The lady nodded graciously as though one stranger vouching for another was a common occurrence. She brought her regard back to Basile. "It is Mademoiselle Twisden, and although I am quite able to rescue myself, I appreciate your concern."

"Sophie, it is not a proper thing to speak to strangers on the street." The Englishman was clearly struggling to follow what was being said and allowed his irritation to show. "I must remind you that as an English lady, you will certainly be prey to whatever designs they may have upon you." He juggled the packages from Stohrer into one hand and reached for the sword at his side, but this was done with more show than fire. He did not appear as one eager for battle. Or one capable of it.

Basile bit back a grin—rarely was he so diverted—and addressed the man in perfect, although faintly accented English. "Why sir, we in France do not propose duels to chance-met strangers. You might crush your delicious pastries." He bowed and introduced himself. "I was reminding Sophie that we had already met in London and that I was pleased to discover her here in my own country."

"Met?" The Englishman turned an astonished look to Sophie. "Where in London? Did you give him leave to use your Christian name?"

A tiny furrow appeared in Sophie's brow, then disappeared as fast. "Oh…why, we were introduced at Lady Betteridge's al fresco picnic, and our mutual friends insisted we all dispense with formality." Sophie smiled at Basile. "Was that not so?" A quick wit this one.

"Indeed," Basile responded, meeting the Englishman's gaze with an innocent expression before turning it back to the charming Sophie. "Well, this is chance-met. Now that you are in Paris, I hope to accord you the same welcome you gave me. How long have you been here?"

"We arrived yesterday." Sophie's eyes held an amused expression that delighted him. She was not an easy one to overset. It only confirmed his knowledge that he rarely made mistakes in his gambles.

"Quelle chance pour moi!" What a lucky stroke. They had crossed the line from strangers to acquaintances, and he might flirt with ease. He would continue in English now that he had secured her interest right from under the nose of her escort.

"Madame Dubigny is sending invitations to her card party tomorrow night, and I know several Englishmen who will be in attendance—along with everyone of note in Paris. I will make sure to procure an invitation for you both. Where might I send them?"

"10 rue des Saints," Sophie replied promptly. "I am staying in the lower rooms with my grandmother. And Mr. Cholmsley here, who has agreed to be our escort in Paris, is residing at Number 12."

"I do not know that we will be free tomorrow night," the Englishman replied primly. "We must visit the English embassy and see to our own acquaintances here. I believe Mr. Charles Arlington, diplomatic attaché to the ambassador, will be expecting our visit."

"Charles will be at the party. He told me so himself," Basile replied urbanely. "You may be sure to meet him there."

Mr. Cholmsley's furrowed brows showed how little he liked this ready answer, but before he could speak, Sophie accepted his invitation.

"I am quite sure my grandmother, Mrs. Elizabeth Twisden, and I will be delighted to attend. She has not been in Paris for many years, and must still have acquaintances who will be glad to meet her again. If this event is as grand as you say, she must certainly be well-placed to rekindle friendships there."

Basile gave her the full force of his regard as he nodded. "I, for one, shall be delighted to make your grandmother's acquaintance and will include an invitation for… Mrs. Twisden, you said?" Sophie nodded, and he went on. "I believe I had not met her in London. It was your…mother that I'd had the privilege to meet, was it not?"

The Englishman frowned. "Sophie?—"

She hastened to reply in French with a strained smile. "You would not have met my mother for she died at my birth. And before you bring up my father, he died three years ago as well. I have only my grandmother."

"No," Basile corrected himself as though suddenly remembering. "It could not have been your mother. An older companion? My memory does not serve."

"Sophie," the Englishman said again, more imperatively.

She smiled and curtsied. "It must have been my friend's mother, Mrs. Vance. It was lovely to see you again, Basile." Mr. Cholmsley turned away to march forward, and she had only time to give Basile an impish grin before following her escort down the street.

He watched her go, her trim figure trailing the Englishman's. She turned her head to the side as a carriage rode by, giving a glimpse under her bonnet of tiny curls on a slender neck. Grégoire cleared his throat next to him. "What's this game, Gervain? Ma foi, in all the years I've known you, I've never seen you accost a pretty stranger on the street. I take it you don't know her?"

"Not yet," Basile replied, waiting until… Oui! She turned back to look at him, giving him a glimpse of her charming face that now showed a hint of shyness. He had hoped she might look back. "But if I must be convoqué to Paris to pay homage to our most dear Louis XV, only to stand on its sweltering streets until I receive permission to return to my domaine, I might as well amuse myself."

He accepted Greg's arm who had moved forward placidly while Armand made an unsuccessful attempt to put Basile to the blush about having fallen in love at last. The three of them moved at their own rhythm, and shopkeepers and crowds alike stepped aside to make room, even when a line of carriages tightened the space and forced the crowd against the building's fa?ade.

Amuse myself.Basile pondered the idea. It had been some time since he had flirted with an Englishwoman. They were so proper, and it was entertaining to coax them out of their reticence.

Something tells me I will.