Chapter Eight

Reynard woke later than usual: the sun was well up in the sky. It had taken him a long time to fall asleep; he’d been kept awake by thoughts that kept circling in his mind. He shouldn’t have let her go off to bed like that. He should have explained his point of view better, should have trusted her.

Not let her stagger into the wagon early, looking so devastated.

She was an honest girl. He’d seen that from the first.

He’d already decided to come clean to her and explain everything. He’d planned to do it that evening, by the fire, which was always so conducive to good conversation.

If only he hadn’t started removing the old paintings from their frames. It had totally disrupted his plan. She’d been shocked, deeply shocked, and terribly dismayed.

And he’d been so thrown, so disturbed by the strength of her reaction—and by her clear repudiation of him—that he’d just let her go to bed. Instead of which he should have sat her down by the fire, given her a glass of wine and explained.

He’d been a fool not to tell her everything in the first place. But he hadn’t known her then, and previous experience with women had taught him not to trust first impressions.

But Vita was different.

He wanted her, wanted her to be part of his life. Oh, he knew there would be problems, serious ones, but he didn’t care. She was what he wanted.

He lit the fire and put the water on to heat. Where was she, anyway? She was usually up by now. Though, come to think of it, she’d probably slept badly, too. The thing that had finally helped him to sleep was the warm weight of Hamish, lying against his spine.

He glanced around, suddenly aware that the dog was missing. No doubt off hunting for his breakfast. Reynard busied himself preparing breakfast.

The water boiled, but instead of making tea, he decided it was time to shave. If he was going to put the question to her, it would surely be better not to look like a shabby, unshaven vagabond.

He shaved, enjoying the feel of a clean, smooth jaw. He boiled a fresh pot of water but delayed making the tea. He didn’t want it to stew, and she still hadn’t emerged from the wagon. She wasn’t usually such a late sleeper. Was she ill?

Or perhaps still upset after last night’s quarrel?

He knocked on the door. “Vita?”

There was no answer. He knocked again, but…nothing. He tried the door. It swung open. But last night she’d bolted it against him; he’d heard the snick of the bolt—felt it—and was ashamed at his harsh words.

That wounded look in her eyes when she realized the paintings were looted, that people she’d known and liked had looted them from the homes of aristos. It had flicked him on the raw, and he’d been defensive and somehow angry. He’d spoken harshly, he realized, partly in anger at her expression of wounded innocence, of silent accusation. How could she not have known the history of her own country?

Though, of course, she was young. And most people preferred to sweep the ugliness of the past under the carpet, pretending it had never happened. And that none of them had been involved. They did, however, like the advances that had come with the revolution, the fairer laws, especially for poor people.

Of course he hadn’t explained what he was doing, just that he swapped old paintings for new. But how had she not guessed?

That look in her eyes as she’d stared at Madame LeBlanc’s painting, it still haunted him.

Was she perhaps washing in the stream, as was her habit? Had he somehow missed her exit from the wagon?

He climbed into the wagon and looked around.

Everything was neat and clean. None of her things were hanging on their usual hooks. Nothing of hers was visible. She’d gone. But on the neatly made bed lay the half-rolled paintings. He picked them up. And swore.

There should have been three paintings, but there were only two. He could hardly believe his eyes. One of the valuable old paintings was missing—the one from the widow LeBlanc.

She’d stolen it! He checked again, and yes, it was true: his “honest” little artist had vanished, taking with her one of his more valuable paintings. Damn it all!

Thank goodness the others had been locked in the cupboard.

Though, why hadn’t she taken the other two paintings? Did she think she was entitled to that one because she had painted its replacement? They never had come to any agreement. Why hadn’t she talked to him about it?

He sat down heavily on the bunk, holding the roll of canvas in nerveless hands. How could she? He’d trusted her. Been sure they were fall—becoming closer.

He knew she had secrets, that one or two things in her tale didn’t add up, but everyone had secrets. He did himself, but he’d been about to lay himself open to her, tell her everything, even to make her an offer he’d never in his life offered to any woman.

What a fool!

She’d accused him of cheating, of swindling the “poor ignorant peasants”—and he’d actually felt a twinge of guilt—but she was the one who’d turned out to be the cheat, the damned little thief!

He searched the wagon, but nothing else was missing. She hadn’t even left him a note! She probably couldn’t even write. But she could deceive and betray—almost as well as she could paint, he thought savagely.

She’d certainly made a fool of him. She’d probably planned this all along.

He thought of her face after he’d explained the true source of the paintings, the way she’d climbed into the wagon as if deep in shock. Hah! What an actress she was.

He stepped woodenly down from the wagon, baffled, betrayed and furious. But not heartbroken, he told himself. No, certainly not that. She was a deceitful baggage! He’d made a lucky escape—yes, that was it, he was relieved.

Heartbroken? How ridiculous.

Hamish appeared in his usual wraithlike manner, bounded across the clearing and leaned heavily against Reynard’s thigh.

Reynard crouched down to pat him. “She’s gone, did you know?” The dog gazed at him with a mournful expression, then licked his chin.

“Thank you. Yes, I shaved. Not much point, though. It was going to be an occasion.” He huffed a dry, humorless laugh. “I suppose it was an occasion after all, just not the sort I’d planned on.” The dog sighed.

Reynard stood. “Come on, she can’t have gone far. Let’s go after her.”

When had she left? Before dawn? Probably. No doubt it was when he’d finally gone to sleep after tossing and turning most of the night.

He hurried into the village, the dog trotting at his heels, but there was no sign of her.

The innkeeper’s wife was sweeping the cobbles outside the inn. “Looking for your cousin?” she said. “She’s long gone, monsieur. She left with the miller’s son. I saw them leaving just after dawn.”

“The miller’s son?” He’d never heard a thing about this miller’s son. Who was he and how did Vita know him?

“Yes, he was giving her a lift to Nantes. You have no need to worry, monsieur; he’s a simple lad, but good and reliable. She wanted to catch the diligence . It passes through the town every Thursday around noon.”

So that was it. He’d never catch her. Even if he hired a horse and rode ventre à terre after her, she’d be almost in Nantes by now, and it was maybe a half hour before noon. She was gone.

Even if he went to Paris to look for her, how would he find her? A maidservant in Paris? Needle in a haystack.

Besides, he had commitments here, paintings to paint and exchange. He didn’t need to waste time wondering about the light-fingered baggage who’d made a fool of him.

She’d gone to Paris. Did she know anyone there, or was her so-called ignorance of Paris another lie? He hoped for her sake she did have somewhere safe to go.

Not that he was worried about her. Not at all.

It was just that the city was a dangerous place for a beautiful young woman. Any young woman. Even a scheming, untrustworthy baggage.

“There you are!” Lucy, Lady Thornton, pulled Zo? into a relieved, slightly tearful embrace. “We were getting so worried about you. Gerald was about to drive down to Chateau Treffier in search of you.”

Zo? pulled back and stared at Lucy. “But didn’t Marie tell you—”

Lucy snorted. “Marie is a good girl, and a terrible liar. She told us the story you told her to tell us, and gave us your letter, but I could see at once that you were off on one of your starts!”

Zo? tried not to smile. “One of my starts?”

“Oh, don’t give me that butter-wouldn’t-melt look,” Lucy said severely, and hugged her again. “I know you. And if you were so desperate to visit your mother’s birthplace, why on earth didn’t you tell us? Gerald would have taken you there.”

“I did ask you.”

“No, you mentioned it once .”

“And Gerald told me the Chateau de Chantonney was a ruin, and you said it would be too, too melancholy a place to visit and so far away it wasn’t worth it.” And besides, he was so busy these days, she didn’t like to trouble him. Lucy and Gerald had already done so much for her.

“And was it? Melancholy, I mean,” Lucy asked as she led Zo? upstairs. She stopped to give orders to the housekeeper and then continued, “I’m going to put you straight into a bath and have those dreadful clothes burned. You look a fright!”

Zo? grinned. “I think I look pretty good for someone who’s had to wash in a cold stream the last week or so.”

Lucy shuddered. “Serves you right. Had you just explained—but there, it’s all water under the bridge now, and you’re home safe, and I won’t say another word. So, was it too, too melancholy?”

“It was, but I needed to go there and see for myself. I don’t regret anything”—she glanced at Lucy’s face—“except causing you anxiety.”

“And Gerald,” Lucy added. “You know how he takes his responsibilities so seriously.”

“Yes, I’ll apologize to him when he gets home. But I honestly didn’t think you’d worry. I did explain in my letter that I’d be fine.”

“Yes, and when I questioned Marie, I could tell at once that you hadn’t told us the full story. And when Gerald questioned her, she burst into tears and said you were planning to walk wherever you were going—she didn’t know where—by yourself. By yourself!—dressed in her old clothes!”

“Gerald made her cry?” Zo? began indignantly.

“Don’t be silly! You know what a gentleman he is. The truth is, the poor girl was worried sick about you, certain something dreadful would happen to you and that we’d hold her responsible and throw her out on her ear to sink or swim on her own in the big, bad city.”

“But I told her you’d take good care of her.”

“And of course we did. But she’s a good, responsible, truthful girl.”

Zo? sighed. “I suppose I owe her an apology, too. Where is she, by the way?”

“Out shopping with one of the kitchen maids. I’ll send her up to you when she gets back. By then I hope you’ll look more like yourself, although what we’ll do about your complexion I have no idea.”

Zo? put a hand to her cheek. “My complexion?”

“Frightfully brown, my dear. You’ve been out in the sun too much.” She glanced at the cylinder that Zo? had just placed on the bed. “I suppose that contains paintings. You managed to get some work done, then?”

“Yes. I’ll show you later.” Zo? couldn’t wait to show Lucy the painting of her mother as a child. But she needed to think about how to present it. She didn’t want to mention Reynard or what he’d been doing. She wasn’t sure why. Partly she didn’t want anyone to know that she’d spent a week alone with a man, entirely unchaperoned. But more than anything, she didn’t want to talk about how she’d felt about him. Lucy was far too perceptive and would have no inhibitions about asking awkward questions. And how she felt about Reynard, well, that was still too raw a wound.

A knock came on the door.

“Ah, here’s the water for your bath,” Lucy said. “Come down for luncheon when you’re clean and dressed. And then, Miss Gadabout, I will want to hear everything, all your adventures.”

A short time later Marie returned and had a tearful reunion with Zo?. “Oh, mademoiselle, I’m so sorry I told, but I was so worried. And milor’ and milady have been so kind.”

Zo? reassured her, and while Marie helped her to dress in blessedly clean clothes, she gave an animated account of her journey to Paris, and all the amazing sights she had seen since she’d arrived. “Always I was told that people in the city were wicked and ungodly, mademoiselle, but it’s not true! Some of them are, yes, to be sure, but everyone I have met, from the butcher to the greengrocer and the people at the market—and milor’ and milady’s servants—everyone has been so good and kind to an ignorant girl from the country.”

Over luncheon, Zo? gave Lucy an edited account of her adventures, and then, when Gerald came home for dinner that evening, she repeated it all again.

Lucy listened, and at the end of her recitation, said shrewdly, “There’s a man involved in this somewhere, I’m sure of it.”

Zo?, fighting a blush, said, “Well, yes. I’m surprised Marie didn’t tell you about the despicable Monsieur Etienne.” She told them all about him, from his first surreptitious pinches to the final dramatic showdown. She made such a good story of it that by the end they were both laughing—though Gerald was heard to mutter that if that blasted Etienne ever showed his face in Paris, he’d make the swine regret he was ever born.

Then she showed them the painting of her mother as a child, with her grandparents and uncle. Inevitably, this time there were a few tears in the telling.

“But you see now why I had to go.”

Gerald frowned. “You don’t mean you found this just lying around at the Chateau de Chantonney?”

Zo? swallowed. “No, of course not, not after all this time. It was actually an amazing coincidence, a lucky accident. After I left the chateau, I met some of the people living in the area. There was a woman, a widow with three children, and she had this painting. I spent a few days with her. Her late father-in-law had given it to her as a wedding present, but she must have known where it came from and had never liked having it in her house. She kept it in a cupboard.” It was the truth, sort of. Just not the whole truth.

She hurried on, trying to gloss over the holes in her story. “We made an exchange—I did a painting of her and her children, and she gave me this.”

“Good heavens!” Gerald exclaimed. “You mean she just gave it to you?”

“Yes, we got talking and I said I was a painter. I showed her some drawings in my sketchbook, and then she fetched this one and showed it to me. I recognized it at once. Maman had painted something similar from memory, and I knew that was her beloved doll, Marianne.” She pointed to the doll in the painting, but didn’t tell them what had happened to the doll.

“So then we made a bargain—my painting of the widow and her children in exchange for this one that she didn’t want. She told me, in fact, that she was glad to be rid of it.” Madame LeBlanc had actually said that to Reynard, but that was a moot point.

“What an amazing story,” Lucy said. “And what incredible luck for you.”

Zo? smiled. The way she’d told it, finding that particular painting was an incredible coincidence, but it wasn’t when one considered that Reynard’s whole strategy was to gather as many paintings as he could that had been looted from the Chateau de Chantonney and any other grand houses in the area. As one painting out of a dozen or more that he’d retrieved so far, it was not nearly so coincidental.

She’d worked out his plan, his strategy, on the long journey by diligence back to Paris. It was clever, but she still felt it was dishonest. Though, was it really dishonest to cheat people out of profiting from paintings that had been stolen—looted—in the first place? Even though it had happened several decades ago?

Her thoughts and feelings about him were still a great tangle of contradictions. Painful ones. Had he been furious when she left? Or hurt?

If only he’d been the man she’d imagined he was. But he wasn’t. He was a cheat and a swindler.

Though, what did that make her? It wasn’t the same, she told herself. This painting was of her family. She, more than anyone, had the right to it. And Madame LeBlanc was satisfied, so it was just Reynard who would be angry.

And she didn’t care about him. Or his feelings. Not a bit.

She was going to forget all about Reynard. In fact, she’d quite forgotten him already. Reynard? Who was that? Nobody, that’s who.

The unprincipled rat.

After two hours of trying to be coolheaded and businesslike and refusing to think about a certain beautiful, deceitful, light-fingered baggage, Reynard packed up his paints, hitched Rocinante to the wagon and drove to the widow LaBlanc’s farm, where he asked her and her children, in exchange for a handsome sum, to look after his horse and his dog until he returned. He had urgent business in Paris, he told her.

The widow nodded sympathetically. “Yes, monsieur, I heard she had run off to Paris.”

“Run off? Nothing of the sort. She lives there. With my uncle and aunt,” he added, recalling that he’d claimed Vita as a cousin. “But I’m not concerned about her. My trip to Paris is purely for business purposes.”

“Yes, of course, monsieur,” the woman said, clearly humoring him. “I hope you find her. Paris is no place for a young girl.”

“My going to Paris has nothing to do with Vita. Nothing at all.”

“No, monsieur, of course not,” she said in an annoyingly soothing voice. “You will find her, I’m sure of it.”

In the village he hired a horse and rode to Nantes, where, the diligence being not expected for another week, he hired an elderly chaise for an exorbitant sum and drove in stages to Paris. It took forever.

He hoped to hell that she did have someone to go to in Paris.

He needed her to be safe. And when he was sure she was, then he would…what? Strangle her. Probably.

He actually did have business in Paris, though he could have taken care of it at any time; there was no urgency. Not wanting to leave them behind, he’d brought the paintings, a thick, heavy roll of valuable canvases.

He made his way first to a small gallery. A bell jangled as he entered. A small elderly man with a neat, pointed beard came forward, smiling. “Reynard, my friend, I’m delighted to see you.”

Reynard gave a wry laugh. “You’re delighted to see what I’ve brought you, Gaston, you rogue.”

The little man spread his hands in a very Gallic gesture. “But of course. You bring me such delights, so why not?” He locked the door, saying, “Come through to the back room and show me what you have.”

An hour later, Gaston having almost exhausted his repertoire of extravagant compliments, they returned to the main part of the gallery. “Are you sure you won’t—” Gaston began.

Reynard laughed. “Absolutely not. You know my conditions.”

Gaston’s narrow shoulders drooped. “I know, but it is so wasteful. What do you do now?” the Frenchman asked as the two men shook hands. “Back to the hunt?”

Reynard shook his head. “Not just yet. I have business in the city first.”

“Then bon chance , my friend.”

Good luck? Reynard thought as he walked away. It was an impossible task, finding one lone female in a city of thousands. But he had to try.

He’d taken one of his drawings of her—he was surprised how many he had—and then used watercolors to color it in—especially her midnight hair and beautiful green eyes. Getting the right shade for those eyes had been more difficult than he’d thought. But they were unforgettable—she was unforgettable. He was sure people would remember seeing her.

He went to the diligence office, showed several people her picture and asked whether they’d seen her. The sixth person he spoke to recognized her. “Yes, monsieur, the young lady did arrive on the diligence . When? I do not recall exactly which day—we are very busy here, monsieur, with coaches arriving day and night from all corners of the country—but certainly it was in the last week. I remember the so-pretty young lady. Where did she go? Oh, that I could not say, monsieur. I think she hired a cab, but which one and where it was going, I could not say. But she seemed to know her way around.”

That should have reassured him. If she’d hired a cab with confidence, she must have had somewhere safe to go to, but strangely it made him angrier. More lies, and he’d thought her so honest.

With the reluctant assistance of Gaston, the gallery owner, he’d made a list of all the galleries and dealers where someone might try to sell a valuable old painting. He’d had to work to assure Gaston that he wasn’t in search of an alternative source to take the paintings, that he was trying to track down a particular painting that had been stolen from him.

He still couldn’t understand why she hadn’t taken the other paintings as well, but that didn’t matter now.

He tramped from one end of the city to the other, visiting gallery after gallery and dealers who dealt privately, starting with the less reputable ones. If a young woman arrived with a loose but valuable canvas, the more respectable ones would instantly smell a rat and send her packing. Assuming that she knew how to sell a painting in the first place.

She probably would, he thought. She’d recognized the Charles Le Brun portrait at a glance, after all. She knew a lot more about painting and artists than she’d let on.

But none of the people he questioned admitted to recognizing the girl in the picture, and every single one of them claimed not to have seen the painting he described to them—though if he recovered it, they would be very interested in discussing a price.

It was all very frustrating. He couldn’t tell if they were telling him the truth or were lying to cover up a disreputable transaction.

By the end of the day, he was utterly fed up. He knew searching for her in Paris would be like searching for a needle in a haystack, so why had he bothered? But he wasn’t prepared to give up yet.

He returned to his hotel, ate a good meal and had an early night.

The next morning he rose early, made a hearty breakfast and then set out to continue his search for Vita. He started with employment agencies. She’d claimed to be a lady’s maid, and though he suspected that was a lie, too, it was worth checking.

But again, he had no luck. It seemed that employment agencies, or at least the dozen or so he visited, were universally run by hatchet-faced gorgons, who eyed him suspiciously—some through a lorgnette, some merely down a long, disdainful nose—sniffed at the picture he showed them of Vita and informed him in freezing tones that they ran “a respectable agency, monsieur, providing employment for deserving, decent, virtuous and hard-working females, not that sort of girl at all!” Several ended their blistering dismissal with variations on “You are clearly in search of quite another sort of establishment, so I will thank you to begone, monsieur!”

That inspired him to visit those other sorts of establishments, but the madams in charge were just as unhelpful and equally irritating. They questioned him closely—some with ill-concealed amusement—as to how he had lost his young woman in the first place—and such a pretty one, too—which made him stiffen outwardly while squirming inside.

They looked at the picture of Vita and offered him girls that they assured him would be just as good, if not better. “We have blondes, brunettes or redheads—even girls with green eyes—all just as pretty as that one, and all extremely amenable to whatever monsieur desires of them. You can take your pick, monsieur.”

In vain he tried to explain that he didn’t want a girl who looked like Vita, he wanted her . Upon which the various madams shrugged indifferently and dismissed him.

He walked along the riverbank, accosting complete strangers, showing them the picture, to no avail.

He tried the main markets, visited the more popular parks, the streets where there were the kinds of shops that might attract a young woman who had come into money recently, but to no avail.

But despite his lack of success—or perhaps because of it—he kept seeing her everywhere. There she was, just ahead of him in a crowded street. But when he reached her and touched her arm and she turned around in surprise, it wasn’t Vita at all, just some other slender young woman with dark curly hair. It happened several times—this one walked like Vita, that one tilted her head just like Vita often did.

One time he even thought he caught a glimpse of her in a very smart carriage that bowled smartly along the street. She was sitting with a very fashionable lady, and at the sight of her profile he caught his breath. But the carriage turned, and by the time he reached the corner, it was gone.

It couldn’t have been her, he decided. She was too richly and fashionably dressed, and that very elegant carriage was pulled by a magnificent pair of matched bays, with a liveried driver in front and footman on behind.

He was hallucinating, he decided, imagining he was seeing her everywhere. With a heavy heart he collected his baggage and returned to where he’d left his hired carriage. His search had failed. It was time to return to his wagon and his dog and finish the commissions he’d agreed to.

For Zo? the days passed quickly in a frenzy of shopping and dress fittings in the finest Parisian establishments. She thought she already owned more dresses than any girl would need, but apparently she knew nothing of what it took for a London Season. She spent hours standing patiently, being fitted for walking dresses, morning dresses and ball gowns and the various underclothes that went with each style, as well as pelisses and spencers. Then there were shoes and hats and gloves and fans and all kinds of things to purchase, though Gerald pointed out that many of these could be acquired in London.

The quantity of baggage they would be taking with them was overwhelming. Gerald said he would have to hire a carriage just for the baggage. Zo? couldn’t help but marvel at all that was considered necessary for a young lady making her come-out, and to tell the truth, the expense worried her. Most of her life, as a child with Maman and in the orphanage, she’d been lucky to have one spare dress, and her recent time with Reynard had reminded her of how little you really needed to be perfectly happy.

Still, Lucy had made the journey from an obscure scoundrel’s daughter to a titled lady, and she knew exactly what was required. And she stressed that Clarissa and her husband, Race, had told Lucy to spare no expense in preparing Zo? for her come-out.

“Clarissa and Izzy would be the first to complain at anything less than perfection,” Lucy told her more than once when Zo? had demurred at some extravagant purchase. “They want you to make a splash, for you to dazzle London society wearing the very latest French fashions.”

Zo? knew it was true. Her two sisters and Lady Scattergood had written weekly, ever since she’d first come to France with Lucy and Gerald, and the most recent letters had been filled with excitement and fashion advice and anticipation of Zo?’s return to London.

But though she was looking forward to being reunited with her sisters and Lady Scattergood, Zo? wasn’t at all eager to make a splash in society. She preferred, in fact, to remain in the background. Oh, Lucy had trained her thoroughly, and she’d had plenty of experience in Paris with balls and routs and dances and other social events, and she’d always managed quite well. She’d learned all the various dance steps, never lacked for a partner and had received many compliments.

She grimaced, thinking about it. Compliments often made her uncomfortable. The French gentlemen she’d met had lavished compliments on her, but she’d always felt that somehow they were practiced compliments, flowery, well- rehearsed and applied almost indiscriminately. She rarely felt they applied just to her. It was the nature of “polite society,” and it helped grease the wheels of social interaction, but though she saw the value in everyone being pleasant—at least to your face—she still didn’t feel comfortable with it.

She knew it was all a kind of game, but what about when you wanted to stop playing the game and be real?

Reynard had never given her flowery compliments. His compliments were more in the nature of a softening in his eyes when he looked at her, a warm glow of approval at something she’d said or done or a delighted laugh when she’d said something funny or witty. As for the way he showed open respect for her painting skills—even being willing to learn from her—in her experience, that made him a rarity among men. She’d valued that much more than any flowery compliment.

And so often he’d exchanged a glance with her, a silent invitation, sharing their reaction to the same thing, such as Monsieur Gaudet’s enthusiasm for his pig. Or he’d raised a sardonic eyebrow in her direction, and she’d just known what he was thinking and sometimes struggled not to laugh aloud. It was rare that she met people with the same sense of humor, and that instant sense of connection with Reynard had been part of why she’d fallen for him so hard and so quickly.

But it wasn’t possible to fall in love in just a week, she told herself a dozen times a day. It just wasn’t, no matter how she felt.

Besides, there were plenty of reasons why he shouldn’t—didn’t!—appeal to her at all. Probably he’d been playing a game all along and she was the silly girl who’d thought it was real. Well, she knew now that it was not to be. She would be in England soon, and her new life—her real life—would start.

And she’d be so busy she wouldn’t even think about a man called Reynard.

She was taking Marie with her, much to Marie’s surprise. “Me, mademoiselle? Go to England with you? But I speak no English.”

“You’ll pick it up,” Zo? told her. “I’ll help you, and we’ll speak in French all the time anyway.”

Marie wasn’t sure. “The other servants will look down on me,” she said unhappily.

“Oh no they won’t,” Zo? told her firmly. “If anyone is unkind, I’ll deal with them. But I expect they’ll look up to you. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the ladies tried to steal you.”

Marie looked horrified. “Steal me? But why?”

Zo? grinned. “A real French maid is something of a status symbol in England. But don’t worry, I wouldn’t let anyone take you.”

Marie’s brow remained furrowed. “I am not sure, mademoiselle.”

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to. If you want to stay in Paris, Lady Thornton and I will find you a good position with someone we know and trust, and—”

“Leave me alone in Paris, mademoiselle? No, no and no! After you and milady have been so kind? No!” She took a deep breath. “Very well, I will go to this England. It will be another adventure, yes?”

“Yes. For both of us.”