...FitzGibbon accepted a chair with feigned alacrity and pleasure. He would have liked to question Beauchamp further as to how he received information from France, but realized he must tread carefully and not arouse suspicion. Besides, might such a one as Jules Beauchamp be the contact FitzGibbon sought, the conduit to the spies who had murdered Gorman and who threatened an assassination? The notion seemed incredible, although he knew agents came in all forms.

The fair-haired Pierre d’Aubigny drifted closer and took a seat on the fringe of the group. He looked faintly bored, showing not the slightest interest in a newcomer of his own age. FitzGibbon thought d’Aubigny’s ennui might be a pose. Then he mentally shook his head. He was beginning to suspect everyone and anyone, even without cause, and to believe that everyone was playing a part. He must wait and see, keeping an open mind.

“Well, sirs,” FitzGibbon began, “when the revolution started, I was, of course, little more than an infant. My family were not alarmed at first, and even when the Comte d’ Artois, the king’s brother, led the first group of noble families from France, they remained unperturbed.”

He paused as girlish voices sounded outside the room. The door opened and two young ladies came in. They had obviously been outdoors—one, with curly, red-brown hair, wore a yellow sleeveless pelisse, and swung a bonnet by its ribbons. She was quite pretty, FitzGibbon thought, rising with the other gentlemen. Not plump, but with pleasantly full curves. Possibly not much more than twenty years of age.

The other girl wore a light blue walking dress and matching gloves. As she set a dainty parasol on a chair, the deep poke of her blue-trimmed white bonnet shaded her face. FitzGibbon could see only the tip of a pert nose, a nicely-rounded chin and a perfect mouth that seemed ready to smile. She moved with grace, yet with an air of brisk self-confidence.

She lifted her head and looked up at him, and he saw her face clearly. A more than pretty face, with smooth, white skin, and startling large gray eyes. They widened as he stared, then her lips curved into the smile he expected. “Ah, Papa,” she said in a low, clear voice, “I see your last guest has arrived.”

A strange sensation of inescapable doom seized FitzGibbon. He knew that face, that voice, but from where? Memory, apprehension, and outright fear flooded his brain and set his heart pounding as John Delaney turned to him with a proud smile. “Ah, the ladies of the party. Later you will meet the third lady, my mother. She will join us at dinner. Come here, Simone, and you too, Little Mouse,” he said, his voice full of affection, “and meet our guest.”

The russet-haired girl moved quickly forward, her hazel eyes alight with interest. “Miss Latour,” said Mr. Delaney, taking her hand, “allow me to present Henri Langois, son of the Duc de Boisaine. Langois, Miss Latour, as you may guess, is Georges Latour’s daughter.”

Simone. Simone Latour. The name echoed in Fitzgibbon’s stunned mind. Miss Latour curtsied. He automatically bowed. His smile must appear as if it were pasted on. Seen close, she was not as young as he had first thought, not by several years.

“Your servant, Miss Latour,” he murmured.

“Delighted, Monsieur Langois,” she replied, her eyes demurely lowered. Her smile, however, and the quick, upward flutter of her lashes sent a different message, one that was far from demure.

“Now, here is my Little Mouse,” he heard John Delaney say. “Jannette, I present Monsieur Henri Langois. Langois, my daughter, Miss Delaney.”

Jannette. Not Jean or Jane. Franny and Jannette. For the briefest of moments he could not move, then he bowed, a jerky, awkward affair, quite unlike his usual graceful movement. Yes, he well recollected Miss Delaney of the dark hair and strong opinions regarding Frenchmen who existed on the charity of others.