Not wanting to draw my mother-in-law’s attention, I slipped back into the bedroom and rang for Meg to help me into a riding habit. I had no intention of staying in the house on my own until Cécile had awoken. After my maid was finished, I adjusted the smart tie and smoothed the snug jacket—single-breasted and cut like a gentleman’s—then tugged at my collar. I was nearly ready to go when Mrs. Hargreaves appeared in my dressing room without so much as knocking.

“Planning to escape, are you?” Her tone suggested a joke, but her eyes were severe. “A man purporting to be an acquaintance of yours is here. Maurice Leblanc? You’d best deal with him before you leave.”

“Of course,” I said, my voice low.

“He’s an attractive man.” Judgment dripped from her voice. “Extremely young. Can’t be much older than you.”

Anger bubbled in my chest and my face flushed hot. I bit my lip, holding back a sharp retort. But then I felt a calm come over me. I narrowed my eyes and returned her stare. “What are you suggesting, Belle-mère?” I’d still not found a comfortable way to address her directly. The French term for mother-in-law popped into my head and seemed, in my current state, an excellent, if ironic, choice.

For the first time, she met my gaze with an evenness, a look of respect. A look that disappeared almost as soon as her face started to relax into it. She closed her eyes, pulled her shoulders back, and drew herself to her full height. “I don’t deign to make suggestions.”

“Then I suppose all I can do is thank you for alerting me to Monsieur Leblanc’s arrival.” I swished past her, my heart pounding. I half expected her to eject me from the house. My eyes burned and my throat stung as I fought back tears, not wanting her to see the frailty of my straining emotions. And then, all at once, the calmness returned. “You’re welcome to join us in the sitting room,” I said, looking back to throw her a smooth smile. “He’s quite a delightful gentleman.”

She did not respond. I considered this a small victory in what was bound to be a most protracted battle. Which was unfortunate. It seemed, perhaps, that mothers and I simply did not get on. It took me several tries before I located the sitting room in which my friend waited. No servants stepped forward to assist me, and I wasn’t about to ask for more details from my mother-in-law.

Monsieur Leblanc was on his feet the instant he saw me. I motioned for him to sit, and took a place across from him, a low, marble-topped table between his chair and my settee.

“I’ve become morbidly obsessed with this murder of yours,” he said.

“Please don’t call it mine.”

“Edith Prier has a fascinating history. She wasn’t some pauper left to rot in an asylum. She came from a well-respected and wealthy family.”

“Should that make her more or less interesting to me?” I asked.

“More, I think. Given that her family had her committed and then all but forgot her.”

“Is that unusual?”

“There are scores of odd rumors about her brother. Her twin brother.” He frowned. “Something is rotten in all this.”

I laughed. “You, monsieur, are obviously an excellent writer of fiction. Perhaps you could combine this crime with our gentleman thief and concoct a truly superb story.”

“You’re not interested at all?”

“On the contrary, I am. But I’ve promised my husband…” The words trailed.

“I do hope, monsieur, you are not setting up a romantic assignation.” Cécile, looking radiant and extremely well rested, glided into the room, Caesar and Brutus trailing behind her. She stood in front of our guest, who had risen to kiss her hand.

“Far from it, I assure you.” His eyes lingered on her just long enough to prove his statement true. “But if I may be so bold as to compliment your own beauty and grace—”

“You may not,” she said, patting his arm and sitting next to me.

“I shall content myself to admiring you from a distance, then.”

“C’est bien,” Cécile said. “I anticipate it with great pleasure. But do realize, sir, that I have firm policies, and am absolutely set in my belief that no man below the age of forty can be anything that even begins to approach fascinating.”

“I wouldn’t dare presume…” he began, but she waved him off.

“Enough,” she said. “Tell me what you’ve been discussing.” In a few sleek sentences, he described for her his interest in Edith Prier.

“Gaudet said her family is near here,” I said. “Do you know them?”

Monsieur Leblanc shook his head. “Not personally, no. Their manor is one of the finest houses in Normandy, and their wealth is enormous. They’ve also a house in Rouen, and that’s where they are now. Madame Prier was the toast of Paris before her husband brought her to the country, and she’s done much to bring culture to what she calls la nature sauvage. Hires musicians and actors from Paris to perform for her.”

“This sounds far too familiar. Is she called Dominique Prier? Née Moreau?” Cécile asked.

“The same.”

“I remember her. We came into society at the same time and were fast friends in that fleeting way girls are before they’re married. She was charming, if more than a little eccentric. I’d completely lost track of her. I shall have to call and offer condolences.”

“I suppose that asking why the family didn’t visit Edith in the asylum would not be appropriate on such an occasion?” Monsieur Leblanc asked.

“Non, monsieur, it would not be.” Cécile shot him the firm sort of look she reserved for unsuitable suitors, but the glint in her eyes suggested she was not wholly uninterested. Encouraged, he pressed on, flirting with her shamelessly.

When Mrs. Hargreaves joined us a few minutes later, the conversation moved to a discussion of household staff, and I took the first opportunity to excuse myself and go off in search of my favorite horse. I didn’t want to ride outside the bounds of the estate, so kept within the walls, but the exercise was nonetheless refreshing. The misty rain had stopped, but the air retained a heavy coolness, making it feel more like early spring than summer when I dipped beneath shady trees. I’d then emerge in sunlight again and bask in its warmth. I continued in this manner, tracing the circumference of the stone walls, until I spotted something out of place.

A bright red ribbon dangled from the limbs of a tall, narrow tree. Slowing my horse and then stopping her beneath it, I tugged to remove the envelope attached to its end. Sebastian was not, it seemed, ready to stop playing games.


You’re lovely when you ride, but your beauty has distracted me from my stated purpose, which was to follow your too-lucky husband. He’ll never find me, you know. I’ll appear when I’m ready.


With a sigh, I refolded the paper and tucked it into the pocket of my neatly tailored jacket. That he was trying to follow me came as no surprise. But I was not about to wait for him to appear. Colin had taught me surveillance techniques; he’d also taught me antisurveillance techniques. Given that we were on a limited property in the middle of the countryside, I knew it couldn’t be too difficult to locate Sebastian. The trick would be keeping him from escaping. It wasn’t as if I could sneak up from behind, leap on him, and bind him to the nearest obliging tree. Instead, I would have to rely on my wits—and his vulnerabilities.

To begin, I slid off the horse and stood perfectly still, listening for any sign of movement. He couldn’t be on horseback—the animal would have been too obvious, and the groundskeepers would have spotted him. On foot, he’d be much slower than I, mounted, and I suspected he wasn’t actively following me. He must be waiting, lurking nearby in order to watch me read his note.

Next, considering my options, I debated pretending to be hurt—Sebastian, hearing me cry out and finding me somehow immobilized, would scoop me up and deliver me to the house, where the servants could help me restrain him.

That, of course, would never work. He’d gingerly put me down within earshot of the house and disappear. My mind churning, I snapped the red ribbon out of the tree, regretting for a moment that knocking Sebastian over the head with a rock wasn’t a viable option. I leaned against the tree, fingering the smooth satin ribbon, frustration consuming me. And as the feeling grew, it was compounded by everything else bothering me: the image of Edith Prier frozen in my brain, the coldness of Colin’s mother, a confused muck of emotion surrounding the baby I’d lost. Just as I verged on being utterly overwhelmed, I saw the solution. If Sebastian admired me as much as he claimed, he would come to my assistance if I were upset. This required no manipulation, no game—only letting him see the honest truth of what I was suffering.

Or at least some of it.

For the first time in months, I stopped censoring my emotions, stopped trying to appear genteel and polite and strong. I sank down to the damp ground, my back against the tree, and I put my head in my hands.

I grieved my lost child.

I despised Colin’s mother for her lack of support.

I remembered the hideous gash across Edith Prier’s throat.

And I started to cry, heaving sobs that soaked my handkerchief and shook my body to its core. I don’t know when Sebastian appeared. I never heard his footsteps nor felt his hand on my shoulder when he knelt beside me. At some point, however, I became aware I was holding a dry handkerchief and realized he’d handed it to me. His eyes were the bright sapphire blue I remembered them to be, and they were looking at me not with concern, but mischief.