Chapter Twelve

“Damn it, Marc. I tell you she’s alive!”

Calmly, Marc folded his arms, not looking the least bit convinced. Luc let out a sharp breath and walked over to the desk in his study at his hôtel. He opened Isabelle’s journal, flipped several pages, until he found the entry he was looking for.

“Here.” He spun the journal around to face Marc and pointed to the lines in the writings. “In this very sentence, Isabelle discusses how she and her sister want to write stories about two princesses, Sabine and Isabelle, who meet and capture the hearts of two princes, Jules and me.”

Marc peered at the journal.

Luc grabbed another of Isabelle’s journals on his desk, slid the first one aside, and placed the second down. Flipping several pages, he located the relevant entry. “And see here.” Again he spun the journal around to face Marc and pointed to a paragraph on the page. “Right here, she speaks of having begun to write the very tales about the princesses and the princes. And here is a novel.” Luc grabbed the book Juliette had lent him that had been resting on the corner of his desk and held it up. “This is the first volume in The Princesses’ Adventures series—published after Isabelle’s death—about two princesses—twin sisters—who fall in love with two princes who happen to be brothers.”

Marc’s brow furrowed. “How very odd…”

“Precisely!”

“Yes, it is most peculiar that Isabelle would ever consider you princely material.” Marc snickered.

Luc rested his hands on his hips. “You are not taking this seriously.”

Marc openly chuckled now. “Because it is preposterous. Isabelle wrote about an idea that another author published years later. So what? There are many who have written stories about princesses and princes. The Princesses’ Adventures is written anonymously. It could be anyone.”

“It’s her.” He wasn’t wrong here.

“It’s likely an old man or an old woman with naught else to do with their time. Or perhaps someone who knew Isabelle from the theater and used her idea after her death.”

“It isn’t simply the same idea. It is the same writing style and the same voice in both The Princesses’ Adventures novel and Isabelle’s journals. Everything is the same.”

Marc sighed. “I think this is wishful thinking.”

“It isn’t wishful thinking. Isabelle Laurent wrote The Princesses’ Adventures.” He’d read the entire volume in a day, riveted by every word. Stunned by the similarities. By the fact that Isabelle’s voice was coming off the pages.

Making his heart soar.

Since finishing the novel, his mind had been awhirl over the probability that Isabelle might actually be alive.

Jésus-Christ. Alive!

He’d already sent his personal secretary, Pascal, out to purchase the other volume published in the series.

“How on earth do you suppose she could have escaped the fire in your servants’ outbuildings? And whose body is then buried on your property if not hers?” Marc countered.

“I don’t know.” Both were valid questions he had no bloody answers to.

Marc pulled The Princesses’ Adventures novel from Luc’s grip and flipped it open to the first page. “This book was published by a foreign publisher. It doesn’t have the seal from the Royal Censor as all domestic books do.”

“Yes, I know. And it means nothing.”

“It means, if this were Isabelle, which I’m certain it’s not, she isn’t even in France.”

“Many who wish to avoid having to obtain royal consent in order to publish their books will falsely name a foreign publisher.” He’d heard of several writers doing just that. And it made it more damned difficult for him to uncover the truth.

“The only way to prove who really wrote this is to determine the author’s identity,” Marc said.

“And you’re going to help me.”

“How?”

“You and I are going to frequent all the popular salons in the city. We are going to approach everyone in attendance from aristo to literati. Someone has got to know something about who truly wrote these Princesses’ Adventures volumes. Or where they were actually published.” Lord knows there were publishers throughout the city willing to publish anything, even falsifying the name of a foreign publisher, for the right price.

“I’ll approach anyone you want, but I’m only fucking women I’m attracted to for you.” Marc smiled good-naturedly. “And if you happen to be tired of the gorgeous Juliette Carre—”

“No!” Luc mentally cringed.

He hadn’t meant for the word to come out quite so sharply. The last thing he wanted to do was to endure Marc’s ribbing over just how enthralled he was with the dark-haired beauty.

And she too occupied his thoughts. It had been eight days since his return from his sojourn at the Vicomtesse d’Appel’s château. He thought, rather, he was hoping—all right, perhaps more than mere hoping—Juliette would have come to him by now.

She hadn’t. And he damn well missed her.

Hating it that she was still leery of him.

He’d never tell Marc that he’d stopped himself from going to see her multiple times over the last few days—because Gabriel was there. And because he’d promised her he wouldn’t intrude upon their home again.

When he wasn’t fending off tormenting thoughts that she might have turned her attention to Vannod, or the others panting after her, he’d begun to entertain the notion that perhaps Juliette Carre was Isabelle.

Now that was wishful thinking.

“Well, well, well…” His friend was back to snickering. “I don’t believe I’ve ever known you to be possessive.”

He hadn’t been. Ever. What exactly this was that made him long to see her, spend time with her, and, God help him, want her all to himself, was something he didn’t want to name. Wasn’t even certain he could name, having never felt like this before.

The emotions he felt for Juliette were so similar to the way he felt about Isabelle.

Merde, he’d melded the two women into one.

Luc glanced down at Isabelle’s open journal. His eye caught an entry he’d all but forgotten about until he’d reread Isabelle’s journal the other day. Now it niggled at the back of his mind.

…I should never have climbed that tree. Sabine warned me that the branches were unsafe. Why didn’t I heed her warning? Father often chastises me for being too impulsive and ungovernable. I cut my side and above my right knee. And it hurt!

Had the fall left scars? Though ludicrous, he’d mentally retraced every inch of Juliette’s body but couldn’t recall ever seeing any scars. Then again, he’d never had her completely naked until their last encounter. Now he cursed himself for not remembering the journal entry then.

And not paying more attention to any markings on her sweet form.

But he hadn’t stopped there. He’d tormented himself further by replaying every moment they’d spent together, analyzing everything that had happened, everything she’d said to him—in a way he hadn’t had cause to before. The man who’d tried to kill her, whom she’d “known for a long time,” he was now seeing that in a different light. Dieu, was that just some horrible coincidence? Or was this actually Isabelle talking about Leon de Vittry?

What about the bizarre way she’d reacted that first night she’d seen him at the masque. Was that any kind of indication that the two women were one and the same? Was she startled because she had, in fact, recognized him?

Fuck. If Juliette was indeed Isabelle, wouldn’t she trust in him more? And why not let him kiss her? She’d wanted his kiss so desperately. Had her amorous feelings—all her feelings for him—faded over time?

And how the hell could that thought hurt as strongly as it did?

This battery of speculations only underscored just how far gone he was with the maddening fixation he had for both women.

Between the mystery behind the author of The Princesses’ Adventures and the complexities of Juliette, he was losing his mind.

And a good deal of sleep.

“Focus, Marc. Duchesse d’Allain’s salon is in a few days. We’re going to attend.” He hoped Juliette would be there. Hell, what you really want is for Juliette to come to your home and trust you—with her body. Her secrets.

And that part inside every human’s chest that poets write about…

He squelched that last notion. It came to him with more and more persistence. What on earth did he even know about the heart? Or love?

Or how to manage it?

Marc shook his head, smiling. “I cannot believe you want to attend all these salons and chat among your peers for a mere ghost of a woman. I would have thought that the fair Juliette would have made you forget all about Isabelle Laurent.”

She had for a while. Now they were both haunting him.

“I need to see this through,” was all he was prepared to say. Admit it. You want to meet the only woman, other than Juliette, who could see into your soul.

And still want you.

Or at least he thought so. Yet, Juliette was nowhere to be found. Damn it, what more could he do to earn her trust?

“Maybe going to the Duchesse d’Allain’s salon will do you some good,” Marc said. “You can perhaps broach the subject of wedding one of their two daughters. Sophie is still available—eager to impart her knowledge of footwear. And there is also Bernadette.” He grinned.

“Forget that. We are focused on the author of The Princesses’ Adventures. We will not stop until we find out who she is.”

He wouldn’t rest until he found Isabelle.

*****

“All right, darling. You’ve been preoccupied since your return. Will you go see him or not?” Nicole asked from her seat on the settee in Isabelle’s private rooms.

Squeals of laughter and the occasional bark echoed in the courtyard, drifting up to Isabelle’s antechamber on the second floor as, with a smile, she watched her son play with Montague. Perfectly matched with boundless energy, Gabriel and their beloved pet wouldn’t tire any time soon.

She turned to Nicole. Her friend’s green and yellow taffeta gown was perfectly arranged about her legs. As usual, the epitome of elegance and beauty.

Stepping away from the window, Isabelle approached Nicole, glancing briefly at the crackling fire in the hearth. Three notes were presently burning within its lambent flames. They’d been awaiting her upon her return from the Vicomtesse d’Appel’s château. One had arrived only this very morning. Notes that were anonymously written. And becoming uglier with each one.

Calling her a filthy whore.

Another accusing her of possessing the dark powers of an evil succubus, casting spells on men, distorting their minds with the carnal cravings she incited.

She’d no idea whose disdain she’d garnered, but someone—since the handwriting appeared to be the same in all the notes she’d received thus far—despised her. The majordomo, Joseph, had been the one to receive the missives. She intended to get to the bottom of this by questioning him at length.

The horrible notes simply had to stop.

Shoving away thoughts of the missives, she focused on Nicole’s question. Her dear friend was asking about Luc, a subject that was equally troubling.

In a different way.

She’d spent every waking hour since her return with Gabriel and Montague, playing, reading, regaling him with stories, especially his favorites, but the subject of Luc intruded repeatedly. Her precious little mite was constantly asking about his friend Luc and if he’d visit soon. And was she sure he wasn’t visiting today?

It didn’t just disappoint Gabriel when she’d answered that it wasn’t likely he would.

She felt bereft too.

Even though she’d made Luc promise not to come to her home. Even though she had a standing—powerfully tempting—invitation to visit him at his hôtel. Anytime.

“I wish to see him,” she admitted to Nicole. “But it means…well, he’d like me to…” She glanced at Delphine, who was in her bedchamber a short distance away, placing her gown in the armoire. Delphine had turned up at her door two days after Isabelle had arrived home from her sojourn, having quit her employment with the Vicomtesse d’Appel and asking to work for her. Isabelle was delighted to make her her personal maid. Delighted to have her friend, someone she knew and trusted, back in her life.

And she also knew Delphine well enough to know she was presently eavesdropping.

Nicole gave her a small smile. “Ah, I believe I understand. It means he wishes you to explore his particular sexual practices with him when you are with him next. No?”

A sudden clunk from the bedchamber grabbed Nicole’s and Isabelle’s attentions. Delphine had dropped a pair of shoes. Her eyes were wide, her cheeks red.

Isabelle hadn’t offered details of her encounters with Luc. Nor had she broken Luc’s confidence by relaying the information he’d disclosed about his past. Not to either Nicole or Delphine. Unlike with other men, what she shared with Luc felt…special. Private.

Cherished.

But Luc’s penchant for erotic bondage was widespread knowledge.

“Delphine, I know you are listening,” Isabelle called out to her friend. “You might as well come into this room where you can hear better.”

Delphine placed the shoes into the armoire and scurried into the antechamber. “Well, if you insist…” She curtsied to Isabelle, and to Nicole added, “Madame, thank you again for allowing me to work here.”

Nicole gave her a nod, then turned to Isabelle again. “Do I have it right, then, about his wishes for your next amorous encounter? Is that the reason you are reluctant to see him?”

“It isn’t just that, though that is part of it.”

“Then what more does he want?”

“He has read my journals—Isabelle Laurent’s journals.” A small squeak of surprise came from the corner of the room where Delphine stood. Isabelle continued, ignoring her little outburst. “I don’t know which journals. For all I know, Luc has read them all. I’ve kept many through the years. I left some at home, and others I began while in Charles de Moutier’s employ—though I am convinced Leon stole those.”

Nicole furrowed her brow. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. What do your journals have to do with any of this?”

“You wrote about your feelings for him!” Delphine blurted out excitedly. Both Nicole and Isabelle cast her a glance.

“Pardon me…” Delphine slapped her fingers over her mouth to silence her lips.

“Yes, that is true, Delphine. I wrote about my feelings and desires for him, all my observations of him—my every intimate thought I had of Luc de Moutier over the years,” Isabelle concurred, a little embarrassed that he’d been privy to every private amorous thought she’d had of him. Though she couldn’t recall every entry she’d written, given how long ago it was, she knew that some of those journal entries had been vastly carnal in nature. She’d been as ravenous for him back then as she was now.

Perhaps even more so now that she knew just how good his touch felt.

How good it felt to be with him.

“And when last we parted, he told me that I reminded him of Isabelle Laurent. He is already suspicious that my real name isn’t Juliette Carre. I’m not sure I’m ready to entrust him with the truth.”

It was a relentless battle.

The thought of seeing Sabine, seeing her little girl, only intensified the pull.

The urge to divulge everything to Luc was escalating.

Yet, all she had to do was look at her son’s face, and she retreated well behind defenses. Afraid to take the risk.

Nicole rose and approached. She slipped an arm around her shoulder. “And what of the sexual wishes he has? Are you inclined to trust him in that regard?”

A bolt of raw heat lanced into her belly at the mere mention. She tried to tamp down the reaction. “I am not certain…though perhaps I am more inclined to trust him in his proclivity with bondage than I am to offer my real name.” Especially if she took one of Nicole’s trusted large male servants with her as added protection.

Delphine let out a joyful squeak with a clap.

Isabelle and Nicole cast her yet another glance. She dissolved her smile, dropped her arms to her sides, and became suddenly fascinated with an errant thread on her apron.

“I take it that you have an opinion on the matter, Delphine?” Isabelle asked.

“Well, I do, actually…”

“And are you going to share it with me?”

“Of course! I think you should trust him. You should allow yourself to enjoy every aspect of him. There aren’t many men like the Marquis de Fontenay, and you have dreamed of this man most of your life. He was all you talked about at the Moutier château. He was what you’ve wished for.”

That word “wish” made her flinch, as always.

“I’m not that person anymore. I don’t wish for things. I create my own future, and Gabriel’s too—with determination. And an abundance of caution.” Her reckless, impetuous days were behind her.

Long ago, she’d wished for three things—and they’d leveled her world.

She’d wished to leave the farm her family had been forced to move to after losing their theater and town house in Paris—and that set an unfortunate series of events in motion that took her away from those she loved to this day.

She’d wished to live in the Moutier home, and that almost got her killed by Leon.

She’d wished to be irresistible to men, wanting to catch Luc’s eye. And that too went horribly awry. She’d caught the eye of a man like Roch.

“Darling, I understand your reservations in trusting men of the aristocracy. And I know that what Roch put you through must have been horrible…”

Isabelle nodded. “Once he convinced me that I could trust him and learned my real name, he used it as leverage against me to force me to ‘marry’ him. To make me stay. Threatening that he would make certain Leon de Vittry and his men learned I was still alive. I was subjected to daily lashes of his vicious tongue. To his volatile moods, especially when he was well into his cups. All of which only came to light after our sham of a marriage ceremony. And as desperately as I wish to see my beautiful sister, have her back in my life as well as her little girl, Isabelle, I must think of Gabriel. I managed to shield him from Roch, but I swore I’d never, ever allow myself to be in such a vulnerable position again. Or permit anyone to have leverage over me the way Roch did. Offering my identity to Luc—or any man in a position of privilege and power—puts my son’s future at risk. I thought I could trust Leon. I thought I could trust Roch. I have made errors in the past. I cannot make one now.”

It terrified her to the marrow. Could she really jeopardize everything and reveal all? And what if Luc refused to help her reach Sabine? He would then have information and leverage over her to use any way he wished.

Nicole dropped her arm, nodded in understanding, and sat back down. “And so Luc de Moutier has not earned your trust.”

“It is complicated. He is complicated.” And beautiful. Intelligent. Intense. Disarming and always surprising.

He was also battered, yet somehow he didn’t break. And that, dear God, that weakened her resolve—along with everything else about him. When he made himself vulnerable to her about painful events in his past, when he held her, kissed her body, made her laugh, discussed and debated his take on novels and poetry. It was in those moments—rather, in just about every moment she’d spent with him, he managed to cleave away at her resistance. “It isn’t just a matter of trust. He makes me feel…”

“Love?” Nicole offered.

Isabelle sat down. “I don’t know.” Liar! “Gabriel is my priority. I cannot afford to be in love with any man. He is not my prince, and I most certainly am not his princess,” she said, referring to her books. She tried to ignore the instant stab of pain she felt in her chest. When she saw him next, which was inevitable, what would she do?

How much of her book and her journals had he read by now? He was an avid reader with a keen mind.

Had he been able to decipher from his readings that Isabelle had authored The Princesses’ Adventures volumes?

She hoped not.

*****

God save him from curious virgins.

The smile Luc had affixed to his face was becoming more and more difficult to maintain. The Duchesse d’Allain’s youngest daughter, Bernadette, was a little too flirtatious.

Standing a little too damn close.

Here he thought he’d have to spend his time tactfully avoiding the Duc’s eldest daughter, Sophie. But Sophie had set her sights on another. Luc had been relieved to learn that the marriage contract between her father and the family of Robert de Travers, heir to a dukedom, was presently underway.

Discreetly, as Luc commented on his take on The Princesses’ Adventures novels to the grouping of four before him, he inched away from Bernadette, moving closer to the elderly Comte d’Ailly beside him. There was no bloody way he was going to do a thing that would give Bernadette’s father an excuse to haul him to the altar. The grand salon was filled with aristos and literati alike. The intellectual elite were clustered in groups about the room, discussing literature and politics. Grammarians in several of the groupings enthusiastically debated words and phrases.

He’d arrived an hour ago and had already circulated through half the room. It wasn’t difficult to find groups that were discussing The Princesses’ Adventures. Having devoured both volumes in the series, he now understood their popularity and appeal. They were as engaging and riveting as Isabelle’s journals. He’d reread—yet again—every single entry in her journals. And he was absolutely certain that Isabelle was still alive—somewhere—and the author of the popular books.

“Who do you suppose wrote these books?” Luc asked casually. “If I had to wager a guess, I think a woman wrote them. What do you think, Comte d’Ailly?”

“I think that’s something everyone would like to know,” the older gentleman responded. “The novels have caused quite a stir. There’s been much speculation about the author, but no one really knows. If I had to venture a guess, I think the author is likely a woman too.”

“I don’t believe women should write books,” Bernadette interjected. “I think they should marry, bear heirs, and serve their husbands well.” She beamed at him.

Dieu…

“Respectfully, I disagree,” the Comtesse de Gigot said. She and her daughter, Béatrix, had been the very women who’d encouraged Luc to read The Princesses’ Adventure novels in the first place at the Vicomtesse d’Appel’s salon. And they were presently both frowning at Bernadette. “I don’t see a problem with women writing and publishing their work.”

“Neither do I, Comtesse,” Luc agreed wholeheartedly, hoping his position would irk Bernadette, if not discourage her overt attention. “Do you think the author of these novels is a woman, madame?”

“I do,” the comtesse concurred.

“As do I,” Béatrix said. “Most men use their names, especially if they were to author such a popular set of books. Women tend to publish anonymously.”

“And do you believe the author to be a foreigner, as the publisher suggests?” Luc’s question was to the group as a whole.

But it was the comtesse who responded promptly. “Oh, not at all. I think she’s French.”

He liked her answer. In fact, he was rather fond of the Comtesse de Gigot and her charming daughter. He was glad these knowledgeable women agreed with him on both scores.

He’d sent his secretary, Pascal, out on a mission with a sizable purse to bribe anyone he had to in order to learn which Parisian printer was printing the books. Money was no object, because every fiber inside him told him that Isabelle was hiding somewhere in France.

He glanced over at Marc. He was at the opposite side of the room, in obvious discussion with a number of ladies and lords. He hoped to hell he was having more success finding out information on the enigmatic author.

There was a slight stir at the entrance of the grand salon that caught the corner of his eye. Dragging his attention there.

Standing with Nicole de Grammont between the tall white-and-gold double doors, dressed in a gown of light blue, with matching ribbons in her hair of dark cascading curls, was Juliette. A radiant smile on her face, adorable dimples and all.

Breathtaking to behold.

She’d sucked the air from the room. And his lungs.

His heart began to thud in his chest. His throat. Reverberating throughout his body, down to the tip of his cock.

Dieu. This woman had the power to shake the very ground under his feet just by entering a room.

The two women stepped down into the sunken salon and were instantly enveloped by a group of men. Luc rooted his feet to the floor so that he wouldn’t make a fool of himself by marching across the room, knocking the others out of the way, and hauling her into his arms, bellowing, Mine! like some sort of madman.

He’d listened for any rumors that she’d taken a new lover since they’d parted. He’d cursed his decision to leave matters between them the way he had, and he intended to rectify the situation.

He’d actually come today wanting to see both women, Juliette and Nicole—for different reasons. Nicole was a woman many confided in. If anyone could uncover the name of the author of The Princesses’ Adventures, Nicole de Grammont could.

Her help would be invaluable.

As to Juliette, well, he simply wanted her. Not just physically, though Lord knows he was famished for her. If what the two aristos had done to her made it impossible for her to surrender to him the way he wanted, so be it. He’d forgo his sexual practices.

Only for her.

Especially if it meant she’d be back in his life.

*****

“He’s looking at you,” Nicole discreetly whispered in Isabelle’s ear. “He has the look of a man who wants to devour you.”

The information was unnecessary. Isabelle could feel the heat of Luc’s gaze on her from the moment she’d entered the salon. She smiled at something the gentleman before her said, though she’d no idea what. And she couldn’t recall his name. Her eyes were drawn to only one man in the room. The man was tall and well muscled, with a slight smile on his handsome face.

Beautiful and beckoning.

Her Lord Seductive—on every level. Emotionally and physically.

He didn’t seem to even realize just how many women in the room were casting longing looks his way. She’d only just arrived and could see several. Including the young blonde-haired woman standing beside him.

Yet, he only had eyes for her.

A younger version of herself would have fainted to the floor if he’d looked at her like this back then. As it was, her knees felt weakened by the intensity with which those intoxicating light green eyes gazed at her. She was so relieved. He’s here…

He inspired an array of emotions.

And one was a rare sense of joy. She had a smile on her face she couldn’t contain.

What would she have done if she’d never set eyes on him? How would she have endured Roch’s sexual encounters? Or her limited sexual encounters since becoming Juliette if she hadn’t had Luc to envision in her mind?

He was the subject of every romantic thought and wildest fantasy she’d ever had. Hadn’t she wondered numerous times what it would be like to completely surrender to him? Holding nothing back. A raw passion she once imagined but now knew was real.

She gave him a smile and a nod.

He returned the gesture in kind.

She’d made a decision about her Lord Seductive. One that she’d come to after many long hours, both days and nights. One that hadn’t come easily to her.

One she’d decided she was going to act upon—with some precautions in place.

She excused herself from the aristo before her, possibly cutting him off midsentence. She wasn’t sure. Wasn’t paying attention. Then she stepped around him and boldly moved through the crowd toward Luc.

His smile grew, and he turned fully to face her, taking a step away from the group he’d been standing with.

Her excitement mounted with each step she took.

It felt as though they had the attention of everyone in the room. And she didn’t care. Everyone already knew they were lovers.

By the time she reached him, a raw hunger surged through her system.

She stopped inches from him, standing a tad too close, and looked up into those inebriating eyes. “My lord, it is good to see you.”

He took her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckle. “It is good to see you too.”

“I have an important question.”

“What might your question be, madame?”

“I wish to know if you happen to have any silk scarves in your bedchamber that I may use?”

Surprise crossed his features. His eyes then darkened with a feral need that spiked her fever. A slow, sinfully seductive smile formed on his lips. “In fact, I do. They are waiting there—just for you.”

Lust licked up her spine.

If she could entrust her body to him this way and walk away feeling safe, then maybe she could trust him with her secrets. She would regain her sister back in her life. And Gabriel would gain an extended family, one who’d love and adore him as she did, that he didn’t have now. And yes, there was the factor of the anger Luc could feel at being deceived all this time, but she’d only tell him the truth when she felt he’d truly understand why she’d withheld it in the first place—for her son’s sake.

“I have some stipulations,” she said.

His devastating smile never wavered. “Whatever you need to feel safe.”

Dear God, she had such an untamable need for this man. “I’m going to bring Serge and Yves with me. Men in Nicole’s employ.” They were two of Nicole’s largest men who, when necessary, would accompany her to her amorous encounters. They were precautions she’d brought with her today in case she’d be returning to Luc’s hôtel after the salon.

“As long as they’re not in the room with us, I have no objections. I’m not interested in voyeurism with your staff. Or sharing the view.”

“No voyeurism,” she assured. “And I’m not interested in sharing the view either. I’ll meet you at your hôtel in an hour.” She winked at him, turned on her heel, and walked away, feeling ridiculously happy. And oddly light—now that her decision had been made.

And it felt so right.

Moreover, she felt less fear, more in control than ever.

Her entire body was humming with anticipation.

“Madame Carre.” A male voice broke through her thoughts and halted her steps. She glanced to her side and saw that the duchesse’s majordomo had approached. He extended a hand toward her with a note. “Forgive the intrusion, madame, but I was asked to give you this note.”

She frowned at the oddity of someone sending her a note at the duchesse’s salon. “Thank you.” Taking the missive, she opened it and read the one and only line.

Meet me in the library.

Her stomach plummeted. This wasn’t a note from a lover, an admirer, or even a friend.

The handwriting was identical to that of the vile missives she’d been receiving at her home.

Its author was here.

And wished a private audience.