Eugenia woke in her own bedchamber to the sound of Clothilde pulling back the curtains. She sat up, blinking.

She didn’t feel like a fallen woman. Though she had certainly played the part, not least when Ward escorted her to her chamber at the crack of dawn.

“Good morning, madame,” Clothilde said. “I have brought your breakfast tray. Will we return to London today?”

“I promised Mr. Reeve I would stay until we can provide him a new governess. Probably a fortnight.” Eugenia scrambled out of bed. “There will be a hearing in the House of Lords in a few weeks, and the children have a great deal to learn before they are suited for polite society.”

“Ruby is mystified by the two of them,” Clothilde said, ringing the bell to order a bath. “Two of our governesses they’ve had, and still they do not wash behind their ears.”

“I must teach them the rules of address, how to bow and curtsy, how to comport themselves in adult company. And I must teach Lizzie to be herself, not a character from a play.”

“Ruby says the little girl is trop dramatique,” Clothilde said, nodding.

Eugenia had been longing for a new challenge—and now she had one. Her days would be full, and her nights . . . blissful.

She poured herself a cup of tea and sat on the bed, as the tray occupied the only chair. “Have you noticed that this house is strangely lacking in furniture, Clothilde?”

“It is the same everywhere,” her maid reported. “Mr. Reeve bought the house with some furniture, by all reports, and has made no changes. Six bedchambers do not have a stick in them. And, madame, no maids live in.”

“None?”

“Not a one. They come from the village every day. Mr. Gumwater considers women in the house to be a nuisance.” She wrinkled her nose. “I have met others of his type.”

“The kitchen help is all male?”

Clothilde nodded. “Monsieur Marcel, the chef, is from Languedoc, not far from one of my aunts. He has no kitchen maids, not a one. All the same, his bread is magnifique. As good as my mother’s, madame.”

Eugenia felt another surge of happiness. Perhaps she would go to the kitchens and ask if Monsieur Marcel would try a few of her ideas. She had imagined a chocolate cake with a strong ginger flavor. Or a lemon tart with bits of rind to give it extra piquancy.

“I’ll take the children downstairs for their first baking lesson today. Is Monsieur Marcel the sort who will dislike children in his kitchen?”

“No, no,” her maid said. “He is a true Frenchman, so I am sure that he loves children.”

Never mind the fact that Clothilde herself frowned on anyone under the age of ten, owing to their propensity to get dirty.

Eugenia was just out of her bath when a footman delivered a note from Ward.

She scrawled her reply below his sentence, folded it, and sent it back.

He wrote back.

She began a new sheet of foolscap.

Her writing was neat and ladylike, his slanted and fast.

An image of his bath leapt to her mind: water glistening on strong, sleek legs, running down the wide arc of his shoulders. She swallowed hard, hesitated, and ignored his provocation.

His answer:

Apparently Jarvis went where Otis went. Eugenia shuddered at the thought. The sack would have to stay out of sight at all times. Under the table.

Eugenia considered how best to answer, but in the end, she didn’t.

She had the sense that Ward disapproved of the cake baking, for all he kept a jesting tone. He disliked it on principle, as if she were teaching his siblings menial labor.

A short time later, she collected Lizzie and Otis and took them down to the kitchen—because whether their older brother approved or not, thanks to Snowe’s Registry, the ability to bake a credible sponge was a calling card in polite society.

Monsieur Marcel had yellow hair and a magnificent curling mustache. Eugenia nodded her head and introduced herself in his native language, which earned her a beaming smile and a flourishing bow.

To her surprise, Lizzie stepped forward, bobbed an awkward curtsy, and asked in fluent French what he was cooking.

“I am contemplating the evening’s meal,” the chef responded.

“Contemplating?” Otis echoed, also in perfect French. “Why do you have to think about it?”

Eugenia choked back a laugh. Before her eyes, Lizzie and Otis took over the baking lesson, following directions more or less adroitly at the same time they asked questions.

“How did you come by such excellent French?” Eugenia asked Otis, while his sister watched the chef whisk together eggs and sugar with impressive speed.

“We lived in England only four months of the year,” he explained. “We stayed in Paris during the winters, but we also went about France in the wagon.”

That went some way toward explaining how Lady Lisette and Lord Darcy had never been recognized in their theatrical career.

When the cake was in the oven, they all sat down at the kitchen table and Monsieur Marcel told Eugenia how difficult it was to manage a kitchen with only one knife boy. “Not even a scullery maid!” he said, shaking his head so vigorously that his mustaches trembled.

“You placed miracles on our table last night, given such difficult circumstances,” Eugenia said warmly. “I shall do my best to persuade Mr. Reeve to hire adequate help.”

“It’s not the master,” the chef said. “It is Mr. Gumwater.” He glanced at Lizzie and didn’t elaborate, but his shrug spoke volumes.

“Did you know that your head looks as if it’s covered in snails?” Otis interjected.

“Otis,” Eugenia said, “one never makes remarks of a personal nature. Please apologize to Monsieur Marcel at once.”

“I apologize,” Otis said, looking at the chef expectantly.

“We French adore les escargots,” Monsieur Marcel told him. “I am happy to resemble my nation’s favorite food.”

Otis grinned. “I could use wax to make my hair resemble rat tails!”

“You too could be French,” Monsieur said, bellowing with laughter. “I assure you that the biggest rats in the world are to be found in my beloved Montpellier!”

This, Eugenia thought, was precisely why she insisted upon baking lessons: young English ladies and gentlemen needed to understand their households were run by real people.

“Monsieur, I wonder if I could beg you to make a variation on a cake?” she asked. “I should warn you that it exists in my imagination only.”

“Intéressant! I would welcome it, Madame Snowe,” the chef replied. “My skills are growing rusty. Monsieur Reeve eats whatever I cook and shows little interest in food.” He capped that with a roll of his eyes.

“My visit will last a fortnight,” Eugenia said, beaming as she rose from the table. “I shall rejoin you after Mr. Reeve hires kitchen staff. I would not wish to increase your work until you have adequate help.”

Monsieur bowed magnificently. “I shall count the moments, Madame Snowe.” He turned to the children. “You shall have your own cake for dessert tonight.”

“I should like to use a quince next time,” Lizzie said. “I never knew what that play meant when it calls for quinces in the pastry.”

“Hush,” Eugenia said, taking her hand. “For one thing, quinces are not in season. But more importantly, rather than requesting cakes from Romeo and Juliet, you must thank Monsieur Marcel for his kind instruction.”

“I am most grateful,” Lizzie warbled, and curtsied once more. Otis’s bow involved a waggle of the waist that made him look like a crane with a sprained ankle.

Their French notwithstanding, there was work to be done.

Back in the nursery, Ruby supervised as the children washed their hands and faces.

Then Eugenia took over. “I’m going to leave the room and enter it again. I would like you to imagine that I am the Duchess of Gilner.”

Lizzie’s nose wrinkled. “I don’t like her.”

“A lady never expresses a negative opinion of another person except in private,” Eugenia said. “Greet me as if I was your revered grandmama, come to evaluate the nursery.”

“Do you mean, as if I liked her?”

“That’s precisely what I mean.”

“You want us to lie!” Lizzie cried dramatically.

“I want you to act,” Eugenia corrected her. “At the right time, in the right way.”

Eugenia hadn’t seen Ward all day, and by evening desire glowed in her like a banked fire. The mere thought of him made her knees weak.

She chose a gown that promised more than it revealed, since the children were joining them. It was indigo blue, made of a silk so heavy that it fell like a column to the ground.

“Diamonds in your hair?” Clothilde asked. She hadn’t said a word, but Eugenia knew perfectly well that her maid knew of her affaire. Clothilde plainly approved—she was French, after all—but even after years together, they maintained a certain decorum.

“I believe I would prefer the silver net,” Eugenia said. “If you brought it, that is.”

“Certainly, madame,” Clothilde said, clearly pained by the insinuation that she would make such an error.

“With the silver heels,” Eugenia said.

“The blue slippers would be preferable,” Clothilde said. “In my opinion, silver might convey the impression that you are expensive.”

“I am expensive. I fail to see how that is relevant.”

“Gentlemen like to pretend that their wives will not be a burden on the household accounts. This gives them license to grumble, and pretend to have been deceived in years after.”

“I have no intention of marrying Mr. Reeve,” Eugenia stated. “Therefore, I shall wear the silver shoes and look as if I am expensive as the queen herself.”

“Certainly, madame,” Clothilde said.

“You needn’t wait up,” Eugenia added, taking up the silk shawl that accompanied the gown.

“I hope it is a pleasant evening, madame.” Clothilde’s French accent lent volumes to the prosaic statement.

“I have every reason to believe it will be,” Eugenia said, her smile widening as their eyes met in the mirror.