The warm contralto voice settled it. This was a woman.

Remembering his manners, but not that he was now a wearh, Marcus shot to his feet to make the necessary courtesies to a member of the fairer sex. His wine went flying, and one of the padded arms of the chair gave a sharp crack.

“It’s a baby!” she cooed, blue eyes round in amazement.

Definitely female. Marcus bowed.

“Whyever are you doing that?” she asked in strangely accented English. “You must stop it, at once. Charles, why is he bowing?”

“Le bébé est américain,” Charles said, his mouth pursed as though he’d bitten into something sour.

“How useful,” she declared. “The family doesn’t have one of them.”

“I’m Mar—Gale—Chaun—” Marcus trailed into confused silence and then regrouped. “I’m Matthew’s.”

“Yes, I know. You still reek of him.” She extended her arm, bent at the elbow, palm open. “I’m Freyja de Clermont. Your aunt. You may call me Fanny.”

Marcus took Fanny’s elbow, and she took his. Her grip was firm and steely. It was going to take Marcus some time to absorb the concept—never mind the reality—of female wearhs. Women were meant to be soft and sweet, in need of nurture and protection. Neither Fanny—Freyja suited her far better, Marcus thought—nor Françoise fit this description. Gallowglass’s strict instructions that Marcus never play cards with his aunt made abundant sense now that he’d met her.

“Is Matthew with you?” Fanny asked.

“No. The chevalier is at Yorktown, ending the war,” Marcus replied. He still couldn’t call de Clermont by his Christian name.

“Oh, the war is over. At least that’s what all the papers say.” Fanny deposited her hat, crown down, upon a mountain of flour.

Marcus expected this to draw a sharp rebuke from Charles, but the chef was gazing at Fanny with adoration.

“Have you supped, Mademoiselle Fanny?” Charles asked. “You must be famished, working all morning with Monsieur Franklin. Antoine is in the stables. I could send him to your room? Or Guy, if you prefer?”

“I’ll have my breakfast in bed.” Freyja paused, considering her options. “I believe I would like Josette.”

Charles bustled off to make arrangements. Marcus tried desperately to unpick the meaning of Fanny’s words. Surely, she didn’t plan on—

“I often crave something sweet at this hour,” Fanny explained.

Fanny was going to feed off Josette. In bed. What else might happen there stirred Marcus’s imagination. Fanny sniffed the air and smiled.

“You can have her when I’m done and she’s had a chance to recover. Josette is very generous, dear girl.” Fanny sat in the wing chair Marcus had vacated, resting her booted feet on the fireplace’s stone surround. This sent her skirts sliding toward her hips, revealing a long, shapely pair of legs. “You’re terribly young to be so far from your sire.”

“I am just over sixty, mademoiselle.” Marcus was trying to think of his age in terms of days rather than years, but it still sounded strange. He sat gingerly on the edge of the bin that held wood for the fire.

“No wonder you are having licentious thoughts. You must explore them,” Fanny commented, “if you expect to achieve self-mastery. Thank God you are no longer with Matthew. He would raise you as a monk, and forbid you all congress with women.”

That was precisely what had happened in Pittsfield, where Marcus had been slavering for a taste of a young woman but had had to make do with a rum-soaked male instead.

“Matthew says I mustn’t feed off women. He says it’s too easy to confuse desire with hunger. He says—”

Fanny hushed him with a gesture common to the soldiers of the Philadelphia Associators.

“It is terribly fortunate for you, then, that Matthew is not here. We are living in a different time, a different world. We must embrace carnality, not flee from it.”

Marcus was now so hard it was painful, his desire fueled by Fanny’s libertine ideas. These days, his lust was as bottomless as his other appetites. On the Aréthuse, even the snap of the canvas had prompted lewd thoughts.

Charles delivered an aromatic cup of black coffee to Fanny. “Josette is drawing your bath, mademoiselle.”

“Have her take a long soak and wait for me.” Fanny sipped her coffee and let out a sultry sigh. “The hot water will bring all the blood rushing to the surface of her skin, and put her in a more relaxed state.”

Marcus filed Fanny’s wisdom away for future use, shifting on the edge of the bin to give himself more room.

“So. Tell me your news. How did it go with Far?” Fanny fixed her frosty blue eyes on Marcus.

Marcus had no idea who Far was. He shrugged. Fanny’s expression turned sympathetic.

“Give Philippe time.” Fanny reached over and patted him on the knee. “Once Father has figured out what use you are to him, and given you names, he will thaw. Until then, you will stay with me. I will teach you how to be a wearh—and do a far better job than Matthew would have done. Even Far will be astonished at what I have achieved.”

Marcus bit back a sigh of relief. He wasn’t sure Fanny would make a better parent, but he was confident she would make his education a more interesting—not to mention pleasurable—experience.

* * *

—

FANNY EMBRACED THE CHALLENGE of Marcus’s education with enthusiasm, supplying him with dancing and fencing masters, French and Latin tutors, a tailor, and a wigmaker. Marcus’s days were filled with appointments, his nights with reading and writing.

Still, Fanny fretted about how Marcus might develop, and aspired to do everything she could to see him become a credit to the family.

“We must occupy your mind with new experiences, Marcus,” Fanny declared one night. “Otherwise you might slip into ennui and come out jaded like my sister Stasia. Do not worry. I have sent a message to a friend. She will have marvelous ideas about how to perfect you.”

Stéphanie Félicité du Crest de Saint-Aubin, Comtesse de Genlis, received Fanny’s cry for help and left the opera at once to lend assistance. She arrived like a spring sunset, swathed in lavender and blue silk, sparkling with tinsel braid, and topped with a powdered, puffed wig that resembled clouds. The comtesse peered at Marcus through a pair of spectacles worn around her neck on a sky-blue ribbon.

“A remarkable creature,” she pronounced in perfect English, once her examination was complete.

“Yes, but he is still an infant,” Freyja said sadly. “We must spare no effort in preparing Monsieur Marcus to meet his grandfather, Stéphanie. You will move in—straightaway.”

Together, Fanny and Madame de Genlis poked and prodded him, firing off questions and comments so rapidly in English (the questions) and French (the comments) that Marcus couldn’t keep up. Marcus stopped trying to anticipate whether the next topic would be his experience with women (tragically limited, they agreed), his education (shockingly poor), or his manners (quaintly old-fashioned, but really he must stop bowing to servants).

“It is a very good thing Le Bébé doesn’t require sleep,” Madame de Genlis commented to Fanny. “If we work night and day, he might be ready to meet your father le comte at midsummer.”

“We do not have six months, Stéphanie,” Fanny said.

“You will be lucky to have six days” was Françoise’s dour prediction.

“Six jours!” Madame de Genlis was appalled. “Françoise, you must do something! Talk to Madame Marthe. She will get Philippe and Ysabeau out of Paris. Perhaps they could go to court?”

“Ysabeau hates Versailles. Besides, news travels between Paris and the palace too quickly,” Fanny fretted.

“Surely they would enjoy spending the winter months in Blois, or even at Sept-Tours? You could suggest it, Fanny,” Madame de Genlis insisted.

“Father would know I was up to no good,” Fanny said. “No, Stéphanie, we must be brave and ruthless, and teach Le Bébé all we can as quickly as we can. The fear of discovery will sharpen our focus and enliven us to new possibilities. Energy and persistence will conquer all obstacles, as Dr. Franklin says!”