The man descending the stairs had a balding head slightly too large for his body, and a waistline that rivaled Colonel Woodbridge’s. The sweet scent intensified, and along with it came the iron-rich tang of black ink. He peered at Marcus over a set of spectacles. There was something familiar about him, though Marcus was sure they had never met.

“And what do you say to that, Marthe?” His grandfather was now close enough to see the trembling of his limbs as Marcus’s nerves got the better of him. Marcus closed his hands into fists and took a deep breath.

A small, wizened old woman with glimmering eyes and a maternal air came from the shadows. Here was the woman Fanny had promised he would meet—Marthe.

“Madame.” Marcus bowed. “My mother would have been envious of your gardens. Even in winter, they are impressive.”

“A man of faith—and charm, too,” said the man on the stairs with another wheezing chuckle. “And it would seem he knows something of jardins and potagers, and not just medicine.”

“His heart is true, but there is a shadow in it,” Marthe pronounced, scrutinizing Marcus closely.

“Matthew would not have been drawn to him otherwise.” His grandfather’s quiet sigh floated around Marcus.

“Put him out of his misery, my dear comte,” the man on the stairs advised. “The poor boy reminds me of a fish caught between cats. He is certain of being eaten, but does not know which of us will have the honor of picking over the bones.”

Heavy hands came to rest on Marcus’s shoulders and swung him around. Philippe de Clermont was a giant of a man, as muscular as his elderly friend was soft and doughy. He had thick, burnished golden hair and tawny eyes that saw—everything. Or so Marcus suspected.

“I am Philippe, your grandmother’s mate,” his grandfather said, his voice soft. Philippe waited the space of a human heartbeat and then continued. “It is a sign of respect, among our people, to turn your eyes away from the head of the family.”

“Respect is earned. Sir.” Marcus kept his gaze on his grandfather. Staring into the eyes of a man so ancient and powerful was not an easy task, but Marcus forced himself to do it. Obadiah had taught him never to look away from anyone older and stronger than you were.

“So it is.” The corners of Philippe’s eyes creased with something that, in a lesser being, might have been amusement. “As for this darkness we all feel, you will tell me about it one day. I will not take the knowledge from you.”

It had never occurred to Marcus that someone other than Matthew might learn of his past through bloodlore. Philippe’s words, which appeared to be tender and paternal, sent a chill through Marcus’s bones.

“You have done well with him, daughter. I am pleased,” Philippe said, turning to Fanny. “What shall we call him?”

“He is called Marcus, though he tried to get me to call him Galen, and Gallowglass called him Doc,” Fanny said. “He slept for a moment the other day, and cried out for news of Catherine Chauncey.”

So Fanny was spying on him, too. Marcus’s eyes narrowed at the betrayal.

“Marcus. Son of war. And Galen—a healer. I cannot fathom where the name Chauncey came from or what it might mean,” Philippe said, “but it must be precious to him.”

“Chauncey is a Boston name.” The bespectacled man studied Marcus carefully. “I was right, Comte Philippe. The man is not from Philadelphia at all, but from New England.”

The mention of Philadelphia brought the man’s face into sharper focus, and Marcus realized who he was.

“You’re Dr. Franklin.” Marcus looked at the elderly gentleman with the stooped shoulders and ample belly with something akin to reverence.

“And you’re a Yankee. I’m surprised the Associators took you in,” Franklin said with a slow smile. “They’re a clannish bunch, and don’t usually accept anyone into their ranks who was born north of Market Street.”

“What was your father’s name, Marcus?” Philippe asked.

“Thomas,” Marcus said, thinking of Tom Buckland.

“Don’t ever lie to me,” his grandfather said pleasantly, though the glint in his eye warned Marcus that this lapse into falsehood—like a challenging stare—was a serious matter.

“The man whose blood I once carried in my veins was called Obadiah—Obadiah MacNeil. But there is nothing left of him in me.” Marcus’s chin rose. “Thomas Buckland taught me how to be a surgeon. And a man. He is my true father.”

“Someone has been reading Rousseau,” Franklin murmured.

Philippe considered Marcus for a long moment. He nodded.

“Very well, Marcus Raphael Galen Thomas Chauncey de Clermont,” his grandfather at last pronounced. “I accept you into the family. You will be known as Marcus de Clermont—for now.”

Fanny looked relieved. “You won’t be disappointed, Far, though Marcus still has much to learn. His Latin is abominable, his French deplorable, and he is clumsy with a sword.”

“I can shoot a gun,” Marcus said sharply. “What need do I have for swords?”

“A gentleman must carry a sword, at least,” Madame de Genlis said.

“Give Stéphanie and me another month—perhaps two—and we will have him ready for Versailles,” Fanny promised.

“That is perhaps a matter for Ysabeau to decide,” Philippe said, casting a fond glance on his daughter.

“Ysabeau! But I—” Fanny was indignant. She turned her head away from her father. “Of course, Far.”

“And what do I call you, sir?” Marcus didn’t mean to sound insolent, though the horrified look on Fanny’s face told him he might well have been.

Philippe merely smiled.

“You may call me Grandfather,” he said. “Or Philippe. My other names would not suit your American tongue.”

“Philippe.” Marcus tried it out. It had been months, and he still couldn’t think of the chevalier de Clermont as Matthew, never mind Father. It was definitely too soon to call this terrifying man Grandfather.

“Now that you are part of the family, there are a few rules you must obey,” Philippe said.

“Rules?” Marcus’s eyes narrowed.

“First, no siring children without my permission.” Philippe raised a single, admonishing finger.

Having now met more members of the de Clermont family, Marcus had no desire to increase its size. He nodded.

“Second, if you receive a coin from me, like the one on the letter I sent to Fanny’s house, you must return it to me. Personally. If you do not, I will come looking for you myself. Understood?”

Once again, Marcus nodded. Like adding to the de Clermont family, he had no wish for Philippe to show up at his door, unannounced.

“And one more thing: no more hospitals. Not until I think you’re ready.” Philippe’s steady gaze traveled from Marcus to Fanny. “Am I clear?”

“Crystal clear, Far.” Fanny flung her arms around Philippe’s neck. She turned to Franklin. “Stéphanie and I discussed all the possible risks, Dr. Franklin, as well as the rewards. We didn’t think anyone was in real danger. Certainly not Le Bébé.”

“Tell me how you came up with the idea to let him ring the bells at Notre-Dame. What a coup—and something I have longed to do myself,” Franklin said, steering Fanny through the doors and onto the terrace outside. Madame de Genlis went with them.

Marcus was left alone with Philippe.

“Your grandmother is waiting for you in the salon,” Philippe said. “She is eager to see you again.”

“You know about our meeting?” Marcus said, his throat dry.

Philippe smiled once more.

“I know most things,” Philippe said.

* * *

—

“MARCUS!” HIS GRANDMOTHER OFFERED HIM her cheek for a kiss. “It is a delight to see you here.”

Ysabeau was seated in a deep chair by the fire, which was lit in spite of the open windows.

“Grandmother,” Marcus said, pressing his lips to her cool flesh.

Marcus sat quietly in Ysabeau’s salon, listening to the banter taking place around him as Fanny, Madame de Genlis, and Franklin joined them. He understood about a quarter of what was said. Without Dr. Franklin, who periodically translated in an effort to draw Marcus into the conversation, it would have been far less.