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“I doubt they were rogue soldiers. Your sister does not know what the simple story reveals, and that’s why you discourage her from telling it. Your mother, it appears, went to France on a mission of some sort, for our government, but apparently the participants were betrayed by someone in Paris.” Harriet watched his stern profile. “She fled with her children to the rendezvous, but the storm delayed the boat from England and gave those who searched for her time to find her on that beach. With extraordinary presence of mind, she led them away from her children.”

He stopped walking and stood looking down at the snow before Luxborough House with bleak, unseeing eyes. “It was a royalist plot to assassinate Bonaparte after the attempt in ’04 failed. The conspirators had the support of our government and sent messages to one another through my mother in Saumur.”

She had not expected the admission. She closed her hands into fists to refrain from reaching out to him. The dog, returning from a brief foray to the other side of the street with a stick in his mouth, had no such scruples and nudged Wynford’s hand, bringing him back to the present. He turned to Harriet.

“You owe me a dance,” he said, in a maddeningly imperturbable voice. “And I’ll take nothing less than a waltz.”

She nodded, expecting him to stop there.

“Since I am admitting things,” he said with a dry laugh. “The post I saw belonged to the marchioness. Among her letters was one addressed to our neighbor Horace Gresham in a hand so like Octavia’s that I had to ask her about it.”

Instantly an image of Wynford’s hard male presence in the blue silk dressing gown passed through Harriet’s mind. For him to see the marchioness’s post suggested a degree of intimacy between them that Harriet had not imagined, though his expression betrayed no shame or embarrassment in the admission.

“You did not tell Octavia where you saw the letter?” she asked in a faint voice.

“I did not, and she denies any improper correspondence.” He laughed. “Octavia would find it strange, I know, but the thought of her writing to Gresham, however indiscreet such a letter would be, troubles me less than the degree of trust she places in our...cousin.”

Harriet noted the hesitation. “You do not believe the marchioness is your cousin.”

He offered her a wry smile. “I doubt she is French at all.”

“Of course.” In Harriet’s mind the details of the past and present continued to rearrange themselves. “The marchioness did not know Marie Rambert’s name or reputation, did not understand the insult she had offered the woman.”

“Yes, I noticed that. It is one of many inconsistencies in her story.”

“Then who and why...” Harriet broke off, realizing that she was far from understanding his interest in the marchioness or the woman’s particular attentions to Octavia. But it involved Perry, and she tried to recall what she had just heard about some Russian general’s daughter.

Wynford withdrew into his thoughts and absently tossed the dog’s stick in a high arc over the street. Cat gave chase and returned obediently to drop the stick at his idol’s feet. When Wynford looked up, she thought him about to ask her something, but he simply rang the bell. “Safely delivered to your door. We have a bargain then for Lady Hardwicke’s ball.”

She nodded.

A footman opened the door, and Wynford ordered Cat inside, bowed, and turned away. She watched him, contradictory ideas jostling one another in her head. He was three houses down the street when she cried, “Wait.”

With no regard for her footing, she ran to him.

He caught her gloved hands in his, his grip tight, and steadied her, an amused look in his eyes. “What is it?” he asked.

“You must believe Octavia,” she said. “She told me that since she has been in London she has written only to me and to the marchioness. Don’t you see? That means the marchioness has in her possession, as I have in mine, samples of your sister’s handwriting.”

His expression changed. “You’re suggesting forgery? The marchioness writing to Gresham in my sister’s hand?”

“Yes,” she said a little breathlessly. “Octavia would never write to Gresham. The things she’s said to me make it plain that Gresham has transferred his affections to another woman—recently, abruptly.”

“She told you this?” he asked.

“Hints only, but the loss of his regard would explain her desire to make herself into a different girl and win a husband by Christmas. What doesn’t make sense, I suppose, is what the marchioness is about writing a letter to Gresham in your sister’s hand.”

A look of menacing grimness hardened his features. “Indeed,” he said. “The marchioness’s motives are hard to fathom.”

He seemed to remember then that he held her hands in the public street. Heads of passersby turned. “Thank you,” he said, “for teaching me to do justice to my sister.”

“She is perhaps stronger than you think and more like you than you suppose.”

His look changed again, all harshness gone. “I must ask,” he said.

She lowered her gaze from his piercing one.

“What happened after I left your brother’s house that day?”