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Yasmin sighed, but truly, she did want to see Giles before she and her grandfather left for the country. If they ever married, they would have to agree to make up quarrels before going to bed, because she was unable to sleep while angry at him.

They emerged from a crowd of people . . .

And walked into a nightmare.

Bowing over Lydia’s hand was Hippolyte Charles.

He looked just the same. The luxurious black mustaches that he had groomed so lovingly still curled slightly; his handsome profile was just as chiseled, his bottom lip just as red.

Yasmin froze, but her grandfather muttered something under his breath and swept her forward.

“Good evening, Lady Lydia,” he said. “Lilford, Pettigrew.” He put up his lorgnette and stared at Hippolyte. His lack of greeting was marked.

Hippolyte, meanwhile, was staring at Yasmin with an openly assessing look. Her stomach clenched.

She raised her chin and dropped into a curtsy without looking at Giles. “Good evening, Lady Lydia, Lord Lilford, Lord Pettigrew . . . Monsieur Charles.”

“Oh, you know Monsieur Charles,” Lydia exclaimed. “Of course, you are both French.” To her credit, she didn’t scowl at Yasmin. The royal greeting must have gone well; her eyes were shining, and she was holding hands with Lord Pettigrew.

“We have met,” Yasmin said.

“More than that, chère amie,” Hippolyte crooned, stooping into a deep, flourishing bow. “I ventured to this country for one reason, a reason of the heart: to find you, my long-lost love.”

“That label is neither appropriate nor truthful,” Yasmin said flatly. Her heart was pounding so hard that she felt ill. Giles’s shoulders stiffened. All around them, with the honed instincts of hunting dogs, English nobility stopped talking and melted into an audience.

“But, chérie, you wished nothing more than to be my wife,” Hippolyte said. He treated all those listening to a lavish smile. “I still have all your letters, your billet-doux. So passionate for such a young lady! Lady Yasmin won my heart, oh, these many years ago. I longed to marry her, but her father cruelly ripped us apart.”

“Quite Romeo and Juliet,” Yasmin’s grandfather said sardonically. “I must have been under a misunderstanding. I always heard that it was Empress Joséphine whom you loved, if the word applies.”

A trace of irritation crossed Hippolyte’s face. “You must be my darling Yasmin’s grandfather,” he said, dropping into another bow.

“Surely, you know my name?” His Grace responded sweetly. “I thought you would have recognized the connection years ago, when your debts led to me confiscating the estate that the deluded empress had bestowed upon you. In gratitude for personal services, as I understand it.”

Hippolyte’s gaze turned cold. He hadn’t realized.

“It makes me wonder how you can afford the clothing you wear,” the duke added. “But on closer inspection I see that they are not precisely à la mode.”

“You too were part of the conspiracy to drag us apart!” Hippolyte cried, ignoring the duke’s sartorial criticism. He cast a glance at the eager audience surrounding them. “Imagine, if you will, the exquisite Lady Yasmin, at the age of sixteen, a rosebud, untouched by—”

“Enough,” Yasmin said, surprised by the cutting tone in her own voice. “You are a blackguard, Monsieur Charles, and I can only say that my father was correct to reject your proposal of marriage.”

“Given we had enjoyed each other for a week,” Hippolyte retorted, “most in the French court thought he was foolish.”

Whispers arose in a sharp wave like wind rattling through dry cornstalks.

“I was the foolish one,” Yasmin said, head high. She glanced at the audience around them, though she couldn’t bring herself to look at Giles. “I was sixteen years old, desperately in love. I believed this man when he brought me before an abbé, a priest, who pretended to marry us.”

“Alas, one’s first passions are inevitably horrifying in retrospect,” her grandfather said contemptuously. “One can only hope those repellent mustaches were not in evidence years ago, but one fears they were.”

Hippolyte opened his mouth, but Giles stepped forward. Without a word, his fist crashed into Hippolyte’s jaw. The man swayed; Giles struck him another solid blow.

The Frenchman fell backward like a felled pine, ladies screaming as they leaped out of the way.

Giles prodded him with his foot, and then jerked his chin at one of the footmen. “Remove this rubbish.”

The Prince Regent barreled up. “All the excitement happened when I was downstairs!” he squealed. Looking down, he made a childish pout. “Oh, it’s that Frenchman. Who is he again?”

A cacophony of excited voices answered him, but Lady Dunlap’s rose above the rest. “One of Lady Yasmin’s former lovers.”