Miss Smythe-Haughton has advised patience and has gone to speak with the sulfi herself, which is a complete waste of time. Still, at least she is no longer underfoot while I’m pacing my bedchamber from end to end. If I am not released soon, I will be forced to escape, musket-bearing guards or not.

Several hours later, Robert tilted his head to one side and stared at his reflection in the mirror, his gaze narrowing as he examined the intricate folds of his cravat. After a long, silent moment, he nodded. “It will do.”

Behind him, Buffon clasped his hands and gave a relieved sigh. “Oui! Very good, monsieur. I feared the starch would not be to your liking.”

“It’s well enough.” He deftly placed a sapphire pin in his cravat. “I am ready for dinner and there’s still thirty minutes to spare. I’ll wear my robe until it’s time to put on my dinner coat, so it won’t wrinkle.”

“Very good, monsieur.” Buffon went to the wardrobe and removed a brilliant red silk robe.

He lovingly carried it to Robert, who eyed it with disbelief. “Where’s my blue robe?”

Buffon appeared pained. “Monsieur, will you at least try the new robe? It is very fashionable and—”

“The blue robe. Now.”

Buffon’s lips thinned, but he went to the large wardrobe and, with a great show, lovingly hung the red silk robe inside. He yanked out a blue robe from the bottom of the wardrobe, muttering under his breath in French.

“That robe is not a rag.”

Buffon sniffed but held out the robe.

Robert slipped it on. “When you are done pouting, I have a task for you.”

Buffon had turned to put away the cravats that had not been used, but he paused, his dark gaze locking on Robert. “Oui?”

“It may not be pleasant.”

“Your tasks rarely are, monsieur. But you are here on a mission, which is why you are now pretending to be married to madame.”

Robert tied the belt on his robe, hiding a grimace. Telling his servants he was pretending to be married had seemed easier than trying to explain the true circumstances. For some reason, though, hearing his own words rankled. “It’s a very important mission; lives are at stake.” One in particular.

The valet draped the cravats over his arm and stood as if at attention. “What do you need of Buffon?”

“Information. Rumor has it that Ross has a secret chamber somewhere inside this castle.”

“Intriguing!”

“That item I purchased from Ross, the one I told you about?”

“Oui. The onyx box.”

“Yes. It appears Ross has decided to switch it for a copy.”

Buffon gave a visible start. “Mon Dieu! Does he not know who you are?”

“Ah, Buffon, not everyone holds me in such high regard as you.”

“I know what makes a gentleman,” Buffon said loftily. “This Ross is not a gentleman, but a barbarian. And no wonder, for he lives here in this wretched countryside, far from civilization. I daresay he does not even wear a cravat!”