“Your Highness.” Loubet stepped onto the terrace, favoring his hip only slightly. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

He was, but her manners were too ingrained. Brie smiled as she held out her hands. In any case, she had discovered over the dinner they’d shared that she liked Loubet’s young, pretty wife very much. And she’d found it sweet that the stuffy, practical minister of state should be so obviously in love.

“You look well, Monsieur.”

“Merci, Vôtre Altesse.” He brought her hand up, giving it an avuncular brush of lips. “I must say, you’re blooming. Being home is the best medicine, oui?”

“I was thinking”—she turned back to her view of Cordina—“that it feels like home. Not always inside, but out here. Have you come to see my father, Monsieur Loubet?”

“Yes, I have an appointment with him in a moment.”

“Tell me, you’ve worked with my father for many years. Are you also his friend?”

“I’ve considered myself so, Your Highness.”

Always so conservative, Brie thought with a flash of impatience. Always so diplomatic. “Come, Loubet, without the amnesia, this is certainly a question I wouldn’t have to ask. And after all,” she reminded him with a slow lift of brow, “it is on your advice that my problem remains a discreet one. So tell me, has my father friends, and are you one of them?”

He didn’t hesitate, but paused. Loubet was a man who would always gather his thoughts together, sift through them meticulously, then put them into words. “There are few great men in the world, Your Highness. Some of these are good, as well. Prince Armand is one of these. Great men make enemies, good men draw friends. Your father has the burden of doing both.”

“Yes.” With a sigh, she rested against the wall. “I think I understand that.”

“I’m not Cordinian.” Loubet smiled as he looked out over the city with her. “By law, the minister of state is French. I love my own country. I can tell you frankly that I would not serve yours but for my feelings toward your father.”

“I wish I were so sure of my feelings,” she murmured.

“Your father loves you.” He said it gently, so gently Brie had to close her eyes or weep. “Have no doubt there is nothing more important to Prince Armand than your welfare.”

“You make me ashamed.”

“Your Highness—”

“No, rightly so. I have a great deal to think about.” Straightening from the wall, Brie held out her hand again. “Thank you, Loubet.”

He bowed formally, making her smile. Then Brie forgot him as she turned back to the view and thought of her father.

Neither of them had paid any attention to the young man arranging pots of flowers farther down the terrace. Or the sturdy maid dusting glass just inside the doors.

Armand was keeping something from her. Of that she was certain. She knew nothing, however, of his reasons. Perhaps they were good ones. Yet even as she conceded this, the resentment didn’t fade. Whatever her father or anyone else thought she should or shouldn’t do, she’d have to find out.