‘You are green.’ Vincent narrowed his eyes. ‘I think more a Pomona green than a Hooker’s. Certainly not emerald, but perhaps one that has been mixed with flake white.’

‘Continue that, and I shall wish you to Brussels.’

He sobered. ‘It would look strange if I went. Anyone with sense will stay close to home today, in case there is further news.’

They heard nothing new that day, nor the next, but as Jane went about her routines, she became aware of why Vincent feared that the knowledge of his charge from the Prince Regent would change her behaviour. She measured every action she took for what it might mean to an outsider. She weighed the words of every person who spoke with her as if they might be a spy themselves. She did not think any of these thoughts showed, as she put them in a compartment in the same manner as she had concealed her early regard for Mr. Dunkirk – hiding thoughts of spies and revolutions was not so very different from hiding a sensibility toward a gentleman – but she was constantly aware that they were there.

So Jane made no alterations in her plans, and the town settled back into an uneasy peace. Each passing day offered little news as the entire world waited to see what Napoleon would do. On the third day, they received word that Napoleon had reached Paris without a shot fired and that King Louis XVIII had fled to Brussels. The truth of it was impossible to deny, for the Bourbon retinue had travelled through Charleroi, the town next to Binché. Too many tradespeople had seen them for it to be a rumour.

But rumours abounded as the occupation of gossip was replaced with speculation about Napoleon. Napoleon would march to Brussels. No, he would march to Vienna. No, Queen Marie Louise was returning to him. No, he would abdicate again.

Many of the rumours Vincent was able to tell her were unfounded, but the one that would most directly impact them remained the likeliest. The chance of Napoleon marching on Brussels seemed almost certain if he continued his patterns from before his abdication. If he did go to Brussels, he would pass through Binché.

They sat at Vincent’s writing desk, going over Mr. Gilman’s questions about lambs and translating his ciphers into meaning. ‘Jane, I ask again: will you take ship to England?’

‘Will you?’

He grimaced, seeming aware of his contradiction. ‘When we receive word that Napoleon is marching, I will retreat to Brussels. Wellington is there, and he means to hold the line at Quatre Bras.’

‘You think he can?’