The Lark docked with a rebel onboard. Sophie had sailed to Wales with no thought of helping Braddon. Yet as the boat neared the dock, along with the realization that she had nothing to fill her time but the dreary round of shopping and taking tea, a sneaking, wicked ambition began to grow in her heart. Eloise prided herself on her social acumen, on her ability to spot a less-than-perfect lady at ten paces. Who better than her daughter to fool the entire ton and pass off a horse trainer’s daughter as a French aristocrat?

Forget learning languages that she would never be able to speak. Sophie was going to become an artist, like her friend Charlotte. She would create the picture of a French lady. A living testament to Eloise’s strong-minded training, if only Eloise knew. Which she never would, Sophie reminded herself. Her mother’s moral sense was far too strong to countenance an intruder breaching the sacred walls of the ton.

One problem loomed large. What would Patrick think of the whole scheme? Sometimes Sophie imagined he would relish the drama and the hint of risk, and sometimes she thought he’d be disgusted by the attempt.

That evening, Patrick, Sophie, and Henri were just finishing a late supper when Sophie asked, “Didn’t you and Braddon used to carry through a great many schemes when you were at school together?”

At the mention of Braddon’s name, Patrick looked up. Oddly enough, he had just been wondering whether Sophie had yet forgotten about Braddon. It seemed not.

“Silly childhood stunts,” he said brusquely, returning to his chicken. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no real reason,” Sophie said airily. “I was just thinking about Braddon and you as children.”

Worse and worse, from Patrick’s point of view. Why on earth would his wife want to spend a moment contemplating Braddon, unless she was hoping to see him soon?

“What sort of stunts?” Henri’s eyes were bright with interest.

“Braddon was always trying to gammon some teacher into thinking that he was someone other than himself.”

Henri shrugged. That didn’t sound very interesting. “May I be excused?” he asked. He was slowly returning to the normal pursuits of a healthy twelve-year-old, far from the rigors of war. He had spent the afternoon in Patrick’s stables, and the stableboy had offered to show him a painting of a two-headed cow in the evening.

“Was Braddon successful in his disguises?” Sophie asked, after Henri had left the room.

Patrick rolled his eyes derisively. “Never.”

“Oh, poor Braddon,” Sophie said mechanically as her mind whirled. It seemed that Braddon was just carrying on a tradition by trying to pass off his future wife as a French aristocrat. And clearly, Patrick would not want to be party to Braddon’s new “stunt.” Perhaps more important, the idea sounded remarkably foolhardy, in light of Braddon’s history of failed masquerades.