“You can’t know that,” Sophie protested. “Braddon loves you so much, Madeleine.”

“We cannot have a good marriage when our life is based on falsehoods,” Madeleine replied, French practicality resonating in her voice. “Love is not enough.”

“Yes,” Sophie murmured. She loved Patrick, after all. But somehow her marriage was falling to shards and tatters … love or no. “What will you do now?”

“Braddon and I discussed it last night. We may go to America. Braddon says he will not stay in England without me, and Braddon is very determined.”

“He will never let you out of his sight,” Sophie confirmed. “But what of his family, Madeleine?” She hesitated, remembering Braddon’s anguished fear that his mother would be humiliated.

Madeleine nodded. “It is a problem, that. So we have come up with a new plan, Sophie. I will continue the masquerade until next week. At Lady Greenleaf’s ball, our engagement will be announced. The following day, we will let it be known that I have suddenly fallen ill. Then,” she said briskly, “when I am dead of a fever, Braddon will make a trip to America to recover his spirits.”

“And you will go with him? Oh, this is a true Braddon scheme!” Sophie said. She felt a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.

Madeleine wrinkled her nose. “I—I do not care for it. But I can see that I have woven my lies, and now I must play to the finish. I shall go to America and be a plain horse trainer’s daughter, and if the Earl of Slaslow is foolish enough to marry an American horse trainer’s daughter, well, so be it. Our children may return to England someday. I shall not.”

“I shall miss you,” Sophie said. And she meant it.

“I am so grateful to you, Sophie, for teaching me to be a lady,” Madeleine said. “I too shall miss you.” She hesitated, then rushed on. “Your Patrick … he does love you, you know.”

Sophie started. A glow of humiliation heated the back of her neck.

Madeleine’s brown eyes were earnest and passionately sympathetic. “He loves you,” she repeated. “I see him—watching you. Whenever you are not looking, he watches you. And his heart is in his eyes, Sophie.”

Sophie smiled, a pinched little smile. She and Madeleine hugged a long good-bye.

A few minutes after Madeleine left, Clemens appeared in the doorway of Sophie’s sitting room, holding a salver with a card on it. “Mr. Foucault and Mr. Mustafa are calling,” he said.

His tone was resonant with hostility, and Sophie knew instantly that Clemens, who was a ruthless judge of character, did not approve of these particular callers.

“Do I know them?” Sophie asked.

“Certainly not, Your Grace,” Clemens replied. “They are acquaintances—distant acquaintances—of His Grace.”

“I don’t understand, Clemens. Did they ask for me?”