But Sophie got there too late. Even as she dodged around a last cluster of people, she saw Madeleine sinking into a dulcet curtsy before Madame de Meneval.

“Merde!” Sophie whispered, and stopped running. Eloise looked up and held out a welcoming hand.

“My dearest, do come meet Madame de Meneval. I have just introduced her to dear Madeleine.”

With a sinking heart, Sophie walked to her mama’s side. In another second, Madame would declare that Madeleine was an impostor, bringing Braddon’s whole scheme crashing down around their ears.

Patrick appeared at her side and touched her arm. Sophie cast him a frantic glance.

He frowned in confusion. What in thunder was going on? Here was Sophie, apparently quaking with fear to meet an old Frenchwoman dressed in rusty black silk. True, the woman had a beak that could grace an eagle, but there was nothing intrinsically terrifying about her. In fact, she looked to be a bit of a soft touch to Patrick. Wasn’t she crying?

Definitely, Madame de Meneval was crying, just a trifle, only a single tear. She dropped her cane and stretched her hands out to Madeleine.

“Madeleine, dear Madeleine! I thought you were dead. I have missed your mother so much, and here you are … You are the very image of her. I remember you as a young girl, my dear, when you were only five years old. Your mama brought you all the way to Paris just to see the ballet. Your mother loved the ballet. Oh, how she loved to dance.”

Sophie didn’t say a word. Neither did Madeleine. They both stared at Madame de Meneval as if she had suddenly grown a horn on her forehead. But Madame didn’t notice. She was pulling a handkerchief of the finest lace out of her reticule, and gently patting her eyes.

“Just so your mother used to look when she was outshining every lady of the court. It’s as if I see my dear Hélène before me again. You have her eyes, and her hair … your figure is exactly like hers. Why, I remember dear King Louis ogling Hélène’s bosom, as if it were yesterday. How Marie Antoinette used to bridle at your mother! But there was nothing she could say. Your mother was perfectly behaved, a truly modest lady who never put herself forward. It wasn’t Hélène’s fault that Louis always found her très désirable.”

Then Madame suddenly noticed the look of stunned surprise on Madeleine’s face. “Did you not know that you are the image of your mother, my dear?”

“My father always said so, ma’am,” Madeleine said slowly, “but I could hardly believe it.”

Just then Braddon came up behind Madeleine and touched her elbow. “I believe this is my dance,” he said, bowing.