“Braddon!” she cried, ignoring the rule that she address him formally in public. “Madame de Meneval says that I look exactly like my mother!”

Braddon’s mouth fell open and for a moment Sophie tensed. He’s going to say something idiotic, she thought. Her fingers tightened painfully on Patrick’s sleeve.

Patrick glanced down at his wife’s white fingers. He hadn’t the faintest idea why Sophie was so agitated.

Luckily, Madame de Meneval broke in before Braddon could expose Madeleine’s true identity.

“You must be the Earl of Slaslow,” she said, looking over Braddon critically. She didn’t care for the overly English sort herself: all that hearty blond hair and blue eyes. “I have heard that you are to have the honor of marrying the daughter of my dear friend, the Marquise de Flammarion.”

“That’s right,” Braddon said uncertainly. He bowed again.

Madame snorted. Stupid as they come, she thought to herself. Still, at least he’s not as odd as Hélène’s husband was.

“Your father, the marquis, must have survived as well, then,” she said curiously, turning back to Madeleine. The girl was still standing there, white faced, as if she’d been turned to stone.

“My father brought me to England in 1793,” she replied.

“Oh, 1793.” Madame shivered. “That was a dreadful year, a dreadful year. Yes, that was when your dear mother was denounced. In April, it was. A dreadful year.”

If possible, Madeleine turned even paler. “My father always told me that my mother died of a fever,” she said carefully.

“Oh no,” said the Frenchwoman. “She was arrested. Fouquier, that butcher, didn’t need a reason. She rarely came to Paris, you know, since your father was such a recluse. But she was there, perhaps to buy something … new clothing. I am not sure.”

Madeleine knew. In her head resounded her father’s frequent and fierce condemnation of fashion and female love of fashion in particular.

“She was caught,” Madame continued. “I know that your father came to Paris and pleaded for her life before the Tribunal. The only reason he wasn’t imprisoned himself was that he was such an odd sort. Always messing about in the stables, always covered with dirt. There were rumors that he even learned how to shoe horses.”

“Yes, he did,” Madeleine said numbly.

“Well, it saved his life,” Madame replied. “The Tribunal judged him to be better than a useless aristocrat—those canaille! Degenerate pieces of rabble, judging the lives of their betters!” Her eyes glowed fiercely at Madeleine. “You’re better off here, girl. Even married to an Englishman. Even without your father’s estates. Did he manage to bring anything to England?”

“Yes,” Madeleine answered, thinking of the huge sum of money her father had suddenly, and most surprisingly, produced when it was time to buy her clothing and to hire Mrs. Trevelyan. “Yes, he did.”