“Well,” Madame de Meneval said with grudging respect, “I never cared for Vincent Garnier overmuch. He was an odd sort, even as a young man. But Hélène loved him. She was absurdly in love with him. Wouldn’t hear a word against him. And then after she married him, he took her off to his estates in the Limousin, and hardly let her come to court at all. I don’t know how she got permission to come to Paris in ‘93.” She fell silent.

Madeleine turned to Braddon, her eyes bright with unshed tears. He responded promptly. “I am afraid that I must claim my future bride,” he said, bowing deeply in the general direction of Madame de Meneval. “Madame, your servant.”

Madame inclined her chin an inch as if she, rather than Louis XVI, had been king. But her eyes softened as she turned to Madeleine.

“Dear child, I can see that I unwittingly gave you some unpleasant news. You must forgive me.”

“No, no,” Madeleine said softly. “It is lovely to meet someone who knew my mother. I am afraid I have very few memories of her.”

“Perhaps you will come and take tea with me someday. I knew your mother from the day she was born. I would be happy to tell Hélène’s daughter about her. How proud she would have been of you, my dear!”

At that, Madeleine’s tears threatened to overflow. As she made a hasty curtsy, Braddon drew her gently out of the ballroom. Braddon may not have been overbright, but he knew his Maddie. Without a word he pulled her into an adjacent salon, shut the door, and wrapped his arms around her.

“Braddon, Braddon,” Madeleine sobbed. “It is Mama, Hélène is Mama.”

“What?”

“Madame … she was talking about my mama!”

“Impossible,” Braddon said kindly. “Your mama married a horse trainer, m’dear. She couldn’t possibly have been friends with a member of the French court.”

“Don’t you see, Braddon?” Madeleine looked up at him, brown eyes shining with tears. “My father is the marquis who was so strange that he learned how to shoe horses. When Papa brought me to England, he opened a horse stable. That’s why he suggested that I pretend to be the daughter of the Marquis de Flammarion. I thought it strange that he agreed to a scheme of this sort so quickly.”

“You mean, you really are that woman’s daughter?”

Madeleine looked at her beloved. His blue eyes were still confused. “My papa is the Marquis de Flammarion,” she explained patiently. “When my mother was condemned, he must have taken me and fled to England. When he arrived, he opened a stable.”

Braddon gaped. “You are a French aristo!”

Madeleine nodded. Tears were still rolling down her cheeks.

“But my mama, Braddon!”

He rubbed her hair awkwardly. “You knew she was dead, Maddie.”

“Yes, but in such a way, the guillotine …”