“You are sure, madame? He might like to meet you.” His voice was very soft.

He had guessed. She was sure of it.

“No, monsieur, I do not wish to meet the artist.”

“As you wish, madame.” He opened the door and bowed, as she stepped out into the street.

She took a taxi back. She was eager to spend a little time alone in her apartment thinking about the best place to hang the picture and its accompanying drawings.

She also couldn’t help reflecting that it was sad that she couldn’t make herself known to her blood relations—to Marie, whom she liked, and Marc who, whatever his faults, had talents to be admired, and to her dear old grandfather down at Fontainebleau. Might she and Claire, whom she’d seen only from a distance, have become friends? Or would they have rejected her, as her mother’s family had done? She didn’t intend to find out.

But unknown to them all, with the purchase of the portrait, she was piecing together her family, her true identity, reconstituting a past and a truth that would otherwise have been lost.

For a few moments, her thoughts turned to Luc. He was the one who had set her upon this path that put a moral and social barrier between herself and her real family. Most people would say he had corrupted her. But if she felt a resentment over the fact, she told herself that it was useless. She had chosen her path too. Had she chosen another, she might have found a respectable husband. Perhaps. But then she’d have had no freedom. There were no other paths to fortune that were open to a woman. Whereas, after a few more years of this, she’d be able to retire as a lady of independent means.

Only one thing was missing from her life now.

A husband? Truly, she wasn’t sure she wanted one, and certainly not the kind of man who’d want to marry a brothel keeper. But she would have liked a child. And time was passing on. She was thirty-six.

It could be arranged. She could surely find a rich lover again, a man of some interest, perhaps. She needn’t tell him her intention. If he wanted to help the child, good. If not, she could provide. Perhaps, she thought, as the taxi reached the rue de Montmorency, this would be the next step forward in her life.

She paid the cab and went swiftly up to the door, letting herself in with her key. The hall was empty, as was the salon on her right, but from the morning room at the back, some low voices told her that one or two girls had already arrived. She was just about to mount the stairs when she heard a man’s voice, speaking softly. She frowned. Surely this wasn’t a customer. They were always kept in the salon. Then she realized it was Luc’s voice. Perhaps he had wanted to see her.