“No, Alex, no,” Charlotte said chokingly, winding her arms around his neck. “It’s too dangerous. You can’t leave me and Pippa. You can’t! I’ll die without you.”

“Listen, darling.” Alex drew back and looked down into Charlotte’s clear eyes. “I was born a gentleman. That was extremely lucky; I should have greatly disliked to have been born a chimney sweep, for example. But that same honor to which I was born means that I cannot refuse Lucien’s request simply because of fear. Even given that I hate the thought of leaving you and Pippa. Nor can I turn down Lord Breksby’s gently worded command to pick up a package, whatever it is, in Paris. They need someone they can trust. They can trust me, because I was bred to a position that made me trustworthy.”

Charlotte wanted to shake him. What a silly, stupid reason to risk one’s life. Yet she could see from Alex’s beloved face that he believed every silly word. Frustrated tears rose to her eyes.

“Lucien’s youngest sister is only thirteen years old,” Alex said. “I can’t leave her there, Charlotte.”

Charlotte buried her head in his chest, her shoulders shaking with sobs. “Why can’t someone else go?” she finally wailed, the ageless cry of wives and mothers watching beloved ones go fight in foreign wars.

“Because I look so very un-English,” Alex said wryly. “And thanks to Maria I also speak idiomatic Italian. Darling, I will be perfectly safe, I promise you. I will be back in England before you even finish your portrait of that rawboned kitchen maid.”

“Then why so soon?” Charlotte pulled away, walking to the window and staring out at the dark gardens. She felt utterly disconsolate.

Alex came up behind her and pulled the thick curtains shut. “There’s no time to be lost.” Charlotte knew what he meant. The thirteen-year-old … He wrapped his arms around her from the back, and Charlotte leaned against him. Her hands absently twisted a length of the rich velvet curtain.

“I don’t see why Lord Breksby needs you to go to Paris. Surely Paris is the most dangerous place of all!”

“Actually not, darling,” Alex said, his deep voice unruffled. “Italians go in and out of Paris all the time, and it isn’t as if I am being asked to bring back a person from Paris. I am going to pick up a small package. It should take a matter of hours, and my carriage can be searched on the way out without any risk. The French government is allowing business transactions to continue, you know.”

“Well, I still don’t see why Lucien can’t simply hire someone,” she retorted. “You just said yourself that rescuing people is dangerous.”