Madeline Hunter has worked as a grocery clerk, office employee, art dealer, and freelance writer. She holds a Ph.D. in art history, which she currently teaches at an eastern university. She lives in Pennsylvania with her husband, her two teenage sons, a chubby, adorable mutt, and a black cat with a major attitude. She can be contacted through her web site, www.MadelineHunter.com, where readers can also find more information regarding the historical events and characters used in this novel.

THE DEVIL MAN HAD COME.

Madame Leblanc had threatened to send for him, and it appeared she had done so.

Diane watched the carriage slow to a stop in front of the school’s entrance. Green and gold, with abundant carving, it was drawn by four white steeds. A prince might use such a carriage.

He had not always come in such grand style. For years he rode a horse, and once, she suspected, he had walked. One year he had not visited at all. Madame Leblanc had come close to sending her to the Dominican orphanage for the poor before a woman had arrived instead, and paid for her keep for a while longer.

A bilious sensation churned in Diane’s stomach. A guardian who visited annually out of duty would not appreciate being summoned because of a disaster.

The brave plan that she had hatched suddenly struck her as hopeless. Facing the inevitable, she had concluded that fate decreed a future that she had been too cowardly to embrace on her own.

Watching the carriage, her fragile courage abandoned her. The sanctuary of this school might be lonely and small, but it was safe. The quest that beckoned her could wait.

Maybe with time it could even be ignored.

The Devil Man stepped out of the carriage, resplendent in a midnight blue cloak and brightly polished boots. The wind blew through his dark hair. He was not wearing a hat. He never did.

He had not always looked so rich. She vaguely remembered years when he had appeared almost rustic. There had been the time, ages ago, when she had thought him ill. Rich or poor, their meetings always followed the same pattern. He would glance at her, barely, and ask his questions.

Are you being treated well? Do you have any complaints? Are you learning your school lessons? How old are you now?

He did not care about the answers. She told him what he wanted to hear. Except once. She had been whipped for a transgression she had not committed, and the humiliation was very recent when he visited. She impulsively complained to him. Amazingly, she had never been whipped again. Before he left he forbade it, much to Madame Leblanc’s frustration. From then on she could not be physically punished without his permission.

Which was why he had been summoned today.