Diane had known remaining here would mean punishment. Madame firmly believed that sins deserved whipping, and she did not reserve the rod for her students. Several months ago, a serving woman of mature years was caught sneaking out to meet a man, and the same justice had been meted to her.

Burning with humiliation, and praying that he remained in his daze, Diane approached the prie-de-dieu. Stepping up on the kneeler, she bent her hips over the raised cushioned arm rest and balanced herself by grasping the seat of the chair.

Madame Oiseau ceremoniously lifted the skirt of her sack dress. Madame Leblanc gave the usual exhortation for her to pray for forgiveness.

The rod fell on her exposed bottom. It fell again. She ground her teeth against the pain, knowing it was futile. They would whip her mercilessly, until she begged heaven’s pardon.

“Stop.” His voice cut through the tension in the room.

Madame got one last strike in.

“I said to stop.”

“M’sieur, it must—”

“Stop. And leave.”

Diane began to push herself up.

Madame Oiseau pressed her back down. “It appears her guardian is so outraged that he feels obliged to mete the punishment himself, Madame Leblanc,” she said in oily tones. It is appropriate for such a sin, no?”

Madame Leblanc debated in a string of mumbles. Madame Oiseau walked around the prie-de-dieu. The two women left.

She heard him rise and walk toward her. She hoped that he would be quick about it. She would gladly accept any pain to be done with the mortification that she felt positioned here, half naked.

The skirt fluttered down. A firm grasp took her arm. “Get up.”

She righted herself and smoothed the sack gown. Biting back her humiliation, she faced him.

He sat behind the desk again. No longer bored. Defintely paying attention. She squirmed under his dark gaze.

He tapped the book with his fingers. “Where did you get it?”

“Does it matter?”

“I should say it does. I put you in a school that is almost cloistered. I find it curious that you came by such a thing.”

The threat in her chamber rang in her ears. She could do it. Madame Oiseau could kill someone. And when it happened the Devil Man would not care at all. He would be grateful to be spared the trip each year.

“I stole it.”

“From a bookseller?”

“I stole it, and Madame Leblanc found it among my belongings. That is all that matters. Madame says that excuses and explanations only make the sin worse.”

“Does she? What nonsense. Do you understand why Madame was so shocked that you had this book?”

“The women are undressed, so I assume that it is about sins of the flesh.”

That seemed to amuse him, as if he had thought of a clever response but kept it to himself. “I believe that you stole this book, but I think it was from someone here. Madame Leblanc?”