I did not dare peer over my shoulder. I knew not if the beat of footsteps behind me belonged to him or some other. I scrambled as fast as my legs would carry me away from the rue Jacob, away from Saint-Germain-des-Prés.

Although my mind had never determined on my destination, my feet knew precisely where to lead me. They followed the route we had travelled earlier that day, across the river, down the rue Saint-Honoré, towards the rue de Miromesnil.

Chapter 7

I DID NOT open my eyes immediately upon awakening. It required a moment or so before I could gather my sleep-burdened thoughts.

I knew myself to be at the home of Mrs Elliot, though I possessed no memory of the bed into which I had crawled or even of drifting into sleep. I remembered speaking at great length with my hostess, long into the night. The candles burned down to their nubs before a maid quietly came and replaced them. I recited my tale to her just as I have presented it to you and by the time I had completed it, I felt myself in a sort of delirium.

I stared upward at the hangings of the Turkish bed in which I now found myself. They were lustrous, the colour of coffee, and smelt of eau de rose. I listened for any noise, and as I heard none, parted the curtains. The room was dark and shuttered. I slid out of the alcove and, though dressed in nothing more than my chemise and one of Mrs Elliot’s caps, crept to a window. There I parted the slats and was greeted by bold daylight. I recoiled and rubbed my eyes. A hint of sunlight bounced along the mirrored walls of the room, revealing its hidden beauties.

But for the bed, it was furnished entirely in the Roman style. There was a petite white dressing table adorned with gold-painted swags and similar thin-legged chairs and side tables to match. I understood well enough the expense of such modish furnishings. They appeared entirely untouched: the chairs had never seen a pair of breeches upon them; the tabletops had been unmolested by anything more than dust.

It was then I heard a sound, as if a drawer had been opened nearby. I looked and saw that the bedchamber was adjoined to another room. A door had been left slightly ajar. I rapped upon it softly before pushing it wide. To my astonishment I was greeted by the sight of my possessions and a tall, plain-faced maid who was engaged in folding and sorting my linens. Upon seeing me there, she curtseyed and wished me good morning.

‘My boxes!’ I exclaimed. ‘Why . . . however did they come here?’

‘We retrieved them from the Hôtel l’Impératrice this morning, while you slept, mademoiselle,’ she replied.

I smiled to myself.

‘But . . . did Madame Elliot arrange for this?’