Hannah heard a loud laugh, a thud, then rushing feet. Before she had a chance to open the door to see for herself, it burst open. Barreling through it was a small boy with a thatch of dark hair that may or may not have been combed in the last week. He gave her an amazing grin, showing more than one gap before he scooted under her bed.

“Cachez-moi, s’il vous plaît!” His voice was muffled by the skirt of the spread before he disappeared.

Hannah opened her mouth again only to see Bennett filling the doorway.

“Did you see a small, miserably mannered boy?”

“I, ah—no,” she decided on the spot and folded her hands. “I did think I heard someone go running past. What are you—”

“Thanks. If you see him, lock him in a closet or something.” He started off down the hall. “Dorian, you nasty little thief, you can’t hide forever.”

Hannah walked to the door and looked out to see Bennett turning the corner before she closed it. Moving back to the bed, she crouched down and lifted the skirt. “I think it’s safe now,” Hannah told him in French.

The dark hair poked out first, then a sturdy little body dressed in short pants and a white linen shirt that were streaked with dirt. If Hannah hadn’t already seen his picture, she would have taken him for one of the servants’ offspring. But he was royal.

“You are English. I speak excellent English.”

“So you do.”

“Thank you for hiding me from my uncle.” Young Prince Dorian bowed. Though he wasn’t yet five, he executed it perfectly. “He was angry, but he doesn’t stay that way long. I’m Prince Dorian.”

“Your Highness.” Hannah curtsied. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Lady Hannah Rothchild.” Then unable to resist, she bent down to his level. “What did you steal?”

Dorian glanced at the closed door, back at Hannah, then grinned. Digging into his back pocket he pulled out a yo-yo. It might once have been blue, but now it was the gray of old wood with a few chips of brighter paint still holding. Hannah studied it with appropriate respect.

“This is Bennett’s—His Highness’s?” Hannah corrected.

“Merveilleux, n’est-ce pas? He’s had it since he was five.” Dorian turned the toy over in his hand, marveling that it had once been new and shiny when his uncle had been just the age he was now. “He gets angry when I go into his room and play with it, but how else am I going to be able to make it work?”

“Good point.” Hannah barely resisted the urge to ruffle the royal head of hair. “And one would doubt he plays with it himself very often.”