“Jane Austen,” Yasmin corrected him. She felt wretchedly nervous about seeing Giles. To her dismay, the ballroom was crowded, but not so much that she didn’t instantly register the earl and Lydia on the other side of the chamber.

“Come along, Granddaughter,” the duke said, marching toward them.

“We were going to avoid Lydia!” Yasmin hissed.

“That was your suggestion, not mine. A future countess does not scurry around corners to avoid a bad-tempered lass, not to mention her irritable brother.”

Yasmin sighed, but truly, she did want to see Giles before she and her grandfather left for the country. If they ever married, they would have to agree to make up quarrels before going to bed, because she was unable to sleep while angry at him.

They emerged from a crowd of people . . .

And walked into a nightmare.

Bowing over Lydia’s hand was Hippolyte Charles.

He looked just the same. The luxurious black mustaches that he had groomed so lovingly still curled slightly; his handsome profile was just as chiseled, his bottom lip just as red.

Yasmin froze, but her grandfather muttered something under his breath and swept her forward.

“Good evening, Lady Lydia,” he said. “Lilford, Pettigrew.” He put up his lorgnette and stared at Hippolyte. His lack of greeting was marked.

Hippolyte, meanwhile, was staring at Yasmin with an openly assessing look. Her stomach clenched.

She raised her chin and dropped into a curtsy without looking at Giles. “Good evening, Lady Lydia, Lord Lilford, Lord Pettigrew . . . Monsieur Charles.”

“Oh, you know Monsieur Charles,” Lydia exclaimed. “Of course, you are both French.” To her credit, she didn’t scowl at Yasmin. The royal greeting must have gone well; her eyes were shining, and she was holding hands with Lord Pettigrew.

“We have met,” Yasmin said.

“More than that, chère amie,” Hippolyte crooned, stooping into a deep, flourishing bow. “I ventured to this country for one reason, a reason of the heart: to find you, my long-lost love.”

“That label is neither appropriate nor truthful,” Yasmin said flatly. Her heart was pounding so hard that she felt ill. Giles’s shoulders stiffened. All around them, with the honed instincts of hunting dogs, English nobility stopped talking and melted into an audience.

“But, chérie, you wished nothing more than to be my wife,” Hippolyte said. He treated all those listening to a lavish smile. “I still have all your letters, your billet-doux. So passionate for such a young lady! Lady Yasmin won my heart, oh, these many years ago. I longed to marry her, but her father cruelly ripped us apart.”

“Quite Romeo and Juliet,” Yasmin’s grandfather said sardonically. “I must have been under a misunderstanding. I always heard that it was Empress Joséphine whom you loved, if the word applies.”

A trace of irritation crossed Hippolyte’s face. “You must be my darling Yasmin’s grandfather,” he said, dropping into another bow.

“Surely, you know my name?” His Grace responded sweetly. “I thought you would have recognized the connection years ago, when your debts led to me confiscating the estate that the deluded empress had bestowed upon you. In gratitude for personal services, as I understand it.”