“Oncle Olivier?” she asked tentatively. She’d never met him before but she’d expected he’d have some family resemblance, her father’s cheekbones perhaps, or the famous St. Croix green eyes. This man was tal er than any of her relatives and sniffed disdainful y.

“Lord St. Cross does not receive muddy boys who smel like you do,” he informed her. “Off with you.” He went to shut the door. She shoved her foot against it.

“Attend, s’il te plaît! ” Her cap dislodged in her agitation, letting her hair spil out. She knew she must look half wild with her babbling in another language and her pleading, watery eyes. “Non! Monsieur! ”

“If you go to the back door Cook wil feed you, child. And then on your way.” He shoved the door shut. She yanked at the handle but it was locked. She bit back tears of frustration.

Weeping wasn’t going to help her. She’d just have to find another way in.

The butler had pointed to the lane along the house. She tromped along it, gathering mud on her boots. A light rain began to fal , further muddying the lane. One of the windows was partial y open, the curtains bil owing in the wind. She looked around to make sure no one was watching her before diving into the rosebushes to get a better look. Thorns scraped the back of her hands and pul ed at her hair. Stupid roses. Petals fel over her, cloying as perfume under the warm rain.

The parlor had several chairs with embroidered cushions and a pianoforte in one corner. The ceiling was painted with cherubs. She shuddered. How was a person supposed to relax with fat floating babies staring at the top of her head al day long? Between the angels and the gilded candlesticks and shel -encrusted lamps, the room was hideously overly decorated.

But at least it was empty.

She pushed the window open a little more and then shoved her leg through the opening, hugging the sil as she squirmed her way inside. She could smel lemon wax and more roses.

The house was remarkably quiet for one so large. She wondered if she had any cousins banished to the attic nursery.

No dog came to greet her, no cat slunk out from under the table.

Her heart resumed its regular pace.

She went out into the hal way, wondering where her uncle might be. If he was awake he’d surely be in his study. That was where her father had spent most of his time when he wasn’t on horseback or escorting her mother to some soiree. Even the hal was beautiful, with framed paintings, gilded sconces, marble-topped tables, and urns of flowers. She had to fight the urge to slip a smal silver snuffbox into her pocket.

She turned a corner and walked straight into the butler.

He yelped but was much faster than she’d anticipated and hauled her off her feet by the sleeve of her coat before she could dart out of his reach. Her instinct was to run and hide but that was hardly going to get her what she wanted. The butler shook her.

“I’m cal ing the magistrate. We don’t take kindly to intruders here in England. I don’t care if you are a girl!” Isabeau did the only thing she could think of.

She opened her mouth and screamed at the top of her lungs.

“Mon oncle! Mon oncle! ”

The butler recoiled at her impressive volume. The chandelier overhead rattled. Footmen came thundering toward them. A door burst open, slamming into the wal .

“What the devil is going on here?” The voice had only the faintest traces of a French accent. The man wore a gray silk waistcoat straining subtly over his bel y. His graying hair was swept off his high forehead.

“I beg your pardon, your lordship,” the butler wheezed. “I caught an intruder.”

“Mais non, arrête. ” Isabeau struggled to get out of his grasp.

She blew her hair out of her face. “It’s me,” she said. “Isabeau St. Croix. Your niece.”

“My niece?” he echoed in English.

Silence circled around them, thick as smoke. Her uncle blinked at her. The butler blinked at her uncle. The footmen blinked at al of them. A woman she assumed to be her aunt made a strangled gasp from another doorway. She wore a lace cap and a morning dress trimmed with silk ribbon rosettes.

“Your lordship?” The butler was no longer sure if he was apprehending a criminal or hauling an earl’s niece about by the scruff of the neck.

“Let her go,” Lord St. Cross said. “Let me get a look at her.” Isabeau straightened her rumpled and stained coat. Her uncle stared at her for another long moment before he clapped his hands together.

“By God, it is her!”

“Are you certain?” his wife asked, her fingers fluttering at her throat. “You’ve never met her.”

“I haven’t, but I’d know those eyes anywhere. Just like Jean-Paul.” He shook his head. “Remarkable. Where is he?” Isabeau swal owed. “He’s dead.”

Olivier’s mouth trembled in shock. He went pale as butter.

“Non, ” he slipped into French. “How?”

“Guil otine.”

His wife fanned herself furiously.

“And your mother?” he asked quietly.

“Same.” She swal owed hard. She couldn’t lose her composure now. She’d fought too hard for her father’s sake to be the strong girl who survived. Her uncle’s warm palm settled on her shoulder.

“Oh, my dear child.”

His wife lowered her hands from where they’d been trembling at her mouth. “My Lord, look at her, she’s terribly thin.”

“You are rather scrawny, my girl. We’l send for tea. Bring extra biscuits,” he told the nearest footman. “Our cook is French. We’l have him make your favorite for supper.”