"But why are you here, mon enfant?" She coughed again, covering her lips with a lacy handkerchief.

"Where is Nurse?" he countered. "Should you be cavorting out of bed in this frivolous manner?"

"I have made Nurse an errand, to walk very far in the rain."

"Making a nuisance of herself, is she?"

"She is a good woman, but she troubles… me very much, that I must be bled, which I do not wish."

"Never mind her, then. But you look well, Maman. You look well." He gazed down at one of the heavy old knives of sterling, running his finger over the ornate coronet engraved above the f lowing initial M. "Je t'aime, ma mère," he said to the tablecloth. "I must leave England."

He heard her give another small cough, but he didn't look up. Lilly scratched at the door. Trev gave a gruff assent, and the maid entered. She poured his coffee, set the pot down, and retreated.

"Voyons, it is just as good that you go, then, eh?" his mother said, when Lilly had closed the door behind her. There was a hint of anger in her thin voice. "What need do we… have with you here?"

He took a deep drink of coffee, not caring that it burned him. "C'est à chier, non?" he said, closing his eyes brief ly.

"Oh my son!" She reached across and caught his hand. "I am sorry! It was a sting of the moment only. Forgive me! Forgive me."

He pressed her fingers. "You've nothing to forgive. Not you." He let her go, still not meeting her eyes. He rolled the sterling knife over, watching the dull light gleam on ancient silver. "But let us for once be frank with one another. How much do you know, Maman?"

She drew a shuddering breath. He looked at her sidelong.

"Very much, I think," she admitted, "that I deduce, but do not know."

He waited, spinning the knife with his fingertip.

"Monceaux is gone, is it not?" she asked quietly.

The sadness in her voice was like a mortal wound to him. "It is a pig farm," he said, his lip curling a little. "Except for the vineyards. They've been honored by Jacobins and royalists alike. A mistress of the duc de Berri now enjoys possession, I believe."

A steady tap of rain beat on the old glass panes. He watched the watery f low of green and brown and gray outside. His mother did not speak.

"I could not bring myself to tell you," he said. He leaned on his elbows and rubbed his hands over his face. "I could not."

She said, "I have only one regret for it. That you never saw it as it was. What belonged to you."

"It never belonged to me. It was yours, and my father's and grandfather's. I wanted it for you. For you and Hélène and Aimée. I wanted you to dance again at Monceaux, those dances that you used to teach us." He shook his head. "It was never mine. It's why Grand-père hated me, because my heart was born between. I was happy here; I loved to come home from school and be with you in this shabby old house. And Callie-my God-" He laughed. "What would he have done to me if he'd known? I don't know where I belong, Maman. But I wanted-ah, I wanted to come back and hand you a golden key, and make it all right again."

"And so you could not come back at all, which makes me hate Monceaux now."

He shrugged. "I should have come. At least after-" He broke off.

"After you fought for Bonaparte?" she asked wisely. "No, not then. Your grand-père would have killed you for certain if he had discovered it. Or you would have made a duel, which would be very shocking-here in such a petit place as… Shelford."

He frowned at her. "You know of that? How?"

She hid her face behind her handkerchief for a moment to cough and then lowered it elegantly. "Your English friend. The officer. Hixson? He came to call on me, to assure me that you were safe."

"Geordie Hixson?" Trev was astonished. "That was damned handsome of him."

"Yes, he said that he was making… calls on the families of his men while he was on leave. He said that you were captured but allowed to go about freely on your honor as a gentleman." She caught her breath. "It was a great comfort to me. But I did not mention it-to your grand-père-of course."

Trev was left without words for a moment. Then he only said: "You see? We were in school together. That's what makes me love the English."

"They are a most stout people," she agreed. "Very kind friends. But you have been a good friend also, I think? To the Chicken?"

He regarded her with unwilling amusement. "The Rooster." He took the coffeepot from her shaky hand and poured for her. "So I find, after all my toil and trouble, that I have no secrets from you at all?" he asked ironically.

She gave him an apologetic glance. "The ladies of Shelford are so liberal as to bring the monthlies to me-they are a little out-of-date, but I find them-très piquant. I cannot always be-reading my prayer book, you know."

"The ladies of Shelford appear to be preoccupied beyond reason with the scandal papers."

"Of course," she said, lifting her cup by its double handles and looking at him over the rim. "Particularly when young Frenchmen of a certain description appear prominently in the pages."

He ran his hand through his damp hair. "You understand my situation, then."

"In truth, mon trésor, I am not certain that I do." She set down her cup. "You tell me you must leave the country? I thought you safe to remain concealed at Shelford Hall?"

"Safe?" he echoed sarcastically. "Shelford Hall is presently host to the Home Secretary himself, along with some uncounted number of his minions." At her questioning expression, he added, "He's minister in charge over such fellows as Cook's been taken to entertaining in her kitchen lately. Constables and Bow Street Runners and the like."

She did not appear to be alarmed. "But I do not think his bunions expect you to be there. As they might expect to discover you here, for instance, though I am happy for you to call brief ly."

"'Minions,' Maman. But that's not the worst."

She gazed at him with wide eyes. "What is worst?"

His mouth f lattened. "Mrs. Fowler," he said. "The devil only knows how she's found me. But she presented herself at the Hall and managed to get herself a word with Lady Callista."

His mother straightened a spoon and fork on the well-worn linen cloth. "Mon dieu," she said mildly.

"Mon dieu, indeed." He shoved away from the table, causing the cups to rattle as he stood. "Callie taxed me with having wed the woman, thanks to what she read in some scandal rag. She even had a plan for us to meet at the masquerade tonight."

"Oh, the poor child. Breaking her heart."

"Hah. She near pushed me out the window," he informed her. "'The poor child.'"

His mother sat up a little. "She was angry with you?"

"Yes."

"But you explained to her, of course? That you are not such a fool as to be in love as the magazines say? With a woman such as that. I brought you up to know better."

"I explained to her," he said shortly.

She put a spoon in her empty cup and stirred as if there were coffee there. "And now you must go away, you tell me?" Her voice broke upward. She dropped the spoon and took up her handkerchief to her mouth.

"Yes."

"What did you say to her?" The question was more like an exclamation. She balled the handkerchief in her fingers.

"I told her the truth."

"Oh, you must have made a great spoil of it all! She did not accept it?"

"She accepted it well enough, Maman," he said, as gently as he could. "And still I must go away."

His mother stood up, leaning on the table. She was trembling, but she managed to say, "What have you done to her?"

"It's what I will not do to her."

"And what is that? You do not offer a… a carte blanche… not to such a lady. You would ask her to wed you."

"Ma mère, I'm afraid to ask. I'm afraid she would say yes."