He ran a hand down the length of her back, his fingers playing a little tune on her spine. His hand flattened over her bottom, caressing the smooth curves before sliding down her thighs. Sleepily awake now, she held her breath, waiting for the touch. He made her wait as he stroked down her legs, his fingers dancing in the hollow behind her knees, and then his hand slipped between her thighs and crept upwards. She sighed into the pillow, lifting her hips slightly to facilitate his progress and let the soft wave of an almost indolent pleasure wash through her. When he swung over her, sliding his hands beneath her belly to hold her on the shelf of his palms as he entered her, she pushed back for him and felt him slide deep within her.

He moved slowly, sweetly, still holding her, his mouth pressed against her neck. It was like a long, slow fall into a cloud that enveloped her in languid release. Her eyes closed again and she was barely aware of him moving away from her, of the light caress on her backside, the soft laugh as he left her bed. And it was full daylight when next she awoke, to the sound of Becky drawing back the curtains. Boris and Oscar snuffled at her with wet noses and she groaned and sat up.

"Beautiful day, Lady Arabella," Becky said cheerfully. "You slept long, but Miss Barratt said I should wake you because you have an engagement this morning."

"Oh, do I?" Arabella frowned, accepting the cup of hot chocolate that Becky handed her. "Oh, yes, I remember." At the Gordon's ball she had promised to supply orchids for the Beauchamps's ball, and Lady Beauchamp was coming at noon to make her selection. It was fortunate Meg had been there when the arrangement was made and had remembered for her. She glanced at the clock on the mantel and saw it was already past nine o'clock. What time had Jack woken her? Her body felt somehow well used this morning, a little sore and a little achy here and there, but after the night and her dawn awakening it was not to be wondered at.

She smiled to herself. "I think I shall bathe this morning, Becky."

It was an hour later when she entered the breakfast parlor. "You look very smug," Meg observed, looking up from the Gazette. "Truly the cat who caught the goldfish. I'm jealous . . . my pristine, virginal bed, comfortable though it is, lacks a certain . . ." She opened her palms in an expressive gesture. "A certain je ne sais quoi, I think one would say."

"I'm sure if you put your mind to it, you can remedy the situation," Arabella said with grin. She helped herself to a dish of eggs on the sideboard and sat down opposite her friend. "Anything in the paper?"

"Nothing about the Gordon's ball, but there wouldn't have been time last night to make the morning edition. It'll probably be in tomorrow's." She shot Arabella a knowing look across the table and inquired, "Did your husband finally bring up the subject?"

Arabella b.u.t.tered a piece of toast and took a bite while Meg watched her with increasing impatience. "Yes," she said finally. "He did."

"And . . ." Meg prompted with a hint of exasperation.

Arabella smiled. "Well, it seems that one of my worries can be put to rest." She gave Meg the gist of her conversation with Jack.

"One can't help admiring a man who's so fiercely loyal to an ex-mistress," Meg observed. "What a complicated man you've taken to husband, Bella."

Arabella was about to respond, when a parlor maid came in with a fresh jug of hot milk, setting it on the table with a curtsy. "Mr. Tidmouth said to tell you that that Mr. Christophe is here to see you, your grace. He's put him in the morning room."

Arabella frowned. "I don't have an appointment with him today."

"He's got a gentleman with him, ma'am. Another one of them foreign types."

"Thank you, Milly. Tell Tidmouth that I'll join Monsieur Christophe in a few minutes." Arabella waited until the door had closed on the maid before saying, "I wonder if he has some information from France. He said he'd talk to some new arrivals." She drummed her fingers on the table. "I wonder if I want to hear it."

"Well, you've gone this far, you might as well go the last mile," Meg pointed out. "Unless discovering this secret is not as vitally important to you as you say." She regarded her friend with a slightly questioning air.

Arabella nodded slowly. "It is," she said with finality. She needed the key to Jack's secrets. He would strenuously object to her clandestine detective work since he obviously had his reasons for keeping his sister's story from her, but it couldn't be helped. He was the most secretive person she'd ever met and she needed to find out why, however apprehensive she was about the consequences of discovery.

She ran a hand distractedly through her hair, disturbing the neat arrangement that Becky had taken such pains to achieve.

"I'm going now," she said, jumping abruptly to her feet. "Maybe it's nothing . . . just another of Christophe's friends who needs some patronage." But she knew as she left the breakfast room that there was something. She felt it in her bones.

The two men were standing in awkward silence in the middle of the morning room when she entered. They both bowed and Christophe said, "Your grace, may I present Monsieur Claude Flamand?"

The other man bowed again as Arabella smiled and said, "You are welcome, m'sieur. You are just come from France, I understand."

"Oui, madame." He looked ill, stick thin, as if it had been many months since he'd had a decent meal, his complexion gray and drawn. His clothes were threadbare but clean enough, and as he started to speak he began to cough. A hideous racking cough that convulsed him, and that Arabella recognized for what it was. The telltale cough of consumption.

Christophe held the man's shoulders and rubbed his back with a desolate air of helplessness. Arabella rang the bell for Milly and instructed her to bring brandy and hot water.

At last the fit ceased and Claude sank onto a chaise, his head drooping on his chest. He took the gla.s.s of brandy and hot water that his friend held to his lips and after a few minutes a little color came into his cheeks and he seemed easier.

"Forgive me, madame." He spoke in his mother tongue and his voice was barely a whisper.

"Don't talk unless you feel like it," she responded in the same language, taking a chair beside the chaise.

He waved a hand in the direction of Christophe, who said in English, "Claude speaks only French, madame, although he understands a little English. He has been in the prison of Le Chatelet, your grace. By the grace of G.o.d he was released a few days ago and his friends arranged pa.s.sage for him on a paquet from Le Havre."

"By the good offices of my friends," the other man broke in, raising his head, a fire suddenly burning in the hollow eyes. "G.o.d had little to do with it, mon ami." His voice was bitter. "G.o.d has forsaken our country."

The effort of making this speech seemed to exhaust him and he sank back against the chaise, his eyes closed. Arabella wondered how to steer the conversation back on track, but Christophe came to the rescue. "While my friend was in Le Chatelet he came across a woman . . . a lady. Maybe she is ze lady you were inquiring about, your grace."

Arabella sat forward on her chair, her gaze fixed upon Claude. "The comtesse de Villefranche?"

He nodded feebly. "I believe so, madame. In the prison, of course, there are no names, only numbers, but one day . . ." Then he gestured towards Christophe again.

"It is hard for Claude to talk, your grace. I will tell you what he told me."

Arabella nodded and he continued. "This lady 'as been in Le Chatelet for many many months. She is much loved by ze prisoners there . . . she knows something of nursing, so the jailers leave 'er alone and even permit 'er to minister occasionally to the men prisoners. One day she came to the men's side to help a prisoner and Claude recognized 'er. His family were serfs employed by the Villefranche family on their country estate and Claude was apprenticed to a silversmith. The comtesse was very kind to 'im. She gave him much work." He gestured to Claude, who effortfully took up the tale.

"I would not 'ave known milady, so changed as she is . . ." He paused to cough into his handkerchief. "But she 'as something in 'er 'air. A distinctive white streak."

Arabella inhaled sharply. The Fortescu mark. "You saw that?"

He nodded. "'Er 'air is not so beautiful as it was, is gray now, but the silver streak was still there. I would know it anywhere." He fell back, exhausted.

Christophe said, "It seems that milady, if it is indeed the comtesse, 'as been in prison for a long time."His nostrils flared suddenly. "It is ironic, I think, that we destroy the Bastille and release the prisoners and zen we create a dozen other Bastilles in its place, where a person can disappear without trace . . . be confined until death releases them."

"How did she survive?" Arabella wondered, more to herself than to her companions.

Both men gave very Gallic shrugs. "Some aristos escaped the guillotine," Christophe said. "And after Robespierre was executed, many citizens were at last sickened by ze blood. It is possible the comtesse was in prison at the end of the Terror and 'as remained there, forgotten."

"There are many like her." Claude spoke again. "Their families . . . their friends . . . they believe them dead and there is no way to get word out. A friend found me."

"How did you escape?" She was still leaning forward, her eyes not moving from his face.

He gave another shrug. "Money, madame. The securite will take money if it is enough. There is no real authority in charge of prisoners. Most of their names are lost to the world. A bribe to the right person will ensure release."

Arabella absorbed this in silence. Jack had told George that his sister was dead. He believed that he had failed to save her where he had saved so many others. But could he have been mistaken? In that mayhem anything could have happened . . . had happened. She knew the stories well enough of people being mistaken for others, going to the guillotine in place of their friends. When slaughter was indiscriminate, people sometimes slipped through the cracks. Too terrified of discovery to make their existence known publicly. Better to be believed dead than to be so.

"I cannot thank you enough for your information," she said finally. The thought of Jack's sister-indeed, of anyone-languishing in a h.e.l.lhole of a prison, unable to get word out, knowing that her family believed her dead, filled her with a deep horror.

"But now you must tell me how I can help you, Monsieur Flamand." She glanced at Christophe. "Money, lodging, a doctor . . . your friend needs a doctor, medicine. Let me help."

"Claude is staying with me," Christophe said. "I have enough to support him. But I thank you for the offer, your grace."

"But a doctor . . . medicine . . ." she repeated. "Please permit me to send a doctor to examine him."

"We 'ave our own doctors, madame. We look after ourselves." He rose from the chaise, helping his friend up. "You 'ave been very kind already. When Claude is able to work, perhaps zen you could find him a patron. He is a most skilled silversmith."

"Yes, of course," she said, knowing that that day would never come. Claude would never be able to work again. "But please, if you need anything, you will come to me."

"Merci, madame." He bowed and eased his friend from the room.

Arabella stood in the middle of the room, clasping her elbows, trying to decide what to do next. Jack had to go to Paris immediately. He had to find out if the woman was indeed his sister. If she was, he would buy her freedom. Somehow he would get her out of that h.e.l.lhole. But, dear G.o.d, if she was Charlotte, how would he react to the knowledge that she had languished in a French jail and he had not known? She had suffered and in ignorance he had done nothing to help her?

He would find it unendurable. And only she could tell him.

"What is it?" Meg spoke softly from the door, face and voice filled with concern. "You look dreadful, Bella. What has happened?"

Arabella told her. When the telling was done she was infused with renewed vigor. A sense of hope. If Charlotte's fate was at the root of Jack's darkness, then maybe after the first shock of this news it would lift. He would rescue her, bring her back to the bosom of her family, and the long nightmare would end.

"I have to find Jack at once." She strode to the door. "Send someone with a message to Lady Beauchamp to say I'm unable to keep our appointment today. And could you ask Louis to pack a portmanteau for the duke? He'll be away for at least a week."

"What about you?" Meg said, following Arabella into the hall. "Shall I tell Becky to pack for you?"

"I don't know," Arabella said. "It depends how Jack takes the news." She gave a twisted smile. "He'll probably want to shoot the messenger." She hurried into the hall and accosted the steward. "Tidmouth, where is his grace?"

"At Maitre Albert's, your grace," the steward informed her.

"Who is he and where is he?" she demanded impatiently.

"The fencing master, madam," Tidmouth told her. "He is to be found on Albermarle Street. Number 7, I believe."

"Thank you. Send someone to the mews for my horse . . . oh, and the duke's. I want them in five minutes." She ran for the stairs, leaving the steward distinctly put out at these rapid-fire orders. His mistress was usually rather delicate in her dealings with him, careful not to tread on his dignity.

Arabella rang for Becky, then struggled out of her morning gown, roughly yanking the b.u.t.tons loose. She had just pulled a riding habit out of the wardrobe when the maid hurried in. "Help me with this, Becky." She thrust her arms into the sleeves of her shirt. "Quickly."

Becky asked no questions but helped her mistress into the skirt, waistcoat, and jacket. Arabella sat down to pull on her boots. Her heart was beating fast, and she was aware of panic crisping the edges of her surface calm. She crammed the high-crowned beaver hat on top of her disordered hair, grabbed up her gloves and whip, and raced down the stairs.

Meg was waiting for her in the hall. "The groom's there with the horses."

"Thank you."

"I'll take the dogs to the park," Meg said. "When we get back I'll keep them upstairs with me. If you need me, you'll know where to find me."

Arabella kissed her quickly. "I'm sorry . . . this is going to spoil your visit."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Bella. Go." Meg pushed her towards the door that a footman, his eyes wide with curiosity, jumped to open for her.

Arabella ran down the steps, bent her knee for the groom to help her mount Renegade, and then told him to lead Jack's horse. He mounted his own cob and took the reins of Jack's raking chestnut.

"Albermarle Street," Arabella said. "And quickly."

The liveried groom tipped his hat and set off at a brisk trot. Arabella restrained the urge to put Renegade to a canter. The streets were too narrow and crowded on this bright May morning and they had to weave their way between loaded drays pulled by stolid cart horses, barrow boys, and street vendors, not to mention window-shopping pedestrians.

They turned onto the quiet residential Albermarle Street after a quarter of an hour and found No. 7. A tall row house with black railings, it looked like any one of the others on the street, but there was a discreet plaque set beside the door, declaring simply, Maitre Albert. Presumably anybody coming here understood the significance of Maitre Albert, Arabella reflected as she dismounted and approached the door. She raised a hand to knock and then saw that the door was slightly ajar.

She entered a narrow hallway with a steep flight of stairs at the rear. She could hear the sound of soft footfalls above, the ring of steel on steel, but no voices. She hurried up and paused at a set of double doors facing her. The sounds were coming from behind them. Tentatively she raised the latch and pushed the door gently inward.

A long gallerylike room opened before her. Men stood around the walls, foils in hand, tips touching the floor, as they watched the pair of fencers in the center of the room. Jack and another man, a small, lithe, monkey of a man who danced on the toes of his stockinged feet. Jack moved as quickly as the silver blade in his hand in thrust and counterthrust. Both men were expressionless, all their attention focused on the play of the epees. Arabella, despite her panicky sense of urgency, despite the tightness in her chest, the cloud of dread enveloping her, watched in fascination. It seemed impossible that either swordsman would get beneath the guard of the other, so quick and sure were they.

Then Jack saw her. He danced back from an attack, spun on the ball of one foot to renew his advance, and saw her in the doorway. With one swift motion he had knocked aside his opponent's blade and then he was coming over to her, his breathing swift, his light step soundless.

He wasted no time on exclamations. "What is it? What has happened?"

"I have to talk to you," she said. "Where can we go?"

He gestured towards a door in the side wall, then said, "Albert, I must ask you to excuse me. An unceremonious end, I ask your pardon."

The other fencer bowed, saluting with his sword. Jack did the same, as if these form courtesies were obligations of the sport that must be obeyed even in direst necessity. Then with a hand in the small of his wife's back, he urged her towards the door.

It was a small room, one wall lined with mirrors, a padded mat on the floor, foils in racks along one wall. A tall window looked down onto the street. Jack perched on a long table beneath the racks and looked at her. He still held his epee, its b.u.t.toned point resting on the floor between his stockinged feet. His eyes were alert, the hint of alarm in their depths barely visible.

"So?" he said quietly.

She took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves, to calm the blood rushing through her veins. Her hands were shaking and she clasped them tightly against her skirt. "Your sister," she began. Jack went very still, his gaze now opaque.

"Charlotte . . . the comtesse de Villefranche . . . it . . . it's possible that she is in the prison of Le Chatelet." It seemed simpler just to blurt out the salient facts.

He didn't move, didn't speak, just stared at her in seeming incomprehension until she was obliged to fill the dreadful silence. "Monsieur Christophe has a friend . . . just escaped from France. He thinks he might have met your sister in prison."

At last Jack spoke, his voice flat. "My sister is dead."

She reached a hand out to him but something stopped her from touching him. "No . . . not necessarily, Jack. She may be alive."

He shook his head in an almost irritable gesture of denial. "Why would this man come to you with such a tale?" His gaze was fixed upon her, and now there was just a flicker of life . . . of hope, perhaps . . . behind the blank stare of incomprehension and disbelief.

"Because I asked Christophe to see if any of the emigre community knew anything of the comtesse," she said. "Until this Monsieur Flamand, there was no one. But he came to me this morning. I came to find you. You have to-"

"Don't tell me what I have to do," he interrupted in a voice so soft she could barely hear it, and yet every word was enunciated so that it seemed as if he was shouting. "My sister is dead."

She shook her head, repeating stubbornly, "Maybe not, Jack. There is a chance that she is not." When he said nothing, just gazed into the middle distance with eyes that did not see her, she rushed on. "Your horse is downstairs. And Louis is packing a portmanteau."

He turned and left the room and for a moment she couldn't follow him. This utter expressionless quiet was impossible to react to. After a moment she went back into the long gallery. Jack, once more booted, his epee sheathed, was heading for the double doors. She ran after him. He ignored her as he took the stairs two at a time, went out to the street, mounted his horse, and set him to a fast trot.

Arabella mounted with the groom's help and went after Jack. She didn't know what to do, but she did know that she couldn't let him ignore her like this. If she was not worthy of his confidence, then their marriage was a sham, as hollow as Richard II's crown.

She arrived at the house some minutes after Jack. His horse was loosely tethered to the railing and the front door still stood open. She slid from her horse and hurried up the front steps, holding her full skirts away from her feet. Tidmouth was about to shut the door when she barged past him and ran for the stairs. She went into her boudoir and then stopped, forcing herself to calm down. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, sweat beading her forehead, her hair a dusty tangle flying out from beneath her hat, her cravat crooked. She hurled her hat and whip onto a chair and marched through her bedchamber and opened the door to Jack's room.

Jack was changing into riding britches. Louis was smoothing the folds of a shirt as he laid it into an open portmanteau on the bed. "You can spare me five minutes," she said, trying to keep her voice neutral. "Louis, leave us, please."

The valet looked towards his employer, an indignant question in his eyes. He did not take orders from the d.u.c.h.ess. But Jack gave him a curt nod and Loius left with a sniff.

"What is it?" Jack asked, tying his cravat.

"Why wouldn't you tell me you had a sister?" she asked, standing beside the bed, one hand on the bedpost, finding its cool, smooth curve comforting.

"It was no business of yours and still isn't," he stated.

"I am your wife, Jack. How could it not be my business?" she asked quietly, fixing her eyes on him, willing him to respond in some way.