A Promise by Daylight. Alison DeLaine

on you.”

      “Sacks?”

      “His Grace’s valet. And not to worry...I’ve no doubt there’ll be plenty of, shall we say, incentive in it for you, as well.” The footmen returned upstairs with her things—just a small trunk and a bag—and deposited them on the floor in the lavishly furnished dressing room done in three shades of gold and yellow.

      She cast her eye about the room, into the adjacent chamber that included a bed draped in gold damask, and suddenly had trouble breathing.

      “His Grace asked me to discover your fee,” Mr. Harris said now.

      Her fee. Of course. Her mind raced for a figure that might make this all bearable and named an outrageous sum.

      Mr. Harris didn’t bat an eye. “Very good. I shall return with your advance wages.”

      And then she was alone in her new accommodations, with the sounds of the duke’s entertainment filtering through the wall and not a single alternative in all the world.

      She strode to the window. Looked out at Paris with its mishmash of buildings, houses, cobbled streets, wagons, pedestrians, all bathed in a gloomy drizzle. The truth was, she did have an alternative, and she was looking at it now.

      The streets of Paris. Penniless, to make her way alone in a city that would show no mercy. Out there, without any references or money, the only position she would find would be in a brothel.

      In here, on the other hand...

      She looked over her shoulder at the room’s grand furnishings, paintings, statuettes, trinkets. Just one or two of the pieces here would go a long way toward financing her education. Not that she would ever consider stealing from him.

      But he had what she needed—money—and he would pay her an exorbitant wage to attend him. Before she left his service, she would make sure that he wrote Miles Germain a letter of introduction, as well.

      She tightened her hand around the windowsill, looking out at Paris but imagining the Mediterranean’s great cities: Venice, Athens, Constantinople.

      With the duke as a reference, her identity as Miles Germain would be cemented for as long as she could maintain her disguise. She could come and go freely, unaccosted, because all the world would believe she was male.

      Within a few years, armed with knowledge from Malta’s renowned School of Anatomy and Surgery, Miles Germain would be a well-respected surgeon in practice for himself, and nobody—nobody—would ever take that away.

      All she had to do was continue in his employ and make sure he made a full recovery.

      A sudden knock startled her, and she turned quickly from the window to find another of the duke’s servants—a very young man wearing a tidy wig and an expectant expression.

      “Monsieur,” he said with a bow. “Je suis à vous.”

      But she didn’t want him at her disposal! She started forward. “Merci,” she said, “but—”

      “I shall put away your things—” He started toward her trunk and bag.

      “No,” Millie said quickly, hurrying to block his way. “No, that won’t be necessary,” she told him in French. “I shall put them away myself.” The duke had assigned her a valet?

      “I have been placed at your service, monsieur,” the man said firmly. “You have only to tell me what you need. A change of clothes, perhaps...”

      “I don’t need a change of clothes. And I won’t need anyone at my service.”

      Just then, Mr. Harris walked in. “Ah, excellent. Bernet has found you.”

      Already she was imagining the man lifting away her wig to find her shoulder-length hair stuffed inside—damn and blast, she should have cut it completely off—whisking off her shirt and discovering the cloth she’d wound around her breasts beneath her shift to flatten them, and realizing that a maid, not a valet, was the appropriate help.

      “Mr. Harris, I absolutely will not require any assistance. I am perfectly capable of looking after myself. In fact, I’m used to it.”

      “Of course you are,” Harris said, handing her an envelope that doubtless contained the ridiculous sum she had demanded. “But there’s no need, while you’re here. Bernet’s been only too anxious for an upstairs assignment,” he added with a wink. “I’m sure you’d hate to disappoint him.”

      “Perhaps he could look after one of the guests— Attendez!” Bernet was kneeling in front of her trunk with his hands on the latches. She rushed to stop him. “I’ve got half of an apothecary’s shop in there,” she said now. “Very delicate—I shall need to unpack it myself. Truly.”

      That seemed to satisfy him. He inclined his head, stood up and backed away.

      Now she lifted her chin and summoned a tone she’d heard Philomena use often enough to dismiss servants. “That will be all for now.”

      “Très bien,” Bernet said with a bow.

      “You may give me a list of any supplies you’ll need for His Grace’s care,” Harris said now. “Otherwise, you have only to ring if you need anything, and Sacks will let you know if His Grace requires your attendance.”

      The moment they were gone she dropped to her knees in front of the trunk, jerked the lid open, dug through shirts, waistcoats and pairs of breeches and men’s stockings. Yanked out the shifts she should never have kept. And at the very bottom, a tiny box with a pair of dangling silver earrings, and the two colorful scarves she hadn’t been able to part with. She paused, running her hand over their silken texture, letting her fingers play with the bright blue fringe at the ends, remembering that day at Constantinople’s grand bazaar—she, Katherine, Philomena and India.

      The scarves and earrings had been a silly indulgence. She’d never even worn them.

      With the shifts and scarves wadded in her hands, she hurried into the bedchamber, threw back the drapery at the back corner of the bed and stuffed them beneath the mattress.

      It would do until she could find a better place, which she would have to do before the maid came tomorrow morning to make the bed. She returned to the dressing room

      Now what? Would the duke expect her to return to his rooms or wait to be summoned? Would his guests ever leave? And what would happen if they did?

      He would be alone, and bored, and may well seek out more company or an impromptu medical examination.

      She touched the hilt of the smallsword at her hip. What good fortune that a fashionable man wasn’t dressed without one. But if the duke sought her out at night, perhaps finding his way into her rooms while she was abed and not fully dressed...

      That simply could not happen. She would not give up the freedom of her disguise that easily, not even if she had to sleep fully clothed. Still...

      She went to the door and turned the latch. But, of course, he would have a key.

      She spun on her heel. Surveyed the room: one door led out, another led to her new adjoining bedchamber, where there was yet another door she would need to consider.

      Moments later, she dragged a chair over and shoved it against the door that led from the dressing room to the corridor, and then stood back. Tonight, after she’d gone to bed, that might work. But...

      She looked suspiciously at the curio cabinet. Some grand houses had secret passageways, or so she’d heard. Furnishings that were merely false fronts. She inspected the edges of the cabinet, running her finger along the seam where it met the wall, finding no discernible space. Muted laughter drifted from the other side. Was not his bed directly opposite? So there couldn’t possibly be any kind of...

      Of course there could. The entire house could have a network of secret passageways through which His Grace made surprise visits on unsuspecting guests.

      She got