The Brides of Bella Rosa. Rebecca Winters

He talks to everyone and everyone talks to him.’

      ‘Let them talk, there’s nothing anyone can tell him.’ Antoine remained unconcerned.

      Alyssandra walked up behind Antoine’s chair to stand with her brother. It was a gesture she knew aggravated Julian, a non-verbal reminder that she and her brother were united on all things. ‘We’ve seen his sort before. He’s just another Englishman on the first leg of his Grand Tour. He’s just passing through like so many of them.’

      Julian gave her a shrug of concession. ‘In that regard, you’re right and perhaps we can use that to our advantage. Those Englishmen are all looking for the same thing on their tours; a little cultural experience and a lot of sex.’ Julian paused thoughtfully for a moment. ‘You should arrange for him to meet one of your more sophisticated friends. Perhaps Madame D’Aramitz?’

      ‘Are you suggesting we spy on him?’ Alyssandra rebelled at the idea of Helene D’Aramitz enjoying North’s charms and reporting back all the details.

      Julian’s eyes were twin orbs of calculation. ‘Yes, I am suggesting exactly that.’ He flashed her a cold smile. ‘I can keep an eye on him when he’s here at the salle, but it will be up to you to use your connections and to keep an eye on him in society.’ He gave Antoine a respectful nod. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have a lesson to prepare for.’

      ‘I don’t think North is a threat,’ Alyssandra said after Julian left.

      ‘Maybe, maybe not.’ Antoine blew out a breath. ‘I hate being tied to this chair. It should be me out there fencing him. We shouldn’t even have to worry about an inquisitive Englishman, but because of me, we do.’

      What could she say? Her brother could no more change the facts of his existence than command his legs to walk. ‘We’ll manage. Julian makes too much of it.’

      ‘I think Julian is right. He does bear watching so he’s not given the chance to become trouble. But, I don’t think Helene D’Aramitz is the answer. She’s a terrible gossip and far too perceptive. Then we’ll have her asking questions, too. She’ll want to know why we’re so interested in what North does.’ Antoine’s face became thoughtful. ‘If anyone is going to watch him in society, it should be you. It will eliminate the risk of exposing ourselves unnecessarily to outside parties. Will you do it?’

      Her stomach somersaulted at the prospect of engaging the handsome Englishman on two fronts: as the masked, mysterious Leodegrance, and in person as herself. Part of her—the very feminine part of her that responded to him as a handsome man— revelled in being able to meet him on her own merits. But the other part of her understood the enormous risk she ran. ‘La petite déception’ had just become a grande one. She must don two identities in order to preserve one. The feminine part of her could not afford to be distracted from the professional goal of protecting the salle and Antoine. She would start tonight. She had a fairly good of idea of where North and his friends would be. Anyone of note was attending Madame Aguillard’s Italian musicale.

      Alyssandra squeezed her brother’s hand. ‘Yes, of course, I will do it,’ she said as if there’d ever been a choice.

       Chapter Four

      The match lingered on his mind that evening, distracting Haviland from Madame Aguillard’s elegantly appointed entertainment. The musicale was unable to hold his attention for long no matter how lovely the Italian soprano, or how talented the pianist who accompanied her or even how often the hostess herself trailed her beautifully manicured fingers down his arm in provocative suggestion. No matter the enticement, his mind drifted back to the faceless, silent Leodegrance. Even without words, without a visage, the man had a charisma that had drawn Haviland. The force of that presence was disturbing to say nothing of the circumstances in which it had been felt. Fencing with Leodegrance had been like fencing a phantom. He’d never faced an opponent shrouded quite literally in such mystery. He couldn’t quite get over it, or past it.

      ‘Stop brooding,’ Nolan scolded sotto voce as they moved through the crowd at the intermission. ‘It’s bad form, and our hostess is bound to notice. You’re still thinking about the match.’

      ‘No, I’m not,’ Haviland said defensively.

      Nolan chuckled. ‘Yes, you are. You’re a terrible liar. It’s a good thing you don’t aspire to cards. It’s probably some fetish of Leodegrance’s. He’s French, after all.’ Nolan shrugged as if to indicate being French explained away any unexplainable eccentricities.

      He clapped Haviland on the back. ‘As for me, I’m off to the card tables in the other room. I, for one, won’t risk disappointing my hostess. There’s an inspector playing who is apparently unbeatable.’ The French were mad for gambling, and Nolan had immediately become popular among the card set. After almost a month in Paris, Haviland still found it odd how the ability to gamble for large sums of money acted as a superior calling card in French society.

      ‘I hear there’s a certain pretty French widow playing tonight, too.’ Archer joined them, catching the last part of the conversation as he handed off the flutes of champagne he’d retrieved from the refreshment table.

      Nolan smiled broadly. ‘Madame Helene is a talented card player. I fancy she recognises those same skills in myself.’

      ‘Well, probably not those particular skills, but certainly others if rumour is to be believed.’ Archer laughed.

      ‘What rumour would that be?’ Nolan raised his eyebrow in mock chagrin.

      ‘The “rumour” from our dear butler that you haven’t been home before breakfast for the last week,’ Archer supplied.

      Really? Haviland hadn’t noticed. He watched Archer and Nolan spar in friendly fashion and felt detached from their banter. He should be glad everyone was finding Paris so hospitable. Archer had found a horsey set of young men eager to share their knowledge of the Continental breeds. Nolan had been easily assimilated into the aristocratic gambling circles and Brennan, well—he had been easily assimilated into several French beds as far as Haviland knew. But what he ought to feel and what he did feel were different.

      What he felt was lonely, left out. He’d spent his waking hours at the salle d’armes. He was away as much as the others and he missed most of their days. They were together in the evenings in some form, two or three of them usually, although seldom all four. Even tonight, three of them were here at Madame Aguillard’s, but Brennan was absent.

      Perhaps it was better this way, establishing this sense of distance. Haviland sipped his champagne. At some point, the others would continue on the tour without him unless by some magic he wrested another six months from his father.

      Nolan departed for the card tables, and Archer picked up the threads of their conversation from earlier that afternoon when he’d returned home from the salle. ‘I’ve been giving your match some consideration,’ he began thoughtfully as if that discussion had not been broken by hours of intermission. ‘How do you know it was Leodegrance if he wouldn’t remove his mask?’

      That thought had crossed Haviland’s mind, too, but he’d quickly discarded it. ‘The man was too good to be anyone else. His talent spoke for him, which might be what he intended all along with his secrecy.’ The effort seemed unnecessarily dramatic, but perhaps Leodegrance was a dramatic sort of man and there were the scars to consider as well.

      ‘Then it’s settled. You have your explanation and you can enjoy the evening.’ Archer shot him a sideways glance etched with challenge and took a large swallow of his champagne.

      ‘What is that supposed to mean?’ Haviland said crossly.

      ‘That you don’t really believe your own explanation about talent speaking for itself. You think something is afoot. Admit it.’

      ‘That’s ridiculous. There was an accident a few years ago. We even heard