Page 1

Prologue

A cottage on the outskirts of Fontainebleau, France

1807

At the age of sixteen, Lady Yasmin Régnier prided herself on her courage. After all, hadn’t she made her debut before the entire French court?

Yasmin had curtsied before the empress, disregarded the curled lips, ignored the giggles. She had held her head high and smiled at everyone who met her eyes. They all knew that her mother was Emperor Napoleon’s mistress, but Yasmin held her ground.

But now?

The unease she felt when she woke alone, her husband nowhere to be seen, her personal maid not answering her call, was turning into panic. She started trembling, not only because the cottage was bitterly cold.

She walked slowly down the wooden staircase from her bedchamber, knowing from the echoing sound of her steps that Mon Repose, the darling house where her husband brought her after their elopement, was empty. Where was the friendly housekeeper, Mrs. Bernard? Where was the cook, Mrs. Recappé? Her personal maid, Desirée?

More to the point, where was her beloved and loving husband, Hippolyte? Her hand tightened on the railing. Something had happened, something terrible. Even if Hippolyte had returned to Fontainebleau, he wouldn’t have left her alone.

Dread clenching in her stomach, she walked into the drawing room. The chamber was small for a lady, hardly large enough for its grand pianoforte, but Hippolyte had assured her that the cottage was merely a place to enjoy their honeymoon, their voyage de noces, while staying within reach of the palace. After all, their elopement would be a huge shock to her parents and the court. Soon they would move into their own manoir, suitable for the daughter of a duc.

But first, Hippolyte had to use his charm to smooth the way for the announcement of their marriage. Yasmin had faith he would succeed. He had a special relationship with Empress Joséphine: anyone could tell that.

She wrapped her arms around her bosom. Without Desirée, she couldn’t lace her corset and her breasts were on the point of falling from her gown. The cottage was chilly and getting chillier by the moment.

The drawing room fireplace was empty. Even if she carried wood from the shed, how would she start a fire? Her maid woke the coals in the morning, or lit the fire with a spill from the stove. She went to the kitchen, but it was still, quiet, and empty, the stove cold to the touch.

Glancing out the front window, she saw that snow had fallen, perhaps three fingers high. No footprints or tracks could be seen. Hippolyte must have left in the middle of the night, taking the others with him. Somewhere in the distance, bells were ringing. But all she could see around the cottage were tall trees, soaring dizzily toward a patch of gray sky.

Where was she?

With a jolt of horror, she realized that she didn’t know. She had escaped her family home, running into Hippolyte’s carriage and his arms. He had kissed her passionately all the way to a small chapel, where a cheerful abbé had married them.

After that, back in the carriage, Hippolyte had pulled her to him. She had no idea how much time passed, how far they’d traveled. By the time the carriage stopped, they were burning with desire. He kept laughing and kissing her, even when introducing her to the servants.

Now they were all gone.

It felt like a horrid fairy tale. Perhaps a cackling witch would stroll in the door.

Just as that notion presented itself, she heard carriage wheels crunching on snow. With a little cry, she ran to the entry. Hippolyte had come for her. She stopped and composed herself.

She was Madame Charles now.

Hippolyte had said she had new dignity. He had said—

The door flung open, and a man walked in, his fur-lined cape billowing behind him, his face set in lines of rage and disapproval.

Yasmin dropped into a low curtsy. “Votre Grâce.”

“I knew your mother was an intrigante when I married her,” her father snarled, advancing a few steps. “An élégante, to call a spade a spade. The daughter of a duke mad enough to sell herself for a small emerald.”

Fury poured down Yasmin’s spine. “You disrespect ma mère!” But she stopped there. Could she say aloud that her father owed his title to her mother’s affaire with Napoleon—which began with that emerald?

No.

“I knew who your mother was when I married her,” the duc said, ignoring her exclamation. “In truth, who could say ‘Non’ to an emperor? God knows your mother was only one of a string of women. I expected more of my daughter. What an imbécile I am!” He jerked his head toward the door. “Vite! I don’t want my horses to take a chill.”

Yasmin’s mind reeled. “How did you find me? But no, I cannot come with you. I am married!”

His lip curled. “You’re disgraced, not married. For God’s sake, Yasmin, did no one ever tell you that Hippolyte Charles is a fortune hunter?”