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He kissed her forehead. “That was not me crying out earlier.”
She closed her eyes. “I shall never be able to face the de Mervilles again.”
“That will make the morning somewhat awkward.”
She pushed at him. “Do not remind me.”
“Will they resent me?” he asked. “Were they close friends of your late husband?”
She stilled, then lifted a hand and tenderly pushed the hair out of his eyes. “They were always more my friends than his, but regardless, they will want me to be happy.”
“And are you happy?” he asked.
“Immeasurably.” He pulled the sheets over them and held her, breathing in her scent as sleep tugged at him. He sensed there was something she was not telling him. He had thought it to do with her late husband, but whatever it was, it was not about the late comte. Perhaps she had decided to leave with him for England. Perhaps they had a future together there. He fell asleep dreaming of that future.
He was awakened what felt like a few minutes later, but must have been hours. A servant pounded on the door. “Monsieur, there is a man here to see you.”
“One moment.” He disentangled himself from Angelette.
“Who is it?” she called as Hugh pulled on his breeches.
“He says his name is Blakeney, madame.”
She jumped up. “Sir Percy?”
“Stay here,” Hugh ordered as she dropped her chemise over her head.
“You stay here.” She gathered up the sheet and used it like a robe. Hugh was forced to don his shirt as he walked out of the room or be left in her wake.
“Where is he?” Angelette demanded.
“The kitchen, madame.”
“The kitchen?” Her tone was full of disapproval. She marched on.
“I thought it best to fetch you, monsieur,” the servant said. “This man is not alone, and I do not want to alarm the Vicomtesse de Merville.”
“Who is with him?” Hugh asked.
“I...would rather not say, monsieur. Blakeney asked for the comtesse. She did not answer her door and...”
“I see.” So Blakeney had arrived with a friend and wanted Angelette. Hugh couldn’t begin to make sense of it all until he stepped into the kitchen. Then everything became clear.
A man in a French army uniform, bloodied and torn, sat at a table where the chef tended his wounds. His face was badly bruised and blood had dried and caked in his light hair. He was perhaps forty, and his hair was a mixture of blond and gray. Angelette stopped short when she saw him, and Hugh had to bank hard to the right to avoid running into her. Sir Percy stood off to one side, his gaze on Angelette and then Hugh. Hugh shook his head, anger welling inside him. The man’s uniform gave all away, and yet Hugh hoped he was mistaken.
“You take an enormous risk bringing him here,” Hugh said.
Angelette turned to Hugh. “I don’t understand. Who is he?”
The man raised his head. “I am Victor Eugène, Baron de Luberon.”
Hugh kept his gaze on Blakeney. “Tell us the rest, Sir Percy.”
Blakeney inclined his head. “The baron is the second-in-command at the Bastille.”
Angelette raised her hands to her face. “Are you seriously injured, monsieur?” She moved closer to the baron, kneeling before him.
“No, madame. The people wanted my superior, the marquis. I was beaten and kicked aside.”
