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“And your father?” he asked.
“He was busy with his work.” And if there was a more apt description of René Blanc, she did not know what it might be. She did not have a single memory of her father in which he hadn’t been reading, writing, or studying. He did like to tell her of his life on the Continent. At one point he’d been in the employ of the Holy Roman Empress, Maria Theresa. He’d fallen out of favor with her successor, Joseph II, and he’d collected his pregnant bride and immigrated to England, where he then made a living out of cataloguing the rare and ancient artifacts in the collections of many of the homes of the nobility.
When ancient Greece and Rome became fashionable in dress and design, Monsieur Blanc—who changed his name to Blake when he began publishing—had been hired to verify the authenticity of artifacts that had graced not only museums but also stately homes and castles. Honoria’s mother had died only a few years after the family had immigrated, when Honoria was just a toddler. She’d spent much of her youth at her father’s side, and although she’d had governesses and been educated in the arts of embroidery, sketching, and the pianoforte, she had an affinity for antiquities and her own knowledge of Roman antiquities was only rivaled by that of her father’s.
“I can only assume he had an interest in Roman artifacts,” Montagne said.
“He did. I learned all I know from him. In fact, he was one of the foremost experts on the Romans. He wrote many papers and even a book.”
“Was?” That penetrating gaze never left her face.
“He died from a fever. It was quite sudden.” Now she did have to wipe away a stray tear, and she dared not look at Montagne. Kindness from him now would only make her cry. “One day he seemed well and the next he was ill. He did not suffer. His sickness was short and took him quickly.”
“How old were you?” He handed her a handkerchief and she used it to blot her eyes and nose.
“Fifteen. Not so very young.”
“Young enough.”
Her head came up. “What does that mean?”
“It means he left you vulnerable and alone.”
“If you think I blamed my father for taking ill with a fever, you are mistaken. Nor can I fault him for failing to provide for me. I was not penniless when he died. I had enough money to live on until I could find the means to support myself.”
“And that would have been quite sufficient were you plain. But beautiful young women attract attention.”
Before she could reply, and God knew what she would have said, he rose and pulled her to her feet. “We cannot afford to waste any more time.”
She would not argue with him. She did not want to waste any more time with him.
***
HONORIA KNOCKED ONthe rear door to the safe house, one quick knock followed by three knocks. It was obviously some sort of code. Regardless, the door did not open immediately. Laurent had the distinct impression he was being watched. Indeed, Honoria looked up at one of the windows and waved. The curtain swished and a moment later the door opened.
The pixie with the cropped blond hair yanked Honoria inside. She would have closed the door on Laurent, but he shouldered his way inside behind her.
The pixie glared at him.“Thou poisonous bunch-back’d toad!”she said in English.
He raised his eyes to the heavens. “Save your Shakespeare for the stage,” he answered in English. “Where is the League?”
The pixie’s hands balled at her waist. “Iam the League.Youare not welcome here, lily-livered—”
The back door opened into the kitchen, and he strode past the stove and a table with several bowls of potatoes and a small sack of flour on it and into the dining room. Ffoulkes sat at the table, teacup in hand, looking for all the world as though he’d expected the former Marquis de Montagne at that precise moment.
“Sir Andrew.” Laurent gave a slight bow. “I think we must speak.”
“Do sit, monsieur. I thought you might find your way back here.”
Honoria came into the room, the pixie right behind her. Ffoulkes rose. “Miss Blake!” His eyes widened, and Laurent turned to see what had so surprised him. Ah. He’d forgotten Honoria wore men’s clothing and that her hair was down about her shoulders. Pity she would go and change into a dress, covering those lovely legs and that plump derrière.
“Are you hurt, miss?” Ffoulkes asked, crossing the room to take her hand. Laurent rose, not liking to see her hand in Ffoulkes’s. Not that he had any right to her hand. She’d made it quite clear she loathed his touch.
“I am quite well, simply exhausted. We’ve had something of an adventure.”
Ffoulkes looked over his shoulder at Laurent. “That is about to end. As soon as Dewhurst returns you will be escorted out of France, monsieur.”
“I won’t go.”
