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moment for Nicholas to rouse himself from his furious abstraction. “Little talk?”
    “About the future.”
    “With due respect, sir, I wasn’t aware that our futures were in any way connected.”
    Comte de Lorgny cleared his throat and looked miserable. “Not as yet,” he allowed. “Perhaps you’ll allow me to explain a few things to you?”
    At that moment Nicholas wasn’t interested in any explanations. His mind was preoccupied with how he was going to return to England as quickly as possible. And what he’d find when he got there. He simply nodded, paying scant attention while the little old man rambled on about the unsettled social conditions in France, the uprisings of the peasants, the troubled situation in Paris.
    “Not that I think it will come to anything,” he added hurriedly. “France has stood for more than a thousand years—the rabble won’t be allowed to destroy it. Nevertheless, I am troubled, deeply troubled.”
    Nicholas made a noncommittal noise. He could hire passage on one of the merchant boats that plied their trade, both legal and illegal, between Calais and Dover. He was more than adept at turning a blind eye to the occasional cask of brandy. Surely he’d be able to find passage…
    “So I’d like you to take Ghislaine,” the old man was saying.
    “What?” Nicholas forgot about smuggling for the moment to stare at his godfather in shock.
    “I’d like you to take Ghislaine with you to England. I’ve worked out an escape route for Madeleine and Charles-Louis, if things ever come to that. But there is only room for three, not four. And we will not leave if we don’t know Ghislaine is safe.”
    Nicholas was having trouble making sense of the old man’s ravings. “Safe? What the hell are you talking about?”
    The comte flinched. “The political situation,” he said with a trace of asperity. “Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said? It’s extremely volatile. If things continue as they are, we’ll be safer if we leave the country for a while.”
    “Then leave the country.”
    “It’s not that simple. Certainly, if we left now, we could all be together. But I’m not prepared. I have investments, obligations…”
    “In other words, no cash.”
    De Lorgny winced. “You put it bluntly. But yes. I will have to liquidate certain holdings in order to live with a modicum of comfort until this unfortunate situation improves. I am concerned that if we wait that long, we’ll have to use the final escape route I’ve arranged, and that route doesn’t allow room for a young woman. Therefore, I’m asking you as a gentleman and a friend to take Ghislaine with you.”
    “No,” Nicholas said flatly.
    De Lorgny was no longer pale. He was red with sudden anger. “No?” he echoed. “Just like that. You can’t—”
    “I certainly can. You know as well as I do what taking her with me would mean. I would have to marry her.”
    The words fell in silence on the golden autumn afternoon. “Perhaps I have been mistaken,” Comte de Lorgny said carefully. “I had thought there might be a… tenderness of feeling in your heart toward my daughter. A certain—”
    “You are mistaken,” he said flatly. “Any tenderness of feeling is on your daughter’s side, not mine. She is a child. I am not in the habit of bedding children, or of marrying them. You will have to make other arrangements.” His voice was cold, implacable, his heart a block of ice. Deliberately he shut out the image of Ghislaine, with her huge, mischievous eyes; her elfin face; the slender, boyish body that was far more enticing than he let her father know. He had no room in his heart for softness, kindness, or vulnerable little girls.
    “Even though you know you might be putting Ghislaine into mortal danger?”
    “It’s not my responsibility, monsieur. It’s yours.” He rose, feeling distant, angry. “I think I’d better make arrangements to leave.”
    De Lorgny didn’t move for a moment. “I