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turned to Phoebe. “Now leave us. All of you,” she added, her quicksilver gaze settling on her mother. She might appear as fragile as a hothouse blossom, yet Robert sensed a steely strength in her that had not shown itself before.
    Aristide shoved away from the wainscoted wall and sauntered over toward them. Once again Robert was sensible of a sharp stab of something more than rivalry—wariness. “You are as yet in shock, ma petite . Permit yourself to be guided by those who have your best interest at heart.” The dagger glare he shot in Robert’s direction signified his exclusion from that select circle.
    Phoebe brought her feet to the floor and sat upright. Smoothing her skirts, she lifted her face to Bouchart. “I thank you for your concern, my lord, but pray you be assured I do not require guiding.”
    A muscle jumped in the Frenchman’s jaw; otherwise he appeared perfectly composed. “I suppose it would be cruel to refuse such a touching reunion.” His hooded gaze flickered to Robert. “Provided it is in the service of saying adieu , I shall not interfere further.”
    Lord Tremont put down the paperweight and crossed to the desk’s front. “They have not seen one another for six years. I for one mean to give the lad a chance to say his piece. Without an audience,” he added, casting a meaningful look to his hovering wife.
    “Really, Tremont, I—”  
    “Come along, m’dear. Taking firm possession of her elbow, he towed her toward the door. One hand on the brass knob, he turned back inside. “Given the highly unusual circumstances, Bouchart, you will understand that I must delay announcing your betrothal.”
    A stormy look greeted the paternal pronouncement but, catching Robert’s eye, the Frenchman swiftly assembled his features into an affable mask. “But of course you must do as you feel best, mon père . Phoebe and I shall be guided by your wisdom.”
    Sickened by Bouchart’s unctuous display, Robert turned to Phoebe’s father. “Thank you, sir. Your faith in me will not prove displaced.”
    Keeping an arm about his wife, Lord Tremont met his gaze with a nod. “I should hope not, Bellamy. I entrusted my daughter to you once before. Try to do better this time, eh?”  
    “Quite, sir.”
    Bouchart bent and placed a peck upon Phoebe’s brow, the proprietary gesture boiling Robert’s blood. “ Ma petite , I shall cede to your wishes for now, but know that I keep watch from the corridor. Cry out, and I will be by your side in an instant.” He touched the ornamental sword at his side, a toothpick compared to Robert’s cutlass, before following Phoebe’s parents out.
    Robert waited for the door to close behind them before turning back. Phoebe’s gaze met his, as yet unreadable but not overly warm. At a loss as to how to proceed now that they were indeed alone, he wracked his brain for some source of occupation.  
    “Your Frog fiancé is correct on one count. You’ve had a shock.”  
    So had he. Finding her in the midst of a betrothal ball—hers—hadn’t been among any of the possible scenarios he’d spun.  
    “I’ll pour us a brandy,” he added though of the pair of them, he allowed it was he who could do with the drink.  
    He’d expected her to refuse—the Phoebe of his memory hadn’t been much of a tippler—but to his supreme surprise she pointed him to a mahogany and bird’s-eye maple spirits cabinet. “Please.”
    He made his way toward it. The hinged door had been left unlocked. Opening it, he took a swift inventory of the interior shelves and located what must be brandy and two dusty if otherwise clean glasses. Tucking the decanter into the crook of his arm, he carried it and the glasses back over to where Phoebe sat waiting. Aware of her gaze going over him, he poured out the drinks, a small one for her and a brimming one for himself. Setting the decanter down on the marble-topped side table, he handed her the glass.  
    She took it with a murmur of thanks, her