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did you buy me?”
    Alexandre’s smile faded. His eyes swept over her ragged dirty clothes and the stringy matted hair she tried to cover with her bonnet.
    “I needed a little amusement.”
    With those final hard words, they rode along in silence, the carriage filled only with the sound of spinning wheels and the clip-clop of horses’ hooves on the cobblestone streets. Nicki’s heart pounded harder than the hoofbeats. He needed a little
amusement.
Etienne St. Claire’s daughter, ragged and filthy, was an amusement. A thing to be laughed at, a thing to be scorned.
    What did a man like Alexandre du Villier find amusing about someone as pitiful as she? she wondered. And how long would she have to wait with her insides churning to find out?
    As if in answer, the carriage wheels stopped, the driver jumped down, and the door swung wide.
    “We here, Mista Alex.”
    Alex climbed to the street, and the driver helped Nicki climb down.
    Alex motioned toward the inside of the carriage. “Give that seat a good scrubbing, Ukiah. She’s probably got lice.”
    Nicole St. Claire, once her father’s pride and joy and a much-sought-after belle, could have died right there on the spot. And worst of all, it was true.
    She swallowed hard and glanced away. She wouldn’t let the Frenchman know how much his words had hurt her. She might look wretched on the outside, but inside, St. Claire blood flowed through her veins.
    “Where are we going?” she asked, fighting the urge to weep.
    “To get you a bath.” He was scowling at her, his words meant to sting. Even the joy of being clean couldn’t allay her misery. She just prayed it didn’t show.
    Heading toward a high wrought-iron gate, they entered a small, well-kept courtyard. Inside, jasmine, wisteria, honeysuckle, and clematis bloomed in profusion, and a small marble fountain made a shower for the birds. At the opposite end of the garden sat a two-story pale-pink structure, much the color of her home at Meadowood, with tiny white shutters and a wrought-iron balcony off one of the rooms upstairs. Alexandre opened the heavy carved cypress door, and they walked into the entry where a uniformed butler waited stoically for Alex’s hat and gloves.
    “Whose house is this?” Nicki asked, admiring the lovely parquet floors and molded ceilings. Expensive Aubusson carpets warmed the salon, and delicate porcelain vases sat atop Queen Anne tables.
    “Mine.”
    “But I thought you …”
But I thought you lived at Belle Chêne, or were still living in France.
    “But you thought what?” he snapped.
    Why was he so angry? “Nothing.”
    “Any more questions, mademoiselle,” he mocked, “or might we go upstairs and attend your bath?”
    His sarcasm sent a surge of fury through her veins. Why hadn’t she remembered him as the caustic, mean-spirited man he was? Instead she’d remembered his handsome face, the way he had come to her rescue in the dusty streets of La Ronde. He was still just as handsome, but she’d learned these past few years that a person’s looks meant nothing. What mattered was what was in one’s heart.
    Lifting her dirty skirts up out of the way, and with as much aplomb as she could muster, Nicki headed upstairs.
    A thin-faced woman in a mobcap and apron stepped into the hall in front of them.
“Bonjour
, your grace,” she greeted him in French, and Nicki sucked in a breath.
    Good Lord, now that Charles du Villier was dead, Alexandre was a duke!
Le duc de Brisonne.
How could she have forgotten?
    “I told you not to call me that,” Alex said harshly.
    “Pardon, m’sieur.”
    “I also asked you to speak English. Both you and your mistress could well use the practice.”
    “Yes, m’sieur,” she answered dutifully.
    “I take it she has not returned.”
    “No, m’sieur. She was in quite a temper when she left. She said she was not about to spend the night with a common criminal, even with you here to take her mind off it.”
    Alex almost smiled. As Thomas had