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“ First son?”
    Isaac parried the arch with one of his own. “Third.”
    “So you have blood but no rank.” The wave of Mère’s hand made it seem as though that alone were reason to distrust him.
    Yet he smiled again. “I have a rank, my lady. Though I doubt it will endear me to you. ’Tis brigadier general.”
    Army? That ought to strike fear into Julienne’s heart, the realization that he had no doubt felled some of her countrymen, that he wore the uniform of her nation’s arch enemy.
    But how could it, when she looked up into his face? Non . It would take a man of honor to rise to any rank of general, even a lesser one. Not to mention that his nation was also half hers, even if she had never realized it. He knew her brothers— brothers ! And her father. He had risked his life to come here for them.
    Her mother seemed none too impressed. “Why would you beplaying the spy then, monsieur? Surely it is beneath you, if you are what you say.”
    Fairchild shrugged. “The request that sent me here some months ago was such that I could not refuse it.”
    “Why?”
    “For reasons I cannot disclose.”
    Mère huffed. “Who made it of you?”
    His smile faded. “I am not at liberty to say.”
    “Tight-lipped, are you?”
    Now sobriety took over his features, making him look wiser than his years. “I have learned the hard way to be so. Please, Lady Poole, I know you have no reason to trust me. But do pray, consider it. And take this.” He reached into his overcoat, withdrew a thick envelope, and held it out. “From your husband.”
    Oh, the look on her mother’s face. Wonder joining with incredulity, caution swirling with hope. She traced a fingertip over the front as if it contained the secret to happiness.
    Perhaps it did.
    Julienne linked her hands over Isaac’s arm and watched the parade of feelings flit over Mère’s face for a long moment. A smile tickled her own lips. Many times over the years, the topic of remarriage had come up for her mother, a handsome woman still quite young. But always she had refused. Now Julienne understood why. She had a husband, one time had not obliterated from her heart despite the distance she had chosen.
    Clearing both her throat and countenance, her mother tucked the letter into the pocket of her skirt and straightened her shoulders. “I shall indeed think and pray. But for now, we had best return.”
    Had there been any logic to it, Julienne would have suggested they instead keep riding, through the countryside and the towns until Versailles was far behind them, until she could see freedom lapping along the shore.
    But that wouldn’t do. So she merely exchanged a smile with Isaac and released him so he could help Mère onto her horse and then Julienne onto hers. His hands lingered a moment on her waist, and he looked about to speak.
    “Let us hurry back,” Mère mother said, her voice once again controlled and even.
    Fairchild only gave her a fleeting smile and moved to mount his horse. The ride back was far too quick, the crowds around them again far too soon.
    Julienne ought to be used to the droves of people after so many years among them. In the last seven years she had scarcely left Versailles, lest her reputation get trampled beyond repair by the gossip that would spring up if she indulged in the privacy of Grandpère’s château. Often the lack of solitude grated, but never had it made her want to flee the way it did now when they trotted back to the stables.
    She wanted life again. Her own, not this shadow she had been living. Not this mask she had been forced behind. Her gaze swept over the too-familiar palace grounds. So much it had to offer—apartments and gardens, tennis courts and stables, ballrooms and libraries. But would she miss it, if she went to England?
    Non . She might miss the château and the days of childhood long since put behind her. She might miss a few of the friends that remained steady and true. But not Versailles. Not the