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that had been published of him during those turbulent months.
    It had been a very mixed rebellion. There were those who believed the Stuarts should rule simply by virtue of their place as most direct descendants of Charles II. Others would not countenance another Catholic ruler, and so had looked to the nearest Protestant cousin, George of Hanover, who spoke not a word of English and made no effort to disguise the fact that he preferred his native Hanover to this new realm. The Duke of Sudeleigh, Isabella’s own father, had held a tenuous position, both political and familial, caught by a blood tie to both sides that stretched all the way back to Henry the VIII.
    “My sister has told me much about you.” Isabella dropped her eyes to her skirts and swept into an elegant curtsy. “It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Your Highness.”
    “Come.” The prince took her hand and urged her to stand. “We are cousins, no? However remote the relation, such formality is not necessary among family.” He frowned deeply. “Nor, I daresay, is it required before a prince who is without his palace.”
    The prince’s handsome face, Isabella noticed, had darkened with a cloud of melancholy at the memory of his defeat in the rebellion. She quickly sought to lighten the mood.
    “It is a good thing you came to find me when you did, sir, for I fear I had gotten myself quite lost in this maze. I’ve been walking past that same statue for at least a quarter hour hoping someone might chance by who could rescue me from this impasse.”
    “Well, let us see if we can remedy that.” The young Chevalier gave a soft smile and offered Isabella his arm. Together they walked along the hedge-lined pathway.
    As they went, they passed a curious array of bronze and stone fountains concealed among the dense shrubbery. Nine-and-thirty in number—each one depicted a different Aesopian fable and its consequent moral. The prince told Isabella that Louis XIV had had the labyrinth built for his son, le Grand Dauphin, late the previous century, as a grand example of life’s twisting and turning journey—and the lessons to be learned along the way.
    “It really is quite an innovation,” the prince went on as they came upon the figures of “The Fox and the Monkey King” frolicking amidst a shower of dancing water. “You see in the labyrinth, just as in the natural world, one can easily take the wrong path, or meet with an impasse that necessitates a retreat and often a different course altogether. But with fortitude and determination, he”—he looked at her—“or
she
will always find their way through, wiser for having made the journey.”
    From the way he spoke, and the glint of determination in his eyes, it seemed to Isabella that the prince had not accepted any notion of defeat in his bid to regain his father’s crown, but fully intended to one day return to Scotland, to try again to take back the throne.
    They had come to the labyrinth’s exit, with the windows of the palace glittering before them in the ebbing afternoon sunlight. Isabella had enjoyed her time in the prince’s company. He was pleasant to talk to, and had never pressed her to declare any loyalty, either to his cause or that of the rival Hanoverians. He simply seemed happy to have shared those few brief moments with her.
    “I am afraid I must take my leave of you now and start back for Paris.” The prince gave a bow of his head. “I’ve plans to attend l’Opéra tonight, and it is my understanding that you are to sup with the king and the Marquise de Pompadour?”
    For the brief time she’d been with him, Isabella had been able to forget about her anxiety of the evening to come. Now, however, she sighed. “Yes, though I fear I will make quite the fool of myself. I hadn’t expected to stay at the palace and I am without fitting attire or even a maid to help me dress my hair.”
    The prince took her hand and kissed it. “Mademoiselle, you are a vision as you are.