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Academy. It had just seemed so silly at the time that she had chosen to read rather than learn the steps to a minuet she would never dance.
       The Widow sighed. "Try to avoid dancing, if possible. At least your French is good. You speak like a native."
       "Thank—ow!" Sarah jumped when one of the seamstresses poked her with a pin.
       "Sorry, miss."
       "Your facility with French will serve you well," The Widow said, nodding at something the seamstress was doing to the blue dress. "As you recall, the duc and his mother are fluent in French, and your family comes from France. Your parents were friends with the Valères before the revolution."
       "You told me, but I still don't understand how the Valères won't know I'm an imposter."
       The Widow gave her a look full of forbearance. "We went over this."
       Had they? Her head was spinning. "I want to make certain I understand."
       With a sigh, The Widow explained, "The comte de Guyenne lost favor with the French court in 1782. They fled with their daughter, Mademoiselle Serafina Artois, when she was but a toddler. The Valères haven't seen Serafina since she was two years old. The families never corresponded until the Foreign Office initiated contact, pretending to be the comtesse de Guyenne, Serafina's mother."
       "Wait a moment." Sarah shook her head, causing the modiste to mutter and take Sarah by the shoulders to still her. But Sarah's heart was racing. She had seen a crucial flaw in the story. "How do you know, after all this time, the two families have never seen each other? How do you know they haven't sent portraits? What if this Serafina is short and blond?"
       The Widow gave her a long look, perhaps deciding how much to reveal. "We know," she said slowly, carefully, "because the Guyenne family is dead. They were executed after they fled Paris. All of them."
       Sarah's stomach roiled. All of them. Even little Serafina?
       "Their bodies were found here in London," Sir Northrop called. "But it was kept from the public, and everyone assumed their escape was successful. The Valères were overjoyed by the comtesse de Guyenne's letters."
       Sarah looked down. The plan felt rotten, and it seemed criminal to exploit the death of a child, even in the name of patriotism.
       But that was not why the hair on her arms stood up at the mention of little Serafina's story. Something was so familiar. Had she heard the story? Known another Serafina? No, not Serafina.
       Sera…
       The Widow must have sensed her hesitation. "I know it seems unethical, but consider with whom we are dealing. If our information is correct, the duc de Valère is a traitor and a spy. He's been selling British secrets to the French for years. If he is not stopped, who knows the consequences?"
       "We'll all be speaking French if Bonaparte has his way," Sir Northrop chimed in.
       A woman with a brush, comb, and curling tongs came in and gestured for Sarah to sit in a chair. Another woman knelt in front of her and began applying rouge to her lips and cheeks. Sarah had never worn cosmetics, and the powder and rouge felt heavy and stifling. All of this attention made her feel horribly self-conscious. No one had ever taken time to notice her, and now she was suddenly thrust onto a stage. But could she play this part?
       "You can stop Valère," The Widow said, perhaps sensing her doubts.
       "I don't feel ready." And she was a very bad liar. Lying made her stomach hurt.
       "You are. Remember that we need information—letters, journals, tidbits from conversations you overhear. Anything, whether you think it might be of use or not, should be communicated to us. Use Katarina, the maidservant, to relay messages or to send for us if you need us."
       Sarah felt perspiration break out on her lower back and between her breasts. "What if I'm caught?"
       "Use your wits and you won't be. If that doesn't work"—The Widow lowered her