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carry on his title and rule. They must leave France, and while she did not think their departure would last forever, it might be the rest of her lifetime. And what of her Macquinet-Dushane family roots at the Lyon Château de Silk?
    Alas! Her place of refuge here at Vendôme, away from the snares and schemes of royal intrigue, was not to endure. Even if they were to avoid the long shadow of the Queen Mother, the flames of religious persecution crackled across the kingdom. If one was not loyal to the Roman Church, one was branded a heretic for the slaughter. And while the light of the Scriptures was shining across parts of Europe and England, the pope was determined to crush “the new opinions” wherever they took root by declaring them satanic heresy.
    Rachelle tried to avoid dwelling upon her fears. She went to the small hearth with glowing wood coals, removed her wet clothing, and draped it over the backs of chairs to dry. She donned her wrapper over her chemise and enjoyed the luxury of thick carpet beneath her bare feet. Outside the windows, she heard the wind tossing the shrubs. The rain started up again, sending large splats against the panes.
    Dawn would come quickly. She must rest, yet the more she concentrated on the need for sleep, the less sleepy she became. She began brushing her hair.
    If only there were someone in the family to consent to her marriage to Fabien in Père Arnaut’s absence, someone with authority . . .
    She set her hairbrush down with a clatter. She must be mad to have forgotten the one person in all France who had such authority! For did not Père Arnaut and Madame Clair leave me under her care when they went to London? Of course!
    The duchesse! They could marry at once without waiting until London, which would foil Maurice.
    This could be the answer to their dilemma at last! She must go down and tell Fabien. Her heart felt light for the first time in days, and she threw off her wrapper and dressed hurriedly in one of the two other dresses she’d brought, this one a comfortable apple green linen. She slipped on dry stockings and her still-damp shoes, and fled from her chamber through the corridor, down the many stairs, lifting the folds of her gown from her ankles as she ran to the man she loved.
    She saw him coming in from the courtyard and stopped short, grasping the banister with one hand, confronted by his formidable mood. Fabien was drenched with rain, his handsome features grim. She could imagine he’d just returned from a skirmish of sorts. Still, nothing short of a bearish growl could have altered her joie de vivre, and she started down the stairs toward him.
    “Fabien, mon amour, I have the answer to our dilemma.”
    He looked up at her, showing faint surprise at her presence, then his gaze softened. An amused half-smile appeared.
    He obviously did not take her seriously. She hurried down past the stairs. He came to meet her, taking her hands and drawing her to him. His smile deepened. “It is late. The wolves are baying at the moon hidden behind dark, sinister clouds, and you, my sweet, are looking as fresh as a fairy in a garden. It is your ability to go without sleep that surprises me.”
    She smiled. “I am in a state of bemusement, if you wish to know, but pay no heed to that. I’ve the answer that will permit us to marry at once, or at least as soon as we have her response. I am most sure she will say yes. So you see, I have every cause to appear most cheerful — despite the wolves baying at the moon.”
    His brow arched. “Well, I too am bemused. Who is this she?”
    “Duchesse Dushane,” she breathed jubilantly.
    His gaze sharpened. “Ah! Madame wholly slipped my mind.”
    “As she did mine. I must have been too distraught to think of her at once. I had been left under Madame’s supervision, but I never gave her a thought until I remembered we had sent my maid, Nenette, and also the boy Philippe to Duchesse Dushane at Fontainebleau.”
    His fingers tightened around