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her one of them. He brushed aside the recalcitrant lock of dark chestnut hair falling across his broad forehead before taking a sip from his own cup. “A pleasant enough Canary,” he observed. “So, Mademoiselle Hero, who exactly are you, and what the devil are you doing roaming the streets of Paris in the midst of a revolution?”

FOUR

    H ero examined the contents of her pewter cup intently, as if it contained the answer to his question, before saying, “Hermione Fanshawe. My brother is the Marquis of Bruton.”
    William was rarely dumbfounded, but he found himself so now. “Lady Hermione Fanshawe,” he murmured. “Sweet heaven, what are you doing here?” The earlier note of irritation was in his voice.
    â€œLooking for my brother, if it’s any business of yours,” she said tartly. Hero was unaccustomed to being questioned about her activities or her motives. It had been several years since anyone had presumed to have the authority to do so, and while she was prepared to acknowledge that this gentleman had earned her gratitude and maybe the right to a few questions, he certainly hadn’t earned the right to pass judgment, and from his tone, it sounded very much as if he was.
    His mobile brows quirked, and his expression was quite unreadable. “I think, my lady, you’ll find that it is very much my business.” He reached for the flagon. “More Canary?”
    She shook her head. “No . . . thank you.” He was infuriating. How could he possibly say something like that? He didn’t know anything about her. When at a disadvantage, Hero had long ago decided, attack was the best way forward. “So, sir, you know who I am. Will you return the favor?” Her tone was curt almost to the point of rudeness, but it seemed merited.
    He responded promptly with a courtly bow. “William Ducasse, Vicomte de St. Aubery, at your service, my lady.”
    â€œI thought you were English,” she said, puzzled.
    â€œMy father was French, my mother English. The title is my father’s. And if the mob had their way, I would have lost my head by now because of it,” he added with a short laugh that contained no humor.
    Hero felt a shiver prickle her spine, hearing in her head the baying of the mob in Place de la Révolution as the guillotine rose and fell. “Can you not leave the city?”
    â€œOh, I could, but I have work to do here,” he replied.
    Slowly, the shards of the conversations she had heard between William and the men at the tavern and between William and the man Marcus began to make sense. There were men, she knew—everyone in London Society knew—who risked their heads helping French aristo families escape the bloodbath that was Paris. It would seem the Viscount was one of them, and the Latour family was one of the lucky ones.
    â€œMy brother . . .” she said hesitantly. “Alec, he came over to look for his fiancée. She and her family came to Paris months ago hoping to save what they could of their assets before they were stolen. There’s been no word from them since, so Alec came to find them. Do you perhaps . . . ?”It seemed too good to be true that she had stumbled upon someone who knew where her brother was, and superstition kept her from asking the question directly.
    â€œPerhaps,” he responded. At this point, William had no idea whether Alec Fanshawe was alive or dead. If he was alive, he would be trying to get back into the city before curfew with the rest of the group who had extricated the Latour family from their besieged attic. But it was just as likely that the young man would not return safely.
    Hero turned away, her gaze resting on the flickering fire. She thought she understood his hesitancy. “You have seen him, though?”
    â€œI have seen him.”
    She nodded. “When?”
    â€œI saw him last three days ago, before I found