“Then definitely tell them to go away,” Elinor said, feeling somewhat giddy herself. “They’re not taking my fire or my tea.”

Jacobs stomped in from the kitchen, clearly annoyed with the lot of them, and opened the door. “More fripperies,” he said in a dour voice that couldn’t disguise his pleasure. “You watch where you put those things, laddie.” He moved out of the way, as a line of men entered the house, bearing furniture, rugs, mattresses and arms of linens.

Elinor sprang to her feet. “You can’t bring those in here!”

“Sorry, miss, but we’ve got orders,” one man said as he dropped one end of the settee to the right of the fire. “We’re not taking these things back. Just tell us where you want us to put it. We’ve got orders not to leave until you’re satisfied.”

“And I won’t be satisfied until these things are gone,” she said sharply.

“Watch yourself,” said Nanny Maude, slapping at a young man carrying a small desk.

“I can’t help you there, miss,” he said. “I’m a lot more frightened of his lordship than I am of you. He told me to come back and report to him and I don’t like the thought of what he’d say if I brought anything back.”

Elinor turned back to Lydia. “This is impossible. Next they’ll be delivering clothes and undergarments.”

A wistful smile crossed Lydia’s face. “It would be so nice to have pretty undergarments again.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m going to put a stop to this right now.” She pushed past the man carrying the rug and reached for her shawl.

“You can’t go out now!”

“I can and I will. It’s still early—I can inform his lordship that his inappropriate gifts should be removed immediately.”

“Not the chicken?” Lydia said in a plaintive voice.

Elinor paused. “No, not the chicken. Or the scones. Or the firewood,” she added with a shiver. The constantly opening door was spreading blasts of cold through the house.

“You’re not going out to that château again!” Nanny Maude said in a shrill voice.

“No need. He’s at his town house. Over on the Rue Saint-Honoré,” said the helpful man, who seemed to be the leader of this never-ending line of furniture movers. “I’m Rolande, in charge of the comte’s household possessions. I can promise you these things are merely castoffs from his overfilled house.”

“It is still unacceptable. I’m going.”

“I can take you there if need be,” Rolande offered.

Elinor looked at him suspiciously. “Did he tell you to bring me?”

“I don’t talk to the comte, mademoiselle,” he said. “Just his steward. And no one said anything about bringing you back. Just trying to be helpful.”

She looked at him for a long moment. It was a cold, dark night, snow was falling, and finding Lord Rohan’s town house could be problematic at best. She had no choice—the more things he sent the harder it would be to get rid of them. It wasn’t simply the fact that if anyone heard of it Lydia’s reputation would be ruined. This was how their mother had lived, how they had lived, dependent on the largesse of a man with wicked plans. She was not going to follow in her mother’s footsteps, she simply was not.

Rohan wouldn’t listen, of course, no matter how she tried to explain it. If she had any sense she would sit back by the fire, in one of the new chairs the men had brought, and accept it for the sake of her poor family. What was honor if your family was starving to death?

But there was still her missing cousin. They weren’t devoid of all hope. They could accept this, and nothing more, and she would make that clear.

“Let’s go,” she said. “Allons-y.”

The ride from the gutter to the elegant streets of Paris was surprisingly short, given the disparity between the residences. A good thing—Rolande’s mode of transportation was a wagon, the only seat being beside the helpful driver, and the wind seemed to grow colder with each breath she took. She tried to concentrate on his stories of his grown son, his grandchildren, his bad leg, but by the time he slowed the horses she was shivering.

“Here we are, mademoiselle,” he said, coming to a stop. “Would you like me to come with you? This isn’t the sort of household that welcomes people like us, not at the front door.”

People like us? she thought, startled. And then the truth hit. In fact, this servant was better dressed than she was—his old clothes were worn but patched. She’d had to put on her last dress when she’d arrived home earlier that day, and she’d torn the skirt on a loose nail.

For a moment she wavered. Someone of Rohan’s wealth and stature would hardly have nefarious designs on a young woman who lived in worse surroundings than his own servants.

But then she remembered that Rohan didn’t have a charitable bone in his body. He lived for his decadent desires—altruistic gestures were beyond him. It didn’t matter what had happened in his youth to wound him. He was the man he’d become, and that man was dangerous.

“He’ll want to see me,” she said with false certainty, sliding down off the wagon before Rolande could help her.

“Just in case, mademoiselle, I’ll wait here for you.”

“There’s no need…”

“Just in case.”

“You’re a very kind man, Rolande,” she said. “I will tell his lordship to double what he’s paying you.”

“His lordship pays very generously. And I’m doing this for you, not him.” He cast a look of dislike up at the huge house. “You go on ahead now, mademoiselle. You look very cold.”

Rohan would have to have a broad expanse of steps leading up to his mansion, she thought dourly, starting the climb. She expected lights, gaiety, debauchery spilling out into the nighttime, but the house seemed secure and quiet.

She reached for the huge brass knocker, but before she could use it the door opened and an extremely proper-looking servant stared at her as if she was complete filth. He had to be French.

His first words confirmed it. “The servants’ entrance is to the side,” he said, and started to close the door in her face.

She threw her body against it, to halt him. “I’m here to see his lordship. Just tell him Miss Harriman is here.”

The man’s gaze flicked out at the wagon waiting for her, then back at her, and if anything, his look was even more disdainful. “I have heard no mention of that name,” he said haughtily, pushing on the door.

“Just ask him…” The door slammed shut in her face, leaving her standing there, cold and furious. “All right,” she said beneath her breath. “You asked for it.”

She stomped back down the snow-covered stairs, mentally thanking Mrs. Clarke for her pilfered boots, and climbed up into the wagon. “The servants’ entrance it is, Rolande.”

She’d lived such a strange life, so many extremes, and yet she’d never ventured into the servants’ quarters of a great house. From her father’s country house, to the elegant Paris apartments where her mother and her lover had lived with passionate abandon—so much so that it had been up to Elinor and Nanny Maude to bring up Lydia—she’d still remained sequestered from the servants’ quarters. The apartments and houses grew shabbier, but somehow she’d yet to venture into the demiworld of working people.

It was warm and clean in the back hallway. In the distance she could hear the sounds of the servants talking as they worked on what must be dinner, and Elinor wondered what it would be like to have the safety and warmth of honest labor. Perhaps she could become a servant. There was no task she particularly excelled at—she was too clumsy to be a chambermaid, too bad a seamstress to be a lady’s maid and a truly terrible cook. Perhaps a kitchen maid might be possible, under the watchful eye of some stern master chef, and she could…

“Mademoiselle?” Rolande interrupted her brief fantasy. “If you go straight down that hallway you’ll find stairs to the main living quarters. You keep an eye out for Cavalle—he runs this place with an iron fist.”

“Bless you, Rolande,” she said. “I wish I had money…”

“There is no need. I take pleasure from serving you, mademoiselle,” he said, starting to bow.

She leaned forward and kissed his leathered cheek, and he gave her a dazzling smile. And then she turned and headed off in search of her nemesis.

The steps were narrow, with rough wood, clearly a servants’ staircase, and she moved quietly. There was a closed door at the top, of course, and she hesitated for a moment. Once she entered the main part of the house what would she do? Start searching the rooms until she found him, obviously, but exactly how she’d start the conversation was a problem, considering that she had to sneak into his house.

That was his fault as well, for hiring a majordomo who was such a…a…polite words evaded her, and even in the privacy of her own mind she couldn’t use the street words she’d unconsciously absorbed during the last few years. Batarde would have to do. She pushed open the door, very carefully, and stepped into the lion’s den.

The space was warm, with the golden glow that came from only the best beeswax candles. The ones he had sent to her house, along with the blessed firewood and the food that she’d stormed off and missed. For a moment she felt faint with hunger. She’d eaten nothing since the toast strips in the morning and the scone less than an hour ago, and it wasn’t enough to keep her sturdy frame alive. She wasn’t delicate, like Lydia. She was taller, stronger, and she felt as if she’d been running some terrible, endless race. She would have given anything to lie down on one of the new beds they’d brought in and sleep for days. Anything but her sister’s honor. And her own, what was left of it.

She closed the door behind her and set off, resolute. The door led into a series of formal rooms, gilded woodwork, highly polished floors, mirrors all around. She’d heard stories of Versailles and the Hall of Mirrors. Surely this rivaled those places. Despite what little she knew of Lord Rohan, she was uncomfortably aware that his fortune was enormous.