She extended a hand. "Come, have tea with me." Julien thought of her with tea cup and saucer, stirring cream and sugar into the cup. She never seemed so English as she did when she took tea. Of course, she was English, and she never tired of reminding him that he was half English. She often said he might as well consider himself fully English as the French certainly did not want their kind back.
"Ma mère, je suis fatigué."
Julien spoke the French stubbornly. He would not disavow his origins. A look of sadness crossed her features, and he regretted his words immediately. "Never mind, I'll—"
She held up a hand. "No, you go to bed."
He hesitated and then decided that, at this point,
bed was probably best. He turned toward the steps.
"But, Julien?"
He paused, looked back.
"Don't sleep too late. Mademoiselle Serafina Artois is arriving today."
Julien clenched his jaw, nodded. His mother might think she had procured him a bride, but in Mademoiselle Serafina, Julien saw something else.
Vengeance.
Four
Sarah could not believe she was doing this. She could not believe she was standing in a modiste's shop, being poked and prodded and fitted.
"Not that one," The Widow said. "Keep her in blue." She sounded annoyed and as though she were in pain. A surgeon had come to tend her at Sir Northrop's, but she had refused to take any pain medication for fear it would put her to sleep. She claimed it was her duty to assist Sarah with these final preparations.
She apparently also felt it her duty to threaten and cajole until she got her way. Two days ago, when Sarah had refused to participate in this… scheme, The Widow told Sir Northrop to fire her, and he had promptly done so. Sarah could see why he had been such a successful naval officer. He was ruthless. He gave Sarah two choices: leave her position and be tossed out on the street with nary a reference nor an opportunity for another position—or spy for the Foreign Office.
Sarah had no illusions about life on the streets of London. She doubted she would make it through the night with her chastity intact. And Sir Northrop said he would make sure the Academy would not take her back. He threatened to write a letter saying she was a disgrace to their good name. As an institution that relied on charity, the Academy considered reputation everything. Even if the teachers wanted to help Sarah, they could not assist her without risking the future of all the other girls.
It was not fair, and it was not right, but life had never been fair to Sarah. She pushed her anger down and agreed to spy. The Widow had promised it would be only for a few days—perhaps a week at most. But Sarah was expected at the duc's residence today—this very afternoon. All of the dresses The Widow had had made up would have to be altered to fit Sarah. As far as Sarah could see, that meant all the gowns would have to be taken in at the hips and the bosom.
How depressing.
"What's going on in there?" Sir Northrop called from outside the dressing room.
"We're fitting her in the blue dress," The Widow answered. "She'll wear that today, and we'll send the others later." She looked at Sarah. "You may tell the Valères your luggage went missing."
Another lie. Wonderful.
The past two days and nights she had done nothing but lie. She prepared hour after hour to play the role of Mademoiselle Serafina Artois, daughter of the comte and comtesse de Guyenne. She had been primped and poked, prodded and pushed. She had been drilled in etiquette, dancing, languages, deportment, and Mademoiselle Serafina's life history.
Sarah's brain felt as though it would explode, and her head was still throbbing. She eyed The Widow. "Are you sure you're not feeling any better?" Sarah asked her. "If you're well enough to direct all this"— she indicated the modiste and two seamstresses busily measuring and sewing. Sir Northrop had assured her they all worked for the Foreign Office and could be trusted—"then perhaps you could go yourself."
"Yes, I'm sure there will be no small commotion when I faint on the ballroom floor from loss of blood."
"Ballroom? You don't
really
expect me to dance?"
The Widow frowned at her. "You'll be moving in Society, and as this is the Season, there will be balls. We practiced all afternoon yesterday."
And still she felt uncertain. There were so many dances and so many steps to remember. Sarah swallowed, wishing she had practiced with the other girls when attending the 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 voice—"use your other charms to distract him."
Sarah stared at her. "I'm not going to—"
"Of course not." The Widow waved a hand. "You'll be in the house several days. The duc will undoubtedly be out or otherwise occupied for some portion of that time. Our sources tell us he works long hours. You should have no problem finding an hour here or there to snoop. Very well?"
"Very well."
The Widow made it sound easy, and perhaps it was—for her. But Sarah could easily see herself making a mistake and botching everything.
"Don't worry about contacting us," Sir Northrop called. "We'll contact you."
"Not so much rouge," The Widow instructed the woman with the cosmetics; then she glanced back at Sarah. "Stay in character at all times. You are Mademoiselle Serafina Artois, daughter of the comte and comtesse de Guyenne. You are nobility. The Valères are old family friends, so don't talk too much of your mother and father, lest you say something that contradicts what the duchesse remembers. Talk about your interests, your hobbies."
Sarah frowned. "And what if I encounter a situation for which I'm not prepared? What then?"
The Widow gave her an annoyed look. "Be creative, Serafina."
But she was not creative, and she was not Serafina. Who, upon seeing her, would ever believe she possessed a name like Serafina?
"All done!" the hairdresser announced.
"Let me see." The Widow tried to rise, winced, and lay back again. "Stand up, Serafina."
Sarah obeyed, and The Widow nodded her approval. "Sir Northrop, come see our Serafina."
The curtains separating the two rooms parted, and Sir Northrop stood in the opening. He gazed at her for a long moment, and then folded his arms and nodded, looking quite satisfied with himself. "Just as I thought. She'll do very well."
Curious now, Sarah turned to glance in the cheval mirror behind her. She searched the reflection for herself. There was The Widow, the seamstress, the hairdresser and…
Was that her in the sapphire blue gown? The woman's jaw dropped, shock and surprise on her face.
Sarah closed her mouth, and the woman did as well.
It
was
her! No, it was Serafina, and she was tall and elegant and—beautiful. Sarah touched her face and her hair in awe. Somehow they had made her look beautiful. Was it the rouge? The coiffure? The diamonds about her neck? Undoubtedly, they contributed to the illusion, but the face that looked back at her was still familiar. It had the same plain eyes, only now they seemed dark and mysterious. It had the same brown hair, only now it looked thick and glossy. And she had the same full lips. Those had not really improved. They still looked too big for her face.
But her body… it looked almost as though it belonged in this gown. She could feel heat rise to her face at the amount of flesh on display. Somehow it did not seem like her own. Was her skin really so white? Were her curves really so pleasing? The afternoon dress looked as though it had been made for her, and she supposed it had. It was in the latest style, and the robe was fashioned out of sky blue crepe. The petticoat underneath was of the whitest muslin and trimmed with lace. The bodice was cut low, but a tucker provided some modesty. Sarah turned to see the train, marveling that she should wear a gown with a train. It looked so elegant, so regal—so impractical.
But she did not have to be practical anymore. Mademoiselle Serafina hired others to be practical for her.
Sarah turned to The Widow and Sir Northrop, and they both smiled at her. "You see?" The Widow said. "I told you that you could do it. Now, one last small, very small, issue."
Sarah raised a skeptical brow. "Yes?"
"How is your Italian?"
***
Julien didn't like surprises, so the instant the carriage carrying the comte de Guyenne's daughter arrived, he knew it. It was rather later than his mother had expected, and Julien had seen her lingering about the vestibule and conferring with Cook, undoubtedly on the best time to serve dinner.
Julien's library faced the back of the town house, but it opened into a small parlor his mother often used for correspondence in the mornings. It was a feminine room with pastel paintings on the walls, delicately carved molding on the walls and ceiling, small chairs upholstered in pink and white silk, and fresh flowers in fragile vases.
Julien felt big and cumbersome in this parlor, but it had the advantage of facing the street. Thus, he had found reason to occupy himself there most of the afternoon.
Not because he wanted to see this Mademoiselle Serafina. It was just that his library was… too dark, and he had several documents to review.