The Counterfeit Mistress by Madeline Hunter

ask after Lamberte. He may well have sent one of them on this boat to find you, and your own interest will pique curiosity. Better if you left the questions to me.”
    â€œYou cannot play the servant and ask highborn women about the news of their country. Will you present yourself as their equal so they will confide in you?”
    Dominique shook her head. “You just be careful.”
    Two hours later Marielle and her maid entered a handsome townhome on a street behind Bedford Square. She wondered if the family who lived here owned it, or if it was only let. If the latter, she wondered if the rent had been paid.
    Most of the émigrés lived a precarious existence. Few of them would work, not that the aristocrats among them had skills to sell. They were gentlemen and gentlewomen after all. Her own print work was tolerated since it was better than whoring, but unkind comments still came her way, even from families who sent one of their women to sit and dab paint at her tables. A good many families relied entirely on debt to survive, and on the credit offered by tradesmen who counted on the old ways and estates eventually returning to France.
    As she mounted the stairs to the drawing room, she assessed the furnishings. Either Monsieur Perdot had property in England from long ago, or the porcelains and hangings had indeed been bought by his expectations. There was too much here to have been brought over when he escaped.
    The drawing room hardly soared the way they did in France’s best houses, but its decorations were tasteful, and its occupants merry. Seven men and nine women sat on chairs and divans, drinking champagne and celebrating their escape.
    Madame LaTour sat among them. She noticed Marielle, beckoned her over, and introduced her. One of the newcomers, Madame Toupin, a woman of senior years with white hair and very dark eyes, took particular note. She peered through spectacles mounted on a long wand, eyeing every inch of Marielle’s person and deportment.
    Marielle faced her down, mustering as much hauteur as what came her way. Lips pursed and eyebrows high, this woman did not hide her skepticism regarding what she saw.
    â€œSo you are the niece of the Comte de Vence. I knew him well, and am delighted to make your acquaintance.” She patted the bench beside her chair. “Come, sit with me, so we can reminisce about that good man.”
    S abine Peltier lived in a small apartment at a good address on the edge of Mayfair. When Kendale presented himself at the door, a maid ushered him into a tiny sitting room before she walked off with his card and Ambury’s letter. She did not return for a good while.
    He amused himself while he waited by perusing the books in a cabinet tucked discreetly in one corner. Not only French books rested there, but also new ones in English. That fit with the little he knew about the woman. Ambury had explained that the Peltiers had moved in the highest circles in Paris before Monsieur Peltier, an academically inclined younger son of a baron, had paid for his conservative philosophies with his life.
    The chamber itself possessed a feminine, elegant décor that he assumed cost a bit of money. Madame Peltier bought sparingly but well. The few chairs appeared well made. The upholstered divan would be at home in the best drawing room.
    Madame Peltier looked much the same when she finally entered and greeted him. Dark haired, slender, and tall, she was a beautiful woman of middle years. He guessed she was about forty, but it was hard to tell. Her ensemble and style inclined toward the exotic, as was the fashion among some ladies. The high-waist dress looked to have layers of thin fabric, all of which floated as if she flew just above the ground when she moved.
    She still held the letter in her hand, and after they sat she perused it again. “Ambury is very charming. He writes that you want a favor from me, but not my favors.”
    â€œPerhaps other men are so