I found myself stepping subconsciously backwards into the darkened corner behind me. In all my years of covert operations, I had never been so startled, so caught off guard. My mind whirred, racing to gather meaning behind the phenomenon before me, any inclination of what was occurring. Monsieur Lemieux bridged the gap between himself and his honorable visitor to shake his hand and make the customary introductions. I, obscured by the shadows of the stairwell above me, seized the opportunity that his speech created to escape. Turning quietly to the side, I slipped away down the hall, seen only by Gabriel Bisset. Though that couldn't be helped since he was always watching me. I offered an admittedly strained half smile as I fled. I found an abandoned alcove down a servant's passage a few feet away. I paused there to catch my breath, heart pumping and mind racing in an effort to understand the events unfolding around me.

The Duke's bastard son. That had been who the Lemieuxs' had claimed was visiting. Suddenly I was twelve years old again, watching a boy who had never known his father taken, with his beautiful mother and terrified sister, out of Raleigh by a veritable regiment of English troops. Oh. But it couldn't be.

I heard footsteps passing me by and flattened myself against the plaster walls so that I was invisible in the shadows. I listened to Giselle's overexcited gossip pertaining to some French aristocrat that Oliver could not possibly care about and waited until the girl's voice faded away down the hall before I relaxed. Releasing the tension in my shoulders and exhaling for the first time, I felt foolish. I scolded myself for running, though that was my most recurrent technique. Still, why should I run? The Lemieux estate had been my home for two years, not his. Why should I hide from him? I had a duty to Mademoiselle Lemieux. Besides, we hadn't seen each other in eight years and clearly his time had been more valuably spent than mine. He most likely would not even recognize me.

So, straightening my skirts and holding my head high, I walked briskly from the passage and into the hallway beyond. The clang of metal scraping against porcelain accompanied with the low hum of polite conversation indicated that the party had proceeded to dinner. When they were finished, they would likely retire to the drawing room for post dinner drinks and further discourse. My presence, as Giselle Lemieux's chosen handmaiden, would be expected. I changed course and headed for the drawing room, entering to find that I was not the only dutiful servant awaiting the return of their master.

In light of my unexpected recognition of a peasant turned noble from my past, I had hardly noticed the man who had accompanied him. He was tall and young, dark skinned and shaved head. To the Lemieuxs, I am sure that his appeareance seemed queer but I had spent enough time around soldiers to recognize one when I saw them. A shaved head was a style of choice for the most serious militiamen and, though he tried to hide it behind some mockery of English aristocratic fashion, I saw the muscled form all the same. If that weren't enough indication, there was his rigid posture, standing at attention for his commander, and the way his hand seemed permanently poised over the hilt of his sword even when making a conscious effort to project a casual and unaffected demeanor.

I crossed the drawing room in a moment to stand by his side, having sized him up just as quickly. I was certain of my assessment that this man was a soldier. Unfortunately, this created more questions than it answered. Customarily, a Duke's son seeking a betrothal with a wealthy foreign aristocrat would be accompanied by an advisor, not a soldier. Perhaps that was precisely the role he was intending to play. Or perhaps, he thought it was enough to dress the part. He wore a frock coat that four years ago I would have called resplendent but after years among the wealthy elite, I could see how bedraggled it was. Threadbare and deteriorating before my very eyes, the coat still did an impressive job of hiding the even more neglected trousers beneath. He shifted a bit under my gaze and I felt some satisfaction at having made him uncomfortable. But then I remembered that I was only a handmaiden as far as he was concerned and turned my gaze to the door opposite us, wondering all the while why Oliver had chosen to bring along a soldier. Was there still so much distrust between England and France? And, if that were the case, why was he still pursuing a marriage with one of them?

"You're too beautiful to be a handmaiden," the soldier spoke suddenly. Typically, I would have interpreted such a statement as an attempt at flirtation. Men called women beautiful when they wanted something from them, something very specific. But the way in which he had spoken, stoic expression without so much as a glance in my direction, indicated suspicion more than infatuation. I narrowed my eyes but kept them locked firmly on the door across from us. I decided to cast aside the notion that I was only a handmaiden. He seemed well aware that I was more than that and, if he already suspected me and felt secure in voicing that suspicion, I may as well even the playing field. Besides, I knew myself better than to believe I could have held my tongue at any rate.

"And you are too young to be an advisor," I answered.

"Clever girl."

"A soldier, then?"

Confidence shaken and mask slipping, he turned to look at me for the first time in surprise. Eyes wide, he opened his mouth and then closed it, as if deciding better than to engage me in this game. But I found myself wanting him to. It had been quite some time since I had met an intellectual match. Madame Lemieux was the most astute in her family, by volumes, but she used her ability for the most petty and tiresome matters. This seemed to be a man who used his acumen in a way it was meant for, in a way he was trained for. He had reasoned out that I was not just a handmaiden quickly enough. Part of me wanted intently to know what he thought I was while the rest of me warned against such prying. I was on shaky ground at best when it came to the terms I was on with the man who had come to woo my master and if I had learned anything in the past two years with the Lemieux family it was that there were few things in France more foolish than setting yourself in opposition to them.

"You work for her," he spoke then and I found myself reawakening as though coming out of a trance and cursed myself for the inattention.

"Mademoiselle Lemieux?" I asked.

"Yes."

"I do."

"But you are English."

"The French pay better."

A smile threatened the corners of his mouth but he got it under control quickly enough and maintained that impassive veteran's countenance.

"So you are a traitor," he stated matter of fact.

"I was under the impression that the war had ended."

"War with the French never ends," he mumbled under his breath so that I hardly heard it and then, louder so that I could. "What do you think of her?"

"Giselle Lemieux is a goddess among us. Whomsoever should come upon the ground on which she walks should fall humbly to their knees and kiss it, praying that she might find the time to bless them with a simple glance."

"Without sarcasm now."

"She is a young girl who was handed the world at birth. How do you think she is?"

I raised an eyebrow at him and he seemed to consider my remarks momentarily. He opened his mouth to ask another question but never got the opportunity. As if summoned by the mention of them, our masters chose that very occasion to enter the room we occupied. We fell silent as servants were expected to do, fading into the tapestry of the background as though we ceased to exist until the moment they had need of us.

"I am certain a more riveting tale has never been told," Giselle was beaming up at Oliver, her arm linked tightly with his own, eyes gazing up at him in the wonder of youth. It was everything I could do not to roll my eyes as she continued. "That you didn't know who you were your whole life. The son of a Duke! I cannot imagine. And your stories from the war. The adventures you must have had in your travels. All of this and you're still so young. I hope marriage does not prove a disappointment for an adventurous soul such as yourself."

Artfully done, I thought. But then again, this is what she was raised for. Oliver did not miss a beat as he answered. "I hear marriage is the greatest adventure of all."

Perhaps it wasn't in the breeding.

"I am fascinated though," Giselle said, smiling. "How exactly did your father find you?"

"When I was twelve years old a military regiment came to town asking for boys to attend the academy. I volunteered."

Suddenly his eyes met mine and the corner of his mouth turned slightly up in a mischievous smirk. I repressed my gasp but could not avoid a brief lapse, my lips parting slightly in exhibition of my surprise. He seemed, thankfully, to be the only one who noticed and his eyes cast away from me as quickly as they had found me. If it weren't for my rapidly beating heart, I might have thought I had imagined the look. Monsieur Lemieux began speaking then, clearly unaware of what had just occurred between his esteemed guest and his daughter's handmaiden.

"Well, Mr. Ainsworth, I don't suppose you will mind following me to my office so we might have a chat?"

"Of course, Monsieur Lemieux," Oliver answered, smiling brightly. He extricated himself expertly and gently from Giselle's grasp and bid her adieu as he took his leave with Monsieur Lemieux.

The moment they had gone, Madame Lemieux's eyes met mine and she raised her brows sharply to indicate her command. So my true duties were beginning. Excusing myself to no one in particular as none of them were paying much attention to me, I headed for the door. I made the excuse that Selena was in need of assistance in readying Mademoiselle Lemieux's chambers for the evening but hardly anyone heard it. They were too engrossed in their whispered conversation about their visitor. So I made my exit from the drawing room quickly enough, acutely aware of the strange soldier's suspicious gaze upon me as I did.

Turning in the direction opposite Giselle's bedchambers, I headed outside instead, remembering a certain tree with an excellent view of a particular office. The topiary was far more difficult to climb in a maid's rough spun gown but Madame Lemiuex had flat out refused to allow me a singular pair of men's breeches, even after my assurances that they would work wonders in my capabilities. From the top, I saw that the window was slightly ajar, most likely due to Madame Lemieux sneaking into her husband's study to crack them for my listening benefit earlier in the day. As a branch snagged the coarse wool of my dress, I cursed this utter waste of my talents. Comfortable life aside, I used to procure military secrets, trade in intelligence, scale fortresses. Now I was reduced to climbing trees in a handmaid's costume.

"We are honored to have you here at our estate, Mr. Ainsworth," Monsieur Lemieux began and I craned my neck to hear him better. "And positively beyond ourselves to have the attentions of your illustrious father."

I sensed a nevertheless coming and so, it appeared, did Oliver.

"But you do not wish to pledge your only daughter to a man whose future is so uncertain," Oliver finished for the man and Monsieur Lemieux visibly relaxed, clearly pleased at not having to speak the words aloud himself. Monsieur Lemieux offered Oliver a drink and he took it, sipping lightly as Monsieur Lemieux took a seat leaning against his desk.

"What can you tell me of this process of legitimization? Is it much the same in England as it is in France?"

"It is. Though much more common, I imagine. The approval of the Church is still a necessity but my father has filed all of the necessary paperwork and has maintained close and consistent contact with the clergymen in charge of our case throughout the process. He has high hopes."

"He's ill, is he not? The Duke?" Monsieur Lemieux asked with an air of casual inquiry in opposition to the subject matter. Oliver bristled, spine straightening and jaw clenching at the implication.

"He is."

"So I'm to barter away my daughter on the 'high hopes' of an ill Duke?"

Oliver watched him for a moment over the rim of his glass, eyes narrowing in examination. His brows still furrowed in that way I remembered when he concentrated on an obstacle. After a moment, he spoke and the words he chose surprised me.

"You are beholden to only your conscious, Monsieur, as we all are. I cannot, in good conscious, convince you to make me your son in law. Nor would I dare cheapen your daughter's value by attempting to trade her like livestock. I can only ask that you give me a chance, as a man, to prove my worth to you as well as the Mademoiselle. Title or no."

His speech settled over the shocked Frenchman in waves. It seemed to have the desired effect in the end. As surprised as Monsieur Lemieux was by the frank speech of this young man, I could see that he was impressed as well. He sat quietly for a moment, swirling the contents of his glass in consideration. Oliver waited patiently, head held high and eyes remaining on the Monsieur.

"My daughter's happiness is important to me, Mr. Ainsworth," Monsieur Lemieux finally said after a moment. "I have known the day would come in which I must part with her. I would have her promised to someone whom she can love if at all possible. So, though my primary motivation is to ensure for her a future, I see no reason why she should not have a say in what that future entails. Therefore, you are welcome to remain in my home, as a guest, and get to know Giselle while we wait for the process of your legitimization to conclude. That is all I can offer you at present."

I saw the slow smile spread across Oliver's lips and understood the victory he had achieved here.

"That is more than enough," Oliver replied, standing and reaching out to shake Monsieur Lemieux's hand. "A chance is all I've ever needed."