Elinor leaned back against the chair, finally alone, trying to regain her balance as the world whirled about her. She’d been in rooms like this, years ago when they’d lived in England. Warm, cozy rooms, with bright fires burning and comfortable, slightly worn furniture.

Which didn’t make sense. The notorious Francis Rohan was as rich as Croesus, and the ornate glory of the rest of the château attested to that. The red damask upholstery on the sofa opposite her had worn patches, and the floor was scuffed. She must have slipped into some sort of dream, and when a stocky woman appeared a few minutes later Elinor decided she was simply a manifestation of her deepest longings for the warmth and safety and comfort of a life long past.

“There you are, dearie,” the apparition said. “I’m Mrs. Clarke, the housekeeper. You look exhausted. And no wonder, all this chasing around you’ve had to do. Mr. Willis says to inform you that your mother has been found, she’s perfectly fine, and Mr. Reading is taking her back home.”

Elinor struggled to her feet. “I need to go with them.”

“They’ve already left, dearie. We have orders from Master Francis. You’re to rest for a while and then be sent home in the second-best carriage. Your mother will be fine. Mr. Reading’s a good man for all that he’s mixed up with this lot.”

The woman looked like Nanny Maude’s younger sister. Plump, pleasantly rounded, just the kind of woman you might find in English households everywhere. Just not in the household of the King of Hell. “But I need—” she began, but Mrs. Clarke calmly interrupted her.

“I know you do, dearie. But there’s no arguing with his lordship. You just sit back and rest and I promise you, all will be well. You’re still wearing your cloak? What was that man thinking! It’s raining outside, and you’re all cold and damp.”

Before Elinor realized what the housekeeper was doing, Mrs. Clarke had managed to strip the cloak and shawl from her, laying the patched garments carefully near the fire. “I hadn’t planned on staying,” she said. “My mother…”

“Now, don’t you go defending him,” Mrs. Clarke said. “He’s a sweet boy but he can be so thoughtless! And your shoes are soaked as well.” She made a disapproving clucking sound as she bent down to untie Elinor’s too-small shoes.

“I’m not…” Before she could deny defending him, the woman’s words sank in. “You must be confused,” she said, trying to pull her feet away. “It was the Comte de Giverney who brought me in here.”

“Exactly. I was the one who brought him up. Came over from England after he was exiled and I’ve been looking after him ever since.” She pulled off one shoe and set it near the fire, then the other. She must have noticed how worn they were, that they were too small, but she said nothing, treating them like jeweled slippers. She sat back and looked up at Elinor for a moment, her gaze sharpening. “You need some hot tea and something to eat.”

“I’m not going to be here long,” Elinor said, ignoring the fact that she was ready to faint from hunger.

Mrs. Clarke was as good at ignoring protests as her master. “Won’t take me but a minute. You just sit there and warm up. Master Francis’s chef is a stuck-up Frenchman, but he does know how to make cinnamon toast and a good strong up of tea. My girl’s bringing it up—won’t take but a moment. Just rest, Miss Harriman. You look like you need it.”

Indeed she did. She couldn’t remember when she’d last had a full night’s sleep. Her mother had a tendency to wander—just a week ago she’d found her two streets away, dressed only in her nightgown, babbling something about being late for a rout. She’d brought her back and slept sitting up on the corner of her bed, just to make certain her mother didn’t wander again. If she’d had any sense she would have tied the woman up, but Lady Caroline made such distressed noises when they did that it was almost worse than the worry.

A moment later Mrs. Clarke was back. There was steam rising from the tray she carried, and she could smell the cinnamon and butter from where she sat. “There we are,” the housekeeper said cheerfully, setting the tray down beside her on a slightly battered table. “All nice and cozy, are we? I’m going to find a throw to put over you—that’s a nice enough fire, but you look like you’ve got yourself a chill.”

She didn’t deny it. She was so cold and disoriented that she wanted to weep. What had happened to her? Had he managed to drug her? There were rumors that he and his band of degenerates did that to unsuspecting young women, but the brief glance she’d had of the half-clothed women parading around the château told her that he had no need of a plain, over-tall spinster with a nose.

A moment later a thick cashmere robe was tucked around her, at odds with the shabby furniture. “You poor thing!” Mrs. Clarke said. “I’m just going to forget about manners and sit right down beside you. You don’t look like you’ve got enough strength left to pour yourself a decent cup of tea. And Master Francis has never been a man who pays much attention to ceremony. You don’t look like you do either.” She plopped herself down in the chair beside her, pulled the hand-knitted cozy off the earthenware teapot with capable hands.

“You’re looking at the teapot, aren’t you?” Mrs. Clarke said as she proceeded to pour her a cup of tea, with lashings of heavy cream and sugar. “I brought that from England when I came here. I thought Master Francis would need something to remind him of home. So young he was, poor boy, to have lost his family, his home, his country.”

Elinor wasn’t going to ask. She’d heard rumors, but the vagaries of the titled émigré population of Paris had never been of particular interest, and even in the best of times her mother seldom talked to her. “Indeed,” she said in a noncommittal voice.

“Indeed,” Mrs. Clarke said cheerfully. “You don’t want to talk about him, and I can understand that. He’s a very bad boy, he is. But he has reason.”

“I cannot think of anything that would excuse his—” she was going to say “licentiousness” but thought better of it “—his behavior.”

“No, I suppose not. You’re too young to remember.” She shook herself. “We’ll get you warm and fed and taken care of and back home right as rain,” she said firmly.

It took all Elinor’s self-control to keep her mouth shut. Too young to remember what? What reason might he have for an exile that was far from voluntary? Some scandal? But none of it mattered, she reminded herself. This wasn’t her world.

“You look like the kind of girl who’s been drinking her tea black,” Mrs. Clarke continued, “but right now I think you need some sustenance.”

The housekeeper was right—she’d given up sugar and milk more than a year ago, insisting she preferred her tea undiluted. In fact, she preferred her tea just as Mrs. Clarke was making it, but of late it had become more important to ensure that her sister got enough to eat and drink. Any cream and sugar they could afford went to Lydia.

The tea was ambrosia. Manna from heaven, milk and honey—the biblical terms danced through her foggy brain. It was so wonderful that she would have happily trampled over her sister’s delicate body for it.

“Let me get you another cover,” the housekeeper said, rising from her seat. “I don’t know what’s come over me. It’s just been so long since I’ve had a proper young English girl to look after that I let my tongue run away with me.”

Elinor struggled to be polite. “Don’t you miss England?”

“Of course I do, child. But I could never abandon Master Francis. Not until he gets past this playacting foolishness and marries.”

“I believe the Heavenly Host has been holding their revels for many years,” Elinor said. That much gossip she’d heard. “Perhaps you should give up waiting.”

“Foolishness,” Mrs. Clarke said firmly. “Eat your toast, dearie. I’ll be back.”

The thin slivers of cinnamon toast were wonderful. She tried to eat slowly, but she was so famished she devoured them.

She really must be in a dream. In a moment the King of Hell would come in and chop off her head or something equally bizarre. It would be worth it.

She closed her eyes, the teacup still in her hand. It was old, eggshell-thin china, with myriad tiny cracks in it. Another anomaly, but for a moment she wasn’t going to think about it. She was going to keep her eyes closed and let herself drift into this strange, wonderful, magical world, where everything was safe and familiar, where there were no raving mothers, no sisters in need of protection, no servants who needed to be fed, and most of all, no Francis Rohan.

She heard the door open, heard the measured footsteps approaching her. Mrs. Clarke must have returned. She felt the teacup being taken from her slack fingers, and she knew she should open her mouth, insist on a carriage and a ride home—Lydia was waiting for her—but right then it was impossible. Two more hours wouldn’t make that much difference. She’d sleep for that long and awake refreshed and reasonable, and this magic room would make sense. By the time she got home her mother would be in a dull, stupefied state, and they wouldn’t have to deal with her for a few days at the least. She always slept deeply after one of her sorties.

And all Elinor would have to worry about was what in heaven’s name they were going to do next.

He took the teacup from her hand and set it down on the small tray. Mrs. Clarke was watching him, a suspicious look on her face. She knew him too well—she was the only person who saw him clearly, with all his flaws and vanities and wicked indulgences. Saw him and loved him anyway, like an exasperated parent.

In truth she wasn’t that much older than he was. She’d come into service at the age of twelve, and her first task had been the care of the Viscount Rohan’s youngest son, Francis. He’d been born a sickly, angry child, prone to noisy displays of temperament, and young Polly Siddons had been saddled with him. But even at age twelve she’d known how to deal with him, and she’d been with him ever since, following him to Paris after the debacle of 1745. When her husband died, she’d simply replaced him with a Frenchman, but she still was Mrs. Clarke to all and sundry. His lifeline and his conscience. For all that he listened.

“And what exactly do you think you’re doing with this young lady?” she demanded. “If you brought her here you know as well as I do that she’s not one of your fancy pieces. She has no place here.”

“True enough,” he said. “And I’ll send her home safely, untouched. You’ve been around me long enough to know that I have no interest in innocents. And she’s hardly my style, don’t you think? I insist on beauty.”

“In the rest of this godforsaken place, yes. But these rooms are different, Master Francis. Here you’re more likely to value real worth. And I don’t like seeing her here.”

I do, he thought, surprised. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Clarke. I’ll be sending her back to her misbegotten family as soon as she awakens. Which looks to be a while.”

“Poor thing was worn-out,” his housekeeper said. “She needs a rest without you harassing her.”

“I’m not going to harass her,” he said. “I’m simply going to take a nap myself. She’ll probably wake up and start beating me with a fire poker, but I’m willing to take that risk. You can go back to bed.”

She gave him that doubtful look that always made him feel twelve years old, but then she nodded. “You behave yourself, Master Francis. The girl’s already got too much to deal with. She doesn’t need you complicating things.”

“Trust me,” he said airily, heading for the settee opposite his sleeping guest. “I only intend to make her life simpler.”

With a disapproving sniff Mrs. Clarke departed, leaving him alone in the room with the sound of the fire crackling in the fireplace, the lash of rain on the windows, her steady breathing as she slept.

He kicked off his elegant shoes. The settee wasn’t the most comfortable of beds, but it was long enough to hold his frame, and he couldn’t ask for much more. He’d slept on it when he was younger and it had resided in his father’s house in Yorkshire, and he’d always found it surprisingly comfortable. He stretched out, his arms behind his head, and stared at her.

He could be kind, he could be generous, if he had reason. He had his reputation to consider, but he doubted anyone would know he’d done an act of charity in seeing to Miss Harriman’s mother. If anyone heard, they’d assume he had wicked, ulterior motives, and that was good enough for him.

This girl before him wasn’t a beauty. Her dark brown hair was unremarkable, her body, what he could see of it beneath the shabby clothes, could hardly compete with Marianne’s lush pleasures. The pleasures he’d turned his back on to lie on this shabby sofa staring at this shabby girl.

Her face was…interesting. She had a smattering of freckles across her cheekbones, something he’d always found irresistible. A surprisingly lush mouth, which clearly hadn’t been kissed enough. And the nose.

It was narrow and elegant and only slightly longer than beauty required. In fact, it gave her face a certain piquant charm. Without it, with the requisite button of a nose, she’d be boring.

Boring was the one thing Miss Elinor Harriman couldn’t lay claim to. She’d stormed into his life, and she was still here, long after she should have disappeared.

He could have handed her off to Reading. She would have much preferred accompanying her mother’s drunken body back to Paris, but he’d kept her here instead. She was better off this way. Lady Caroline had proven combative, and he’d sent two strong footmen to keep her contained in his traveling carriage, with Reading to oversee the transfer.

No, this stern young woman would be better off arriving home after her mother was properly settled. He’d given Reading orders to make certain one of the footmen remained until they were convinced Lady Caroline had returned to her senses.

Which was no certainty. He’d been watching when they’d wrestled the woman into the carriage, her curses and her fists flying. The pox had driven her mad and nothing would change that. The sooner she died, the better for all concerned.

He could arrange it, of course. As he lounged on the settee he considered the possibilities. The wretched hag would have little connection with him, and there’d be no reason for him to be accused of orchestrating her death. Any of the Heavenly Host who happened to have noticed her presence here tonight would never breathe a word of it, or risk being ousted from their hallowed little group.

The police in Paris were fairly lax, but they might pay more attention to the death of a titled émigré. Then again, they might not. They let him do anything he wanted in his mansion in Rue Saint-Honoré, but then, no one had died. At least as far as he knew.

No, his charitable instincts would be better off curbed for the time being. Wretched as Mademoiselle Elinor Harriman’s life might be, it was hardly his job to fix it. To remove the major obstacle to her happiness.

Though the poxy wretch might annoy Reading so much that he stabbed her. Reading was notoriously quick-tempered, rash and impulsive. Perhaps he’d take care of things of his own volition.

In the meantime, here he was, ready to sleep with the perfect virgin. He let out a soft laugh. Miss Harriman would hate that, making it all the more delightful. They would sleep together, albeit a chaste three feet apart, and it would annoy her for the rest of her life.

And with that he closed his eyes and slept, a smile on his face, malice in his heart. He slept.

It was past five in the morning, and Lydia Harriman was already up and dressed, having spent a wretched three hours in bed, tossing and turning, before giving up completely. Her mother’s disappearance wasn’t that unusual—Lady Caroline would vanish for days at a time, and there was nothing they could do about it.

But she’d gotten much worse recently. Her conversations were sprinkled with curses, and there was a strange, otherworldly look in her eyes that no one could break through. She complained constantly of the cold, even with the warmest fire, and when things were really bad they tied her to the bed lest she hurt herself.

Or them. When her mother was raging there was no telling what she might do, and Nanny Maude kept the knives hidden just to be safe. And there were times, which Lydia would never admit to, that she hoped her mother would simply not return from her next escapade.

But this time Elinor had disappeared as well.

It was an eerie, ice-cold dawn. She’d been careful not to put too much wood on the fire. What little fuel they had must last as long as possible. Elinor tried to shield her from the harsher realities of life, and Lydia had stopped arguing. If it made her elder sister happy to think that she was ignorant of the truly desperate circumstances they were living in then Lydia could pretend. Elinor had always been a bossy sibling, in the best sense of the word, and she wouldn’t hear of Lydia shouldering her share of the burden. Sooner or later she’d have to give in, but for now Elinor was happier pretending that she had everything under control, when control had vanished months ago.

She heard the noise in the kitchen, and she jumped up, almost knocking over the chair in her relief. Nanny was already there, in her robe and nightcap, as Jacobs came in. Alone.

“Where are the others, you auld idiot?” Nanny Maude demanded before Lydia could speak.

The old man hung his head. “We followed her ladyship out of the city to the devil’s own playground.” He turned to Lydia. “There was no stopping your sister, miss. She took off before I knew what she was doing, and they wouldn’t let me follow her. I tried to fight them but there were too many of them, and I’m an old man. Not as strong as I was.”

“You couldn’t have done anything,” Lydia said in a soothing voice, while Nanny made a derisive noise that could almost be called a snort.

“They wouldn’t have been stopping me,” the old woman said bitterly. “You’re a fool and a coward.”

“You crazy old bat, no one would dare to touch a harridan the likes of you,” he snapped back, their lifelong battle flaring up.

“Stop it, both of you!” Lydia said sharply. “You still haven’t told me where they are. Did they go to that man’s château?”

“They did indeed,” he said. “Your mother had gone there to gamble. I hadn’t been there an hour, still trying to find my way into the house, when they came and found me. Told me to take the coach and get back to town, and your mother and sister would be following.”

“What coach?”

If Jacobs had been looking shamefaced before, he looked even more devastated now. “The coach…er…I meant to say…er…the coach…” He cleared his throat. “I had to borrow a coach…”

“You had to steal a coach,” Lydia interrupted him gently. “That’s all right, Jacobs. I’m not as blind as my sister wishes me to be. You’ve done it before, I know. So you stole a coach in order to go after my mother. Well done. Did you get it back before anyone noticed it was missing this time?”

Jacobs lifted his head, clearly relieved. “Not quite, Miss Lydia. But I managed to sneak away before they caught me. And they’re not going to make too big a fuss since everything’s been returned.”

“Everything but my mother and my sister,” Lydia said.

“The viscount’s men promised they’d be coming home in a fancy coach,” he said desperately. “I never would have left if I didn’t think they’d be better off with his lordship.”

“The man everyone calls the devil? The one who runs satanic parties and drinks the blood of virgins?” Lydia said, trying not to sound panicked. “You need to steal another coach, Jacobs. I have to go after her.”

“Miss, it’s daylight. I canna steal a coach in broad daylight.”

“Then I’ll walk,” she said fiercely. “I’m not going to sit by and let my family be—”

The noise at the front door interrupted her, and she turned around and flew down the hall, flinging open the door with relief. “Oh, Nell, I was so worried about you…!”

Her voice trailed off, as she realized she was looking at someone a far cry from her sister. He stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the sunrise over the rickety buildings, and she couldn’t see his face, even though he doubtless could see hers quite clearly.

“Not Nell, I’m afraid.” He had a deep, English voice, and for a moment Lydia was flooded with a host of memories of a life lost long ago. “I assume you’re her sister? I have your mother in the coach. If you’ll show me where I can have my men bring her I’d be greatly obliged.”

“Yes. Of course.” It took her a moment to gather her wits. “In the front bedroom.” She could hear the howls and curses coming from behind the stranger, and her heart sank. Her mother was in one of her full-blown bouts of madness, and Elinor wasn’t around. She was better at calming Lady Caroline than any of them. “We’ll have to see about restraints. I’m not sure where anything is.”

“You needn’t be concerned, Miss Harriman,” he said smoothly. “My men can handle things.” He turned and made a gesture behind him, and for a moment she could see his face.

It was a handsome face, or it would have been, if not for the scar running from eyebrow to mouth on one side, giving him a faintly sinister look, quirking his lips up in a parody of a smile. He was dressed exquisitely, and he’d doffed his hat to expose unpowdered tawny hair. For a moment she couldn’t move. This must be the devil they talked about, and for the first time she could understand the lure.

“Miss Harriman?” he said gently, and she shook herself out of her abstraction.

“You’re very kind,” she said, racking her brains for his title. All the ones she could remember were vastly insulting. She backed out of the way and he followed her into the shabby little house, and she mentally thanked God she was already up and dressed. Nanny was bustling around, clucking like an agitated hen, clutching her robe around her plump frame.

He took her arm with the finesse of a prince. “Why don’t we get out of their way and leave them to take care of things? Your housekeeper can show the footmen where to put her.”

“That’s Nanny Maude,” she blurted out as he drew her into the tiny front room with its sullen excuse for a fire. It was a ridiculous thing to say, but she didn’t want Nanny relegated to the role of servant when she was so much more.

He smiled, the move jerking his smile up so that he looked even more ruthless. “Nanny’s got things well in hand,” he said smoothly. “And I’ve been remiss—I haven’t introduced myself.”

“I know who you are, my lord,” she said. Finally his name came to her. “You’re the Comte de Giverney.” She was determined not to show any fear. “Apparently you consort with the devil, have orgies and drink the blood of virgins. According to gossip you’re sin itself.”

The smile, which had been oddly pleasant and even comforting despite the scar, turned cool. “Sorry to disappoint you, Miss Harriman. I realize I look like the very devil, but in fact I’m nothing more than an untitled gentleman with an ugly face and empty pockets. Charles Reading, at your service.”

She could feel the color flood her face. “You’re not the demon king?”

“I’m afraid not.” He shook his head. “No, he’s busy entertaining your sister.”