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muscle. My uncle and cousin were scandalized, of course—they had not the true Blois sensibility. But my cousin is gone now—they are all gone. And we will do what we must to see the name of Blois restored, and celebrated.” He smiled at her in his scoundrel way. “You must put on your prettiest French frock, and come to the exhibition’s opening.” He sighed with anticipatory contentment. “I do so like a party.”  

Chapter Four

    Mignon did not put on a robe à la française , nor did she go with papa to the soirée at Somerset House—he might have taken her presence for approval, or worse, encouragement. Instead, she took the opportunity to give Henri and Madame Henri, who was their cook, the evening free for themselves, while she curled up in front of a bright cozy fire with the latest novel.  
    All was quiet and bliss until something, somewhere in the house, went bump forcefully enough to make Mignon jump. Pricks of fear needled under her skin—this is how it had started in Paris—a thump at the door, then a brick through the window.  
    Mignon held her breath, listening intently, trying to sort out the normal background sounds of the city outside the window from the product of her frantic imagination. She had almost convinced herself that there was nothing when she heard the second unmistakable sound of furniture crashing onto the parquet floor of the salon.
    Fear chilled her skin like a rime of ice, but still she tried to rationalize away the spreading dread—Papa must have gotten back early, and without Henri to light all the lamps, might have stumbled into the furniture. That’s all it was. Surely.  
    Still, her heart rattled in her chest like an ice-covered shutter.
    But she could not sit in her warm room quaking in cowardly terror—Papa might be hurt. He might need her. Perhaps he had imbibed too much champagne, and needed assistance coming up the stairs. It wasn’t like him to become cup-shot, but stranger things had happened.
    And stranger things were at that moment happening, because half way down the darkened stair the draft from a wide open window chilled her to the bone, filling her with more than dread. Because she knew she had not left a window open so wide that the curtains fluttered and danced like nervous ghosts, or made the single taper Henri had left at the bottom of the stair waver and shake like her knees, knocking together in abject terror.  
    Because in that wavering light, she saw the long spectral shadow of a man wielding a small beam of light, searching the walls of the salon. For art. Forged art.
    Mignon’s legs collapsed under her, and the old staircase creaked under her weight.
    The light in the salon abruptly went out.  
    She clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from the moan of fear forming in the back of her throat from escaping. She froze, cowering on the stair with her chest squeezed tight from trying not to breathe.
    After a long moment the light was unshuttered, and the tall shadow began to pry a painting off the wall. And not just any painting, but the Hals Cavalier her father had just finished and hung.
    Of all the pieces he might have chosen.  
    What was she to do? It was a long run past the open salon to the front door, and once out in Soho Square she might not be able to raise the watch. But she had to do something .
    The cold palm she had clamped across her mouth reminded her that her hands were empty—she was unarmed against the intruder. But above her head was a large red baize decorative display of arms—Papa had arranged it adorning the stairwell to remind himself of the armorial displays exhibited at the Blois family chateau of his youth.  
    It might be a display, but the weapons were actual guns and swords, even if they were ancient. And a weapon in the hand was better than none at all. And if she were very clever, and very quiet, she might just be able to prise one of the small arms—
    The first gun would not come away, nor would the second