Asked why they were going to Lyon, she’d answered in vague terms that led into tales of a cousin who’d traveled much farther than that, into Muscovy, and of the wonders he’d seen. And when asked where they’d stayed while in Paris, she’d taken a morsel of fact and embellished it freely. “Our friend, the Chevalier de Vilbray,” she’d said, making use of the dashing young nobleman who had so captured the eye of her cousin Colette this past winter, “has a beautiful home there. Do you by chance know the chevalier?”

The woman had said in reply, much impressed, “I regret I do not.”

“He is handsome,” so Mary had told her, omitting the fact that his breath was unpleasant. “And kind. When he heard we were coming to Paris, and he being yet in the country, he wrote to his servants to place his entire house at our disposal.”

The woman and both of her daughters had thought that was gallant indeed, and the younger of the daughters had asked, “And where is his house, pray?”

The question had not given Mary much pause, for she’d quickly remembered the street in which one of the great literary salons had been held, and she’d named it and added, “It’s quite near the Palais-Royal.” Which had served to impress them still more, and they’d begged for more details about the chevalier.

She’d spun them a few stories, using the princes and heroes that she had created in all the tales she’d told Colette for the framework of her re-imagined Chevalier de Vilbray, so that in the end he’d resembled the true man in nothing but name and the cut of his wig, having gained much in charm and intelligence.

Thomson had stirred in his corner and woken and caught the tail end of one fanciful story. He’d asked, rather sleepily, “Who is this, now?”

“The Chevalier de Vilbray.” She’d hoped that her eyes would be warning enough, for she could not have said any more. “I was saying how grateful we were that he’d loaned us his house for our sojourn in Paris.”

“Ah, yes.” Thomson had rubbed his eyes with one hand, catching on to the game. “He is quite a remarkable man, the chevalier.”

The three women traveling with them had been in agreement, the mother remarking to Mary, “I wonder, my dear, that you aren’t half in love with him.”

Frisque, at that moment, had nuzzled her fingers and Mary had glanced down, a movement that must to the others have looked demure.

Thomson had teased, “I believe you’ve struck close to the mark with that arrow, madam.”

And the others, except for Madame Roy and Mr. MacPherson, had laughed.

Mary found herself wondering now whether Mr. MacPherson had ever laughed, even in childhood. She couldn’t imagine it. Nothing about his hard line of a mouth seemed prepared to allow it, not even the edge that appeared to twist upwards a fraction, because it was balanced by the grimly downward slant of the opposite end. Mary couldn’t imagine him being a boy. Or a baby. It seemed quite impossible.

But in this instance she had to concede that he might not have laughed for the reason he’d missed the remark altogether, because they were speaking in French. It had gradually started to dawn on her that he did not know the language, for since she had been in his company she had not once heard him speak it himself, and when they had been joined by the other three women he’d seemed to withdraw even further from all interaction. Nor was he traveling under a French name. While their new identity papers made Thomson and Mary the Robillards, and Madame Roy was continuing as Madame Roy, it was telling, thought Mary, that Mr. MacPherson was now styled a Spaniard, assuming the name of Montero.

She wasn’t sure “señor Montero” could truly speak Spanish, or anything other than English, but she was increasingly certain he couldn’t speak French.

She was trying to think how to test her suspicion when finally the diligence rolled to a halt, and the driver dismounted and came round to open the door, and from that moment Mary was only concerned with assisting Madame Roy down the step into the yard of the coaching inn, where the fresh air could begin to revive her. The yard was alive with activity, light spilling warmly in slabs from the doorways and unshuttered windows above as the innkeeper and his staff came bustling out to receive them. A handful of boys set to work to unharness the eight weary horses, rewarded by whinnies and snorts and the tossing of reins as the animals, freed from the traces that galled them, were led to the stables. The driver, who must have been nearly as weary from riding postilion the whole way from Paris, was helped by two men as he started unloading the baggage and parcels.

Mr. MacPherson was there as well, taking his swords and the long leather case from the netting up top before anyone offered them, and moving over to take up the two portmanteaus and Thomson’s deal-box. He made them all look rather weak and superfluous, Mary decided, although she was being of use to Madame Roy, who leaned on her heavily as they were shown up the stairs to their room.

It relieved her to see they’d been put in a room of their own, for she’d been half afraid they’d be forced to share space with the chattering mother and daughters—or worse yet, with Thomson and Mr. MacPherson—for this was the first time she’d stayed at an inn and she had little notion of what to expect, beyond what she had read in her various stories.

The room they’d been given was comfortably sized, with a bed and a little round table and two rush-backed chairs, and a fireplace that, while not large, sent enough warmth from its little fire into the room to push back the cold evening air seeping in round the tall frames of the frost-speckled windows.