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"Promise you'll come, Papa," Jolie insisted. "It's only a few days now from Le Havre to New York."

"I'll come as soon as I can," he answered, smiling. "Fair enough?"

That evening while the Duc was being vague and ambiguous with his daughter's demands for a visit, Daisy was seated at the Captain's table listening to a rich industrialist's wife from Chicago remark on the necessity for clearing the slums. "They're altogether too offensive to look at," she petulantly maintained. "It quite ruins my drive up the lake to our summer home, having to pass through those… well… filthy blighted areas of town. They should simply move all those squalid people—" she waved her pudgy, bejeweled hand in airy disdain, "away."

Her diamonds would have fed all those squalid people for a month, Daisy thought, familiar with the slums of Chicago since she'd attended law school in that city. She'd spent a good deal of time in those slums during her stay in Chicago, working with Jane Addams—trying to help where she could.

"All those foreigners shouldn't be allowed into the country in the first place," another matron said. "My husband suggested to our Senator an eminently useful quota system for all those dark-skinned foreigners." Her husband, a Judge from Philadelphia, City of Brotherly Love, Daisy recalled, apparently drew the line at dispensing love democratically. "No offense, Miss Black," the Judge's wife added, her smile gracious since she'd judged Daisy's diamond parure in the neighborhood of a queen's ransom.

"Actually, I'm less of a foreigner than you, Mrs. Lowell," Daisy replied with a gracious smile of her own. "My family's lived in America for over a thousand years."

And life goes on, Daisy ruefully reflected while the lady from Philadelphia sputtered in consternation. Outside the ambiance of Etienne's rarefied society, prejudice and bigotry continued unabated. So far removed from the censure of the world, he didn't begin to understand the existence of intolerance or predatory politics or stark privation. She could have chosen to stay in Paris, protected by his name and power, ensconced within the comfortable exclusivity of his privileged circle, allowing him to shield her not only from Isabelle's wrath but from the reality of life. She could have, had she been less committed to her own people… or perhaps, she reminded herself with a practicality independent of noble causes—had he insisted she stay.

But he hadn't, had he? He'd only said, "perhaps it's for the best___"

Damning bland words compared to her own fervent love.

A polite and courteous conclusion, perhaps, to a love affair that was over.

She found herself uninterested in the ensuing conversation centered on items of luxury, favored spas, and social amusements preferred by the wealthy matrons from Chicago or Philadelphia or Boston. Or the later discussion which digressed into mutual commiserations over the dearth of good hired help—of a non-foreign nature, of course. Withdrawing into the consuming sorrow inundating her mind whenever Etienne intruded into her thoughts, she left the table before dessert, not in the right frame of mind to watch overweight ladies who deplored the sight of poverty eat their fill of whipped-cream concoctions. Her dinner companions, reminiscent of the idle luxury of Etienne's fashionable milieu, reminded her too emphatically of the great gulf between her life and his.

While the basic disparity in Etienne's and her life always remained constant, she'd simply ignored the staggering differences—in the tumultuous passion of their relationship. Conveniently overlooking the fact that he accepted the self-indulgence of his life without question, she'd allowed his personal charm to dazzle her and obscure her judgment and beliefs.

Away from the hot-blooded immediacy of his passion, she could see more clearly how she'd been overcome and bewitched like the endless legion of females before her; the Duc de Vec was too perfect, she realized, too skilled, too darkly handsome with a personal warmth unparalleled in its intimacy. Like an addiction, she craved him without reason or conscience, but like an addiction, too, the drugging effect would diminish ultimately. And while she missed him like breath itself, she recognized the dilemma inherent in their loving each other.

She cried that night, though, alone in her bed, no practical assessment sufficient defense against her longing. Tearful and miserable, she lay awake unable to sleep, wishing she could feel the comfort of Etienne's presence, wishing the only man she'd ever loved didn't live half a world away. Wishing perhaps he loved her more or she loved him less. Weeping with heartbreaking desolation, because even if he did love her enough to overcome the wretched distance separating them, he was unfortunately already married to a woman who meant to keep him.

In less than a week, the Duc was back in Le Havre, seeing Jolie and her family off to America. The stateroom overflowed with colorful flowers from their friends and from Etienne, while toys for Hector spilled over from his adjoining room.

"Do you think you bought enough playthings for Hector?" Jolie facetiously inquired, her gaze on her father and son seated on the floor, absorbed in their play.

"You never have enough toys," the Duc impenitently replied, looking up from the mechanical circus wagon he was winding for Hector. His smile was benign. "I think we need some more clowns," he pointed out to his grandson with jest in his tone, "to fill this wagon."

"More clowns. Want," Hector cheerfully agreed, seated in the midst of a menagerie of circus animals.

Etienne grinned up at his daughter. "You see?"

"You're incorrigible," his daughter laughingly chastised.

"Probably."

Then her expression abruptly altered as she observed her son and father seated side by side in tender loving companionship and her lip began to tremble. "Oh, Papa, I'm going to miss you."

Etienne rose swiftly to his feet and gathered her into his arms. "It's not for so long, darling. I'll be over to see that green-grass country soon."

"Promise?" Jolie lifted her face to his and he thought again as he had a thousand times before how lucky he was to have his children. Although older now and a mother herself, she was still his little girl with her dark curls framing her face, her cheeks rosy like a child's, her large eyes fresh with a green-eyed innocence he hoped she'd never lose.

"Promise," he murmured, no more able to refuse her now than any time before.

"On your word, Papa," she insisted.

"On my word, darling. Promise."

Her face lit with joy, warming his heart with a magic happiness he always thought of as his "twin sunshine." "Dry your eyes now," he said, offering her his handkerchief. "Henri will be back with your sparkling water and he'll wonder what I said to you to make you cry."

"He knows I'm going to miss you awfully, Papa. He was the one who suggested we fit up an apartment for you right away, so you'll be sure to come and visit."

"You're happy with Henri?" the Duc quietly asked, his simple question encompassing a collective query.

"Yes, ever and ever so much. He loves me, Papa, more than his polo, he says. And you know what an enormity that is." Her smile was suggestive and womanly suddenly. "Like you love Daisy?"

"Yes, much more than polo," he softly agreed.

"And Bourges will set you free." Her voice held the optimism of her good spirits.

"I'm sure he will." This wasn't the time to mention the change of venue had been blocked and Isabelle's magistrate interview postponed for the third time.

Henri interrupted then, walking into the stateroom with a bucket of ice and Jolie's favorite brand of sparkling water, at which point the conversation shifted to more pleasant anecdotes on the business of polo ponies. And when the Duc had finally to leave, for sailing was imminent, he bent down to give Hector a last hug.

"Want come with me, Granpapa?" Hector asked as Etienne released his hold, his toddler eyes, green like his mother's, wide with inquiry. His little face was questioning and serious. "Want come, Granpapa?" he coaxed.

The Duc fought back his tears, wondering how he was going to survive the coming months without his daily visit with Hector, knowing he was going to miss the companionship of his grandson, his joyful laughter, his curiosity, his hugs and wet kisses. "I can't leave right now, Hector, but I'll come to see you soon."

"Come now. Granpapa come
now
, Mama. Tell him." He looked to his mother for confirmation of his wishes.

Lifting her son from the floor, Jolie held him in her arms and carefully explained, "Granpapa can't now, sweetheart. But he will soon."

The little boy's face collapsed in sorrow as he realized Etienne was leaving. "No! Granpa, come with! Don't go, Granpa!" Reaching out for Etienne, his little voice was sharp with alarm, his tears agonizing for Etienne to see. Hugging him quickly, Etienne promised to visit very soon, and with a poignant smile for his daughter and Henri, the Duc fled the stateroom.

Several moments passed in the quiet of the corridor before he composed himself sufficiently to walk away from the wailing terror of Hector's cries. Pausing some distance away at the base of the stairway leading down from the first-class section, he leaned back against the polished wood paneling and inhaled deeply.

In the last week he'd lost every person he cared about in the world and a wrenching loneliness assailed him. Shutting his eyes briefly, he gathered the disorder of his emotions into a manageable perception, shaky perhaps and raw with pain, but obedient to reason.

This wasn't a permanent loss, he reminded himself, only a temporary one. He'd visit Hector and Jolie and Henri before too long. Justin would be back from Egypt in only a month. But contemplation of Daisy's leaving didn't yield so easily to facile reason. Unless
she
chose to return to France, he wouldn't see her again until—Bourges's face appeared in his mind's eye, somber, touched with disbelief—their change of venue had been denied.

It was impossible, Felicien had said, for the petition to have been refused when the Duc fulfilled all the requirements for residency—impossible. They would appeal. He'd immediately draw up the necessary papers.

"Find out how much Isabelle paid the magistrate," Etienne had curtly said, "and then offer the bastard ten times that amount. Enough for him to retire—which he'll have to," the Duc had added, "because he'll never be allowed to serve again… as long as Charles or any of the Monarchists stay in power.

Which series of corrupt long-standing political alliances, the Duc understood,
might
not succumb to nonmonarchist money.

Making the possibility of seeing Daisy infinitely more remote.

He'd written her several times already, after having realized a telegraph message of affection wouldn't be private. He was tempted to ask her to meet him somewhere, anywhere in America convenient to her, but he wasn't entirely sure she'd agree. Overcome with an unfamiliar trepidation for the first time in his life, he was uncertain of a woman's feelings. Daisy had claimed to love him, but she'd also chosen to leave him.

Not a bolstering thought.

Heeding the warning whistle for visitors to disembark, he pushed away from the wall and mechanically followed the flow of traffic ashore. Ten minutes later found him seated in a bistro with a harbor view, a cognac in hand. The bottle on the table was already half empty when the ship slipped from sight below the purple-tinged horizon. But when the small party of Parisians entered the busy establishment shortly after, caught sight of him, and made for his table, he was sufficiently restored to smile at their cry of recognition.

Formonde and Vanier were escorting two young women he didn't immediately identify until their faces came into view beneath their large-brimmed hats. Vanier's sister and sister-in-law, he noted, recalling Theo, the elder Vanier brother had been called to Quebec to oversee some family business.

"Are Jolie and Henri off now?" Formonde inquired in cheerful accents, the activities of mutual acquaintances within the society of Parisian aristocracy common knowledge.

"On their way," Etienne politely replied, not entirely sure he was in the mood for company.

Having signaled for a waiter, Vanier gave his order for champagne while the ladies seated themselves in a flutter of silk ruffles, wafting perfume, and trilling laughter. While greetings were exchanged, Theo's wife winked at Etienne.

The overture startled him at first, as though he'd been so long removed from the amorous chase, he'd forgotten the rules. He pondered briefly how to deal with the smiling young lady since forestalling female winks was entirely new in his experience. His decision to ignore it wasn't successful however, for Marie Vanier wasn't currently in the mood to be ignored. She, in fact, flirted shamelessly and provocatively, undeterred by the Duc's monosyllabic replies. When it became impossible to feign ignorance of the lady's interest—she'd taken to pressing her thigh against his, the Duc de Vec decided it was time to leave. With a bland smile and a blander excuse, he rose from his chair.

"Damn feeble excuse, de Vec," Formonde cheerfully noted. "Your damn business manager can wait on you tomorrow. Stay on," he cordially invited at the same time he signaled for more champagne.

"Do stay, Etienne. We can all go back together," the younger female Vanier suggested with a charming smile.

"Please, Etienne?" Marie, the Duchesse Vanier purred, reaching out to stroke his hand in an intimate gliding progress that leisurely slid down the entire length of his slender fingers.

"Perhaps some other time," he politely replied, drawing away a step so he was out of her reach.

"Then why don't we go back now too?" Marie said to her brother-in-law. "We can share our compartment with the Duc."

"No need, I've one of my own."

"Well, we'll share yours then. It's settled. Come, André. Come, Formonde and Thérèse. Bring the champagne."

And so the Duc de Vec found himself in the unusual position of refusing a beautiful woman's advances, for what turned out to be an excruciatingly long three-and-an-half-hour train ride back to Paris. He retreated delicately with a polite smile when she pressed close or turned off her suggestive double entendres with a sportive witticism. When she advanced, he withdrew or sidestepped or feigned deafness—a wearing game in close quarters in the company of three other people.

Halfway to Paris, he arbitrarily ceased drinking, recognizing the need for all his faculties, and when the conductor announced the outlying suburbs of Paris, he began counting down the minutes.

When at last they arrived at the Gare St. Lazare his adieux were terse and a shade hasty for absolute courtesy. And he literally jumped from the train while it was still coasting to a stop.

Like a boy let out of school, he sprinted down the concourse, the smile on his face one of blessed release.

Was this an epiphany? he joyfully reflected, dodging those individuals moving down the concourse with less haste. Had he passed through a personal revelation of principle? His grin widened. He didn't suppose a priest would understand.

Hazard met Daisy at the depot in Chicago. Since he had business in the city, he explained, and she was on her way home, he decided to arrange his schedule to accommodate hers. While not entirely truthful about his intentions, he had attended to 'some mining transactions, although his principal purpose in coming East had been his concern for Daisy.

"How can you manage to look so fresh and cool?" her father asked as they walked toward his carriage. "It's damn hot here." Chicago was wilting under ninety-degree temperatures, the humidity damp as a steam lodge.

"It's mental, Father." She smiled up at him. "I'm thinking of cool mountains."

"I envy you your imagery. My mountains are three days away on a fast train."

"Do you have much more business here?"

"Not much," he replied, for he'd heard the small catch in her voice before she'd steadied her emotions, and the evidence of tears had been immediately apparent as she'd stepped off the train. "Are you in a hurry to reach home?"

Daisy nodded, her face partially concealed beneath the brim of her straw hat.

"I'm available to leave anytime," he immediately offered. "You decide." Glancing at his daughter dressed romantically in pink-flowered gauze, the streamers on her wide-brimmed hat, and at her waist, grass green trailing silk, Hazard wondered whether the Duc de Vec selected her dress, its style so unlike Daisy's usual taste. Was Etienne Martel also the cause of her tears? Resentful, he knew the answer to both his questions.

In a general way, Hazard had heard of Daisy's liaison with the Duc, for he had friends in Paris, and, of course, Adelaide had written to Empress. While he had no objection to Daisy falling in love with whomever she pleased, he did object to the fact she was obviously unhappy. And if the Duc de Vec had harmed his daughter in any way. Hazard had every intention of seeing he paid for that injury.