It reminded him of the rookeries in London, except this was more harrying, more chaotic. If Madeleine truly lived here, then every day she passed this madness, waspart of it.

He tried to picture her here among these street people, elegant and fragile in her blue gown, and he couldn't whatsoever. Nor could he believe that Madeleine had chosen to live in this place over the luxury of St. Roch. He could too easily imagine Sylvie hearing the rumors about Madeleine in London and punishing her daughter for failing to secure either Quin or the count. So why hadn't Ethan found Madeleine clawing at the door in St. Roch begging for entrance…?

Just this morning, Ethan had arrived in Paris, a full ten days after leaving the MacReedys'. Once he'd checked into a hotel, he'd begun his search for her in St. Roch, at the address Quin had given him.

Ethan hadn't wanted Sylvie to see him, so he'd asked around the neighborhood, to uncover if Madeleine was even in town, or possibly where her favorite haunts were.

No one had any idea who he was talking about until he'd described Madeleine.

A gardener thought she came by the house a couple of times a month. A groomsman had caught an omnibus with her a week ago. She hadn't gotten off at the last stop before the slums. He'd remembered wondering why a woman like her had continued on.

Ethan had recalled that Sylvie's former address had been in La Marais—and he'd discovered that, for some reason, it was Madeleine'spresent address.

Her trail had been easy to pick up here. It seemed everyone in La Marais knew "MaddyAnglaise " or "Maddyla Gamine ," and they obviously liked her, because they were closemouthed with information concerning her.

A group of older women sitting on a stoop had ignored him, smoking their pipes and chatting—until he'd flashed the diamond ring he'd brought with him in case Madeleine proved…averse. When he revealed his plans to wed her, the women couldn't seem to direct him to this building swiftly enough, and they only asked that Ethan remember their names so that Maddy would "passez le gras," or "pass the fat"—give a kickback to the ones who'd assisted in securing her good fortune.

As Ethan waited, he mused that Madeleine might actually be persuaded to come with him. Even after she saw his face. Surely she'd be desperate to leave this place any way she could.

Madeleine Van Rowen beholden to me.He liked that idea—

Ethan tensed when he spotted the door to her building opening. A tall, gray-haired woman with a bucket emerged from the dark interior. She strode around the drunken men fixed on the stoop, seeming not to notice them, then made for a pump not a block away.

The door was easing closed behind her. Fearing Madeleine might have warned others about a tall Scot, he dashed for the entry, then slipped through the doorway. Inside, he made for the pitch-black stairwell, forced to use the rope banister as he climbed blindly. The steps were unsound, the corridor so tight he had to sidle up.

What if she was indeed upstairs? He could see her in mere seconds….

As he alighted on the sixth-floor landing a board groaned beneath him, and a blowsy woman shot out of her room—a whore, by the look of her heavily painted cheeks and lips. A glance behind her confirmed Ethan's guess. In a haze of cigarette smoke, a man lay tied to her bed and blindfolded, turning his head dumbly at different sounds.

Ten minutes in this neighborhood—not to mention in Madeleine's home—had certainly answered Ethan's question about how the lass had learned to fondle him so well. She must see men serviced hourly.

"I'm looking for Madeleine Van Rowen," he told the woman.

"And who are you?" she asked, blinking.

Good, she spoke English. Ethan could speak French but preferred not to, outside of penalty of death.

"Are you the man from London?"

Had Madeleine spoken of him? If so, he couldn't imagine what she'd said. Still, he took a chance. "Aye."

"Which one? The first one or the second?" At his nonplussed look, she said, "The Englishman or the Scot?"

Madeleine must have been talking about Quin. Still thinking about that bastard. "The…Scot."

She shut the door behind her, ignoring the man's protests, then clasped her hands, her mien delighted. "Maddée told Corrine and me all about you! The masquerade,n'est-ce pas ?" She wagged her finger at him. "You weretrès mauvais to our Maddée. But here you've come for her at last!"

Madeleine told her friends all about me?He couldn't imagine what she'd said, or what, in particular, they had deemedtrès mauvais .

She leaned in and said in a conspiratorial tone, "You're just in time, too, with the debts coming due."What debts? "I'mBea ." Bea was simple, he realized. Kind, but simple. "I'm one of Maddée's good friends."

"Aye, Bea." He feigned a look of recognition. "I've heard much about you."

She patted her hair, pleased. Then she frowned and pointed directly at his face. "Maddée didn't say you were battle-scarred. From the Crimean War, yes?"

"No, no' exactly—" He broke off because she'd already shrugged and turned to another apartment door.

"Maddée's not here just now—out working." She dug in her blouse for a ribbon around her neck with keys strung together. "But I'll let you into her room to wait."

"Perhaps you could direct me to her place of employment?"

"Who can keep up with her? The bridge or the corner. Different taverns and cafés. Who knows?"

He felt his face tighten. "And what exactly does she do?" In the nearly seven weeks since he'd been with her, she'd become destitute. Who knew if she'd succumbed to her neighbor's profession?

At his expression, Bea cried, "Oh, no, Maddée serves drinks or occasionally sells cigarettes." She proudly added, "Turkishones." Then in a chiding tone, she said, "Our Maddée's a good girl. Notpopular in that way at all."

"Of course," he said smoothly, relieved. "I just doona like that she has to work."

Bea's eyes lit up. "Exactement!" she exclaimed, bustling to open the door. "So, here is her room." She smiled widely as she showed him in.

Ethan drew his head back, stunned by the interior.

"Amazing,n'est-ce pas ?" Bea was right to be proud. Though Madeleine's apartment was basically part of an attic room—the ceiling was slanted until he could barely stand up straight even at the apex, and beams crisscrossed overhead—Madeleine had made it into a fantastical space.

The top floor of an old mansion like this would have been used for servants' quarters or possibly a schoolroom, and there were remnants of the mansion's former glory—elaborate gilt and wainscoting decorated the long, narrow space. Above the wainscoting along the more damaged wall, she'd pasted colorful posters.

Two large windows dominated her bedroom area and were framed by red drapes and fronted by a small balcony outside. Glancing out, he found that she had an unimpeded view of Montmartre. On her balcony, plants grew in profusion and wooden wind chimes clanked.

"Maddée loves to sit out there."

He nodded, then said, "Do you no' need to get back to your…friend?"

"He is not going anywhere," she said, stating the obvious with an insouciant wave. "Well, go on, open up."

Ethan unlatched one of the windows, swinging it wide. An unseasonably warm breeze blew, and the chimes began tolling, the curtains fluttering. A black cat leapt inside from the balcony, pawed at Ethan's trousers, then wound around his legs. "Her pet?"

"Non, she cannot feed Chat Noir. He doesn't often take to people like this. This is a good sign."

Ethan shrugged. Considering how people universally disliked him, the fact that some animals took to him always surprised him. Indeed, beasties seemed to either love him or hate him.

Turning his attention back to Madeleine's home, he crossed to the second of the two windows. When he found a bucket hanging beside it, he realized Madeleinedidn't haul water and supplies up those rickety stairs. She pulled them up, and easily too—with two pulleys working in tandem to lighten the load.Clever girl.