Page 52 of Misadventures with a Time Traveler

Rae tilts her head. “Because you recognize I might be right.”

“But about what?” Drue counters. “I mean, I’ll give you the Twilight Zone type stuff. There’s been a lot of wide-eyed puppy in our hunky historical hound dog.” She flicks a glance at me. “Sorry, Al, but it’s true.”

My turn to go for the placating pose. “No sorries necessary. I’ll concede at least that point. But you guys, he’s an actor. We all know about them.” I tick a nod toward Drue. “Hell, you even dated one.”

She chuffs. “For about two seconds.”

I pounce on her perfect leg-up for my explanation. “Because they’re crazy with feet!”

A new smirk comes from Raegan. “At least you got that much from attending every Fashion Week on the globe.”

As Drue snort-laughs at that, I pivot toward Pasca. The woman is still as pale as the ghost she claims to have seen.

“Madame,” I murmur, “I mean no disrespect, but what you and Raegan are suggesting here is—”

My breath snags the second she spears me with a glare.

A new approach is needed. Right now.

“Okay, so can you just tell me if that Max”—I point the direction of the foyer—“has ever had an interest in the performing arts? Even if he hasn’t openly pursued the instinct until now—”

“I have never, in my life, seen that man in the flesh before.”

Her declaration is so determined, a long moment passes before I can respond.

“Fine. So what’s your explanation, then?”

Pascaline’s stare is a careful assessment, her scarf flowing over one shoulder. “What your friend said…that the man came out of the wardrobe in your chamber… This is true?”

I fold my arms. “Yes. Why?”

And just like that, the woman is back to her pensive hand wringing. “It…it cannot be,” she whispers, now sounding outright creepy. “C’est impossible.”

“Madame?” Drue queries. “What cannot be?”

An eternity of silence. More of the woman’s uncertain fidgeting. “It…is perhaps best that I do not say,” Pasca finally states. “It is…” She palms her forehead. “You say it as…crazy?”

“Now you’re worried about crazy?” I’m tempted to finish it with a laugh. While a part of me resists fanning all these delusional flames, I’m eager to hear why she believes the unbelievable. That the hunk who helped me burn up the sheets last night is the same nobleman who posed for that painting over two hundred years ago.

Pascaline lowers onto a velvet settee. Her shoulders are stiff as she braces her hands on the edge of the seat. “Public records declare that Maximillian De Leon was killed by a murderous mob during the early days of the Revolution. His mother, father, and brother—Christophe, Ysabeau, and Bastien—were publicly beheaded not long before.”

“Damn,” Raegan whispers.

“That’s rough,” Drue adds.

Rough. My heart repeats it while my mind’s eye fills with Max’s face from the tower at Chambord this morning. I remember the pain—the grief—on his noble features while telling me his whole family was gone. As if his sorrow was still fresh…

“Hold up. I’m confused.”

Sometimes, I’m morbidly grateful for Drue and her droll outlook on things. This is definitely one of those times. As she drops onto another settee, she’s already emphasizing the point with a narrowed scowl.

“If that’s really the case and the whole family was executed and eradicated, why does this place still carry the De Leon name?”

Raegan shifts her weight and bites her lower lip. “Okay, that’s a damn good question.”

Pasca nods, not just agreeing with the assertion. Clearly she’s already anticipated it. “Christophe had a sister, Fiona,” she explains, “who, remarkably, kept her head during the uprisings. The deed to the land was signed over to her by Napoleon himself in eighteen oh-one.”

“To a woman? Who wasn’t his spouse?” I glance over. My bafflement is mirrored by Rae and Drue. “That wasn’t exactly usual back then, was it? Even under the Napoleonic Codes?”