He paused on the threshold and arched a brow. "Mon Dieu, do not believe that nonsense. It was one woman and her brain was afflicted."

"Poor thing. However, I doubt it was her brain you were attracted to."

Philippe growled. "Wait up for me."

"Perhaps…"

He blew her a kiss and made his egress.

As he shut the bedchamber door behind him, Philippe's smile faded. He belted his robe more securely and descended the stairs to the lower floor. Good news was rarely delivered at this hour, so he approached the coming discussion with grimness. With the scent of sex and Marguerite still clinging to his skin, he was more aware than usual of how vital her presence was in his life. She kept him connected with his humanity, something he feared had been lost by years of pretending to be someone he was not.

The door to the parlor was open and he entered without slowing his stride, his bare feet crossing onto the rug from the cool marble of the foyer.

"Thierry," he greeted, startled by the identity of his visitor. "You were to report to Desjardins this evening."

"I did," the young man replied, his cheeks still flushed from his ride. "That is why I am here."

Philippe gestured for the courier to take a seat on the settee while he sank into a nearby chair.

Travel-stained and disheveled, Thierry sat gingerly upon the edge. Philippe smiled at the care displayed to protect the new burgundy velvet. When the home had served as a bastion for secret du roi agents, the furnishings had been abused without thought. But the house had been abandoned after a time, an oft-used tactic to avoid suspicion, and he had removed all traces of the house's former use and refilled it with luxuries suitable for the love of his life.

"I apologize for disturbing you," Thierry said wearily, "but I have been ordered to depart again in the morning and I could not chance missing you."