A/N: Since this is an AU anyway, I took the liberty of rearranging the times both Le Pieu and Prince Henry visit the servants at the market-stall (after the tennis match). I regret there isn't much Danielle and Henry in this chapter, but I had to split the scene up somewhere. There's more in the next.

Danielle had never much liked market-day. She loved her father's manor and his estate, but even though selling the produce of its land kept it up and running, she did not like leaving it, even for a day. Oh, she had done her share of wandering past its borders, exploring the country-side, but to her, that was her land too. She had made it her own.

Town, however, had never had much appeal for her. It was crowded and dirty, and always felt far more intrusive than the peaceful quiet of home. The market itself was interesting, and she liked the shopping. She liked pretty clothing; she liked the way expensive satins and silks felt against her skin; she liked the way pearls and rubies sparkled. But if given a choice, she'd probably rather be caring for the estate or playing with Gustav or walking on her own through the woods than shopping for such things.

Furthermore, on market days, they rarely made enough to sustain the expenses of the manor, much less enough to spend on a little shopping. What made it far worse was that on these days, her step-mother and sisters, apparently not realizing this, came into town and always spent a great deal of the manor's profits on worthless things like brooches and jewelry. Danielle didn't even know where they came up with the other half of the money for such things. She didn't even like to think about it, because the conclusions she drew were too awful to even be considered.

And lastly, market-day meant the inevitable altercation with Monsieur Le Pieu.

In short, she hated the man. He was aggressive, unkind, and despicable, and always insulted the manor, and quite often her father and herself—though his one redeeming quality seemed to be that he alone noticed and cared what a state her father's property had fallen into. Worst of all, he looked at her so often in ways that made her . . . uncomfortable. She was more than well aware that he was leering at her, that the look in his eyes and the resonance in his voice wanted something more from her than she was even close to giving, but what she couldn't understand was why.

She was just a commoner, forced into a servant's position. She was dirty and ill-dressed, and was rude to him beyond all belief. Besides which, he was more than twenty years her senior. Though she knew young women sometimes married very old, or kept very old lovers—as intimated by even the prince's sneering comment about Maurice—he couldn't really think that she would willingly . . . what frightened her the most was that she was convinced he didn't need her to be willing.

Danielle sighed, arranging the apples in their stall, and tried to forget the whole business. Instead, she tuned herself into the gossip between Paulette and Louise, who had been chatting without her really hearing.

"At least the Baroness and Marguerite are with the prince today. That means if they're spending any money, they're spending his!" Paulette concluded jovially.

"My step-mother and Marguerite are with the prince?" Danielle asked, surprised.

"Haven't you been listening?" Paulette asked, putting her hand on her hip and smiling at someone who was inspecting the cabbages.

"Always with her head in the clouds, you know that, Paulie," Louise rejoined, smiling gently at Danielle and winking at Paulette, a twinkle in her eye.

"It's true that," Paulette said, considering. "Get that 'un, it's the best of the bunch; you want to get the good ones before they're all rotted," she explained to the customer, rearranging the cabbages. "Anyway, apparently Marguerite made an impression at the tennis match—you heard about that, didn'tcha? With the Marquis de Limoges?"

"Yes," Danielle replied, smiling ruefully. "I remember that. How could I forget the dresses flying around this morning?" Paulette and Marie chuckled. "So, she made an impression, did she?"

Danielle reflected on what she felt about that. Nothing, she supposed. The prince could do as he liked. If they ever did meet again, he could pretend that she didn't exist, and she could pretend that she was the ignorant servant she was. Though he had threatened her by the pond, she felt sure that his subsequent actions—or inaction—had proven that he would do nothing to punish her conduct. His embarrassment, and her misdeed, were behind them both. They could move on with their lives. And if he was stupid enough to be taken with Marguerite . . . well, then, she truly felt sorry for him.

"She caught the ball," Louise explained.

"Personally, I think that was a set up. I think she got a ball before-hand so if it ever went off court she could hold it up and say lookee here, and that poor prince would be forced to come take it off her hands. She—"

"Poor Prince?"

Paulette shrugged. "I feel sorry for anyone she tries to be nice to. It's bad enough when she doesn't like you."

Danielle laughed, and was about to say something, when she heard her step-sister's voice: "And these are our servants." Danielle's eyes flew wide open. If her step-sister was here, that meant the other De Ghents were here, and if they were here . . . Danielle took a tottering step back. She recognized the voice who was answering Marguerite, too, and it wasn't the baroness or Jacqueline. It was, in fact, a man. The Prince of France, to be precise.

Danielle hurriedly turned back to the chickens, thinking maybe she could avoid recognition. She hadn't, after all, told him her name or her family's name that day at the lake. Over the squawking of the chickens, she heard Henry tell Paulette and Marie that it was lovely to meet them, and he went on chatting for a moment with Marguerite and the baroness. Danielle bit her lip. If the prince really was interested in Marguerite, he would either find out that Danielle was her step-sister, or she would have to hide every time she saw him for the rest of her life. If he married Marguerite—heaven forbid—he would have to find out. To avoid it she would have to run away or give up the manor, and she was not about to do either.

She decided, quite abruptly, to simplify the situation, as she had before at the lake. It was no use trying to keep up an elaborate deception, and the consequences were always the worse for it anyway. And so, resolute, she thrust the last chicken into the coop under their market-stand and turned around.

For a moment, the prince went on talking to Marguerite, finishing what he was saying before facing the last person he had sensed turning around at his side. For the next moment, he simply stared, his eyes narrowing and his breathing coming oddly as he at last took in Danielle as she really was.

"That's Danielle," Rodmilla said dismissively. "Is it possible your Highness would be interested in looking at the jewelry? That stand over there is where we bought Marguerite's brooch the other day."

"I thought you had had it for years?" Henry said, sparing a glance for Rodmilla.

The baroness, flustered, looked around. "I meant the brooch that Marguerite is wearing today, Highness," she murmured, her hand fluttering up to her breast, as if in confusion. Henry's gaze, however, had reverted to Danielle.

Jacqueline, looking between Danielle and the prince, noticed his interest, and, trying to be helpful, said cheerfully, "She's our step-sister."

Marguerite thrust her foot back to land it on Jacqueline's, who winced, but all not before Henry said, "Who?" and looked curiously between Jacqueline, the baroness, and Danielle.

The baroness laughed a little. "Jacqueline, dear," she said, her voice cheerful but with a quality of the dangerous beneath it, "they're selling the sweets and cheeses on the other end of the street. Why aren't you there already?"

Jacqueline rolled her eyes and flounced down the road. Henry looked after her with a scowl. "You have a step-daughter, Baroness de Ghent?" Henry asked. His tone had the effect of mere inquisitiveness, and yet, there was a hint of the dangerous here as well. "Why had I never met her? Or even heard of her?"

"Well, you see, your Highness," the baroness answered, smiling half-heartedly and glancing at Danielle, who could see through the glance that she was wishing her step-daughter had worn something nicer. "Danielle isn't of noble blood. I married her father—a silk merchant, my Lord, and a farmer, but how could I help it? I was young and in love, and you know how these things go. How could I know he was so close to ruin? I was only concerned about being with him and establishing a father for my two beloved daughters . . ."

"The point, madam?" Henry asked, a mask of politeness over his face.

"The point is, I married him and he died a fortnight later," she said sharply. Her voice was indignant now, a whip of sound. Danielle had never heard her explain her relationship with her father before. A part of her didn't want to hear it. A part of her wanted her father and the Baroness to have truly loved each other . . . she clung to it as an excuse for all Rodmilla's behavior. Anyone who had loved her father, and whom he had loved back, couldn't be all bad. "I've cared for Danielle as my own," the baroness snapped, though her voice was polite, "even though I barely knew her father,--and, well, you see how she repays me," she said, gesturing at Danielle. "I suppose it's what comes, being raised by a man."

Her step-mother said that often. Part of it was true—she had, in the earlier days, tried to convince Danielle to dress nicer and act more properly, in the days in which she had still wanted to carouse about in the mud with Gustave. But as time worn on, Danielle had watched her step-mother let her father's manor fall into ruin, and she had taken its upkeep into her own hands—even if that meant working in the fields just like a servant.

The baroness had scolded her about the unlady-like behavior, but by then, it had already been too late. There hadn't even been the money to provide Danielle with the accessories and attire of the daughter of landed gentry, step-daughter of a baroness. There wasn't money for Jacqueline and Marguerite, either, but they were not about to sacrifice, and their mother wasn't about to let them. And as money began seeping out of the manor, more and more of the help and servants had left. And then it had come to the point where her step-mother decided, that if they weren't going to be waited on by any of their servants, they would be waited on by her own daughter. All, the baroness said, because she was willful, and had been raised by a man.

Henry seemed to accept the explanation, and nodded absently. The look he spared for Danielle, however, was anything but. He looked angry. Very angry.

He went on chatting with the baroness about the estate and the manner, and Marguerite went on making doe eyes at him, telling him he was ever so knowledgeable about business matters. Danielle had settled herself to arranging and rearranging the nuts and berries on the other side of the stall, half-listening to the conversation without drawing attention to herself. She was still unsure of what, exactly, the prince's reaction had been to seeing her. She had more than half expected disgust, and hadn't been prepared for the anger in his eyes when he had looked her over after knowing that she was the baroness's step-daughter.

And the questions he posed to the baroness, she realized, were tending toward a purpose. She wasn't sure what it was, but he wasn't merely being polite. He was trying to find something out. The baroness, for the most part, was clueless about his questions regarding the farm. Danielle could have told him far more—she ran the place, these days. She almost had since her father died.

It was just then that Monsieur Le Pieu approached. He had come from the other side of the market-stand, not seeing the Prince, and was examining the vegetables and fruits in their cart. The look on his face was disapproving. The leer in his eyes, as he lifted his to hers, was unmistakable. "Danielle de Barbarac," he announced, half under his breath, directing is coiling voice towards her with an intimacy that sent shivers down her spine. "You get prettier every week."

The prince, Marguerite, the baroness, and all the royal attendants were lingering on the other side of the stall, the nobles chatting and the attendants peering on with interest, eager to catch any intrigue or gossip they could so they could relate it back later to friends—or customers. Paulette and Louise were looking on, a bit in awe at standing so close to royal blood. Hearing tell of him from Danielle—who had called him insufferable so often—was far different than actually seeing him, and they were both rooted to their spots in fear and fascination. If anyone saw Le Pieu they assumed he was a customer examining the strawberries.

"And you, Monsieur le Pieu, are wasting your flattery," Danielle told him firmly, and moved farther down the line of their stall, away from him—and away from the prince and the rest. She did not want them to hear the kind of comments le Pieu was prone to make. Part of her feared that if her step-mother learned that the wealthy land-owner was interested in her, something dreadful would happen. Danielle did not want that thing to happen—most of all, she didn't want to believe the woman her father had married was capable of it.

"It's a pity your soil is the best in the province and yet so poorly tended," le Pieu remarked.

It was his form of small talk—disparaging the manor and her father's land. He was playing on her guilt, she knew. Maybe he thought she would eventually let him do what he wanted if he restored her father's home to its former glory. She would, of course, never do any such thing, but his comments about the land were very true, and she could not help but let such comments pierce her. However, she merely ignored him, as was her wont, and went on stacking the baskets of berries and dried fruits.

"And the manor itself, I noticed, is falling into pitiful disrepair," he continued. "Your father, you know, would have been—"

"Don't you say a word about my father," Danielle snapped, her voice low, glancing to where the prince and the rest still chatted. She was not above calling wolf, if he tried anything funny—or if he insulted her father one more time.

As if aware of the danger of a public scene, Le Pieu moved along the wooden counter of the stall, closer to her, and leaned in, his greasy moustache almost touching her. "I may be twice your age, child, but I am . . . well endowed." He leaned back, then, grinning sardonically. "As well evidenced by my estate," he went on. "I have a soft spot for the less fortunate. You are in need of a wealthy benefactor . . . and I need a young lady with spirit."

Danielle heard the offer—and invitation—in his voice, and wanted to throw her basket in his face. Instead, she merely said brightly, "Prunes?"

"No," Le Pieu replied, turning away as if the fruits smelled bad, obviously put off. It had, after all, been her intention. "I'll buy nothing this week. And you'd do well to remember that without my generosity, your pathetic little farm would cease to exist. I'd consider my options, if I were you," he said, leaning in again. And, because they were near the back of the stall, against the wall of the market-place where very few people could see them, he leaned yet closer and grabbed her wrist. "You're a ripe fruit for the plucking, Danielle," he told her, a sneer in his voice. "Produce like this," he went on, touching her cheek, "is worth a great deal. I'm only asking you to consid—"

"Why don't you leave the lady alone now?" a laconic voice interrupted.

"I'm not a la—"

"She's not a . . . Sire," Le Pieu observed dryly, making his obeisance. "Forgive me, I didn't see you there. I'm afraid you've caught me in the middle of a . . .business transaction."

"Business?" Prince Henry asked, shock and disgust in his voice. "Unhand her at once."