Mariana was just stepping aside to allow one such dissolute gentleman to pass when Villefranche appeared at the far end of the arcade. Her heart thumped a hard beat, and her stomach fluttered as competing emotions of fear, uncertainty, determination, and excitement washed over her. A tiny voice of calm attempted to tamp them down: she was here to shop and stroll with the man. Two activities she understood as they were two of the leading activities of her social set.
Today is different, the tiny voice reminded her. Today, she would be shopping, strolling, andspying onVillefranche. It was the last part that had her insides tangled up in knots.
She gave herself a mental shake. She was complicating the day, when in reality it was simple: she was here to play a role. The ability to become someone else seemed to be an essential element of navigating the world of espionage effectively.
Last night, Nick had come to her as a waiter and a fugitive in the space of a few hours. Although she would be none other than Lady Nicholas Asquith today, she would need to become a different version of herself if she was to finesse any closely held secrets out of Villefranche.
She might have asked Nick for guidance on the matter.
Her head gave a tiny shake. It was impossible. She was an intelligent, capable woman. She could navigate this outing without running to her husband.
She’d told Nick she’d agreed to his plan for crown and country. But a deeper truth also lay at the heart of the matter: the prospect of entering his shadowy world of intrigue and besting him at it was a temptation too delectable to resist.
It was a world that frightened her a bit, a world that excited her no end. It was Nick’s world. She would sooner streak down this promenade naked than implore him for help. But his words came to her:by any means necessary. Wouldany meansreally be necessary?
She pivoted to face the front window of a curiosity shop and feigned interest in its wares, even as she tracked Villefranche in her peripheral vision. Judging from his intensely gathered brow, she intuited he was too deep inside his own thoughts to have noticed her yet.
What sort of spy was the Comte de Villefranche anyway?
Just as he was about to stride past her, she silently countedone. . .two. . .threebefore swiveling around in a dramatic flurry of skirts, a bright smile pasted across her face. “Comte de Villefranche, it is you!”
As if startled out of a trance, he jerked to a stop, his eyes wide with surprise. “Lady Nicholas?”
“The one and only,” she chirped like a brainless bird. Villefranche must be the same sort of spy as she: an inexperienced one.
“But,” he began slowly, “you and I agreed to meet at Le Grand Véfour a quarter of an hour hence.”
“Yet here we are . . . meeting.” Mariana noted how rattled he was by this slight alteration to their plan, certainly an unpromising trait for anyone involved in espionage. “Shall we proceed with our shopping excursion from here?”
Villefranche’s demeanor shifted in subtle acceptance, and he held out his arm for her. “Of course,” he replied, his tone as wooden as his person. “Would you care to peruse this shop?” He glanced up at the sign. “Le Grenelle is renowned for its selection of eglomise boxes.”
“How delightful,” she exclaimed. In a fraction of a second, she assumed her role: Vacuous-Lady-Who-Lives-For-Shopping.
After just two footsteps inside the shop, however, Mariana regretted her blithe acquiescence. This particular shop was the breadth and depth of a horse stall—complete with its accompanying odor—and stuffed from ceiling to floor with all manner of bibelot, making it impossible for her and Villefranche to walk side by side.
Carefully navigating cramped aisles, she picked her way to the back, where the proprietor stood behind a counter. The two men exchanged a few words in rapid French, setting the proprietor into a flurry of motion with an obsequious smile pasted onto his mouse-like face. Soon, he’d assembled various sizes and styles of eglomise boxes for her inspection.
She singled out a box edged with lacy gilt and depressed its tiny lever, clicking open its ornate lid depicting the famed Medici Fountain of the Jardin du Luxembourg. Her gaze fixed on the box beneath her hand, she asked, “Are you an admirer of eglomise?”
Who knew espionage could be so deadly dull?
“I do not believe in accumulating material possessions for the sake of a collection. It is waste,” Villefranche pontificated. “All objects must be of use; otherwise, what is the point of that object?”
Confounded by his absolute assuredness, Mariana felt her eyebrows lift. “How does art fit into your view of usefulness?”
A blush crept up his youthful cheeks. “You will have to forgive me, Lady Nicholas. Sometimes I forget that not everyone shares my beliefs.” With an air of self-consciousness, he averted his gaze toward the velvety depths of the open box. “You look . . . comely . . . today,” he added in a tone both conciliatory and strangely flat.
A bewildered smile found its way to Mariana’s lips. Villefranche wasn’t even looking at her. His skills as a suitor equaled his skills as a spy.
“Your eyes,” he stuttered out, “they glow.”
“Oh dear,” she returned, “I hope I haven’t caught a fever.”
Eyes wide with alarm, he swung toward her. “You have mistaken the intent of my words.”
“That is, indeed, a relief,” she returned, the words dry as dust. She tapped the box and nodded at the proprietor. With a dramatic flourish, he swept up the box and began bundling it for transport. “So you aren’t an admirer of eglomise?” She sensed a useful strand running through this particular conversational thread. “I would have thought you appreciative of a craft that requires such immense skill and expertise.”
Villefranche averted his gaze. “Those who paint these tiny and intricate scenes for masses of rich tourists receive little pay, and their eyes fail at very young ages, leaving them with no livelihood and no eyesight. It is a tragedy,” he proclaimed to the room empty of patrons save themselves.
