In an attempt to prevent Villefranche from seeing the huge roll of her eyes, Mariana directed her attention toward the enormous sideboard to her left. She lay a hand on its marble surface and allowed its stone coolness to seep into her skin through the silk of her gloves. She glanced over her shoulder to find Villefranche righting an Oriental vase caught by his elbow.
“This is quite a massive structure,” she began, hoping to lighten the conversation. “How did they manage to squeeze it inside this tiny shop? It must weigh a half a ton.”
“Well actually, it’s not so heavy, but heavy enough to gravely injure a man who has the misfortune to find himself on the wrong side of it. Every day, dock workers maim themselves while moving such structures.”
Mariana heaved a frustrated sigh. Had the man never heard of hyperbole or idle chit-chat? Above every exchange with the Comte de Villefranche hung a rain cloud ready to burst. How was she supposed to finagle any useful information out of this man? Her only hope lay in the fact that he was clearly, blessedly, as unskilled in the art of espionage as she.
“Madame,” the proprietor cut in with a discreet murmur, “your cigar box is ready.”
Cigar box? What did she need with a cigar box? She reached inside her reticule for payment. Money and item efficiently exchanged between her and the satisfied proprietor, she faced the young Comte. “Shall we venture on?”
Villefranche nodded, and they began stutter-stepping through the cramped shop, each movement forward an intentional negotiation with the hodgepodge of furniture, stacked books, and various trifles and trinkets. Mariana glanced behind her and caught Villefranche restacking a column of books that he’d accidentally kicked over.
Nick was never so clumsy.
She shook her head. Where had that thought come from? The part of her brain that couldn’t stop thinking about him after last night. That was where. Nick was alive, and he was a spy.
Nick was her . . . overseer? How best could she characterize this new twist in their relationship? Regardless of the title, she now spied for him, if one could call what she was doingspying.
She needed a new role. Vacuous-Lady-Who-Lives-For-Shopping wasn’t working. Perhaps, flattery would. It usually did with young men. Lady-Who-Brazenly-Flatters-Younger-Men could be her new role. It was worth a try.
At last rid of the cramped and odiferous shop, Mariana rested her hand on Villefranche’s extended arm and exclaimed, “Oh my, what hard muscles you have hidden beneath this superfine. Do you lift heavy objects?”
Polished and handsome, the Comte de Villefranche was the sort of man who set young girlish hearts alight, but who left hers cold. Yet, she was struck by an observation that should have been obvious from the start: in build and coloring, Villefranche was eerily similar to Nick.
Both men were tall, lean, and possessed a similar dark handsomeness that drew the eye.
Still, a subtle, but distinct, difference in bearing differentiated them: Villefranche faced the world with a preposterously erect posture, while Nick held himself in a manner not precisely defensive, but in a way that kept himself to himself. It was one of the qualities that had drawn her toward Nick: the mystery of him.
“I labor at our family estate when I have the opportunity. A connection to the earth is vital.”
His words brought Mariana back to the present. Memories of Nick’s eternal mystery weren’t helpful at all. “Those muscles combined with your commanding height make you one . . . healthy, young man.”
Healthy?Young man? That was the most flattering response she could devise? Her improvisational skills sorely lacked panache.
“A healthy body is the foundation of a healthy mind,” Villefranche returned, so certain of his own rightness.
“Of course,” she replied. Did the man speak in nothing but aphorisms? She cleared her throat and pressed on, “You possess such wisdom for one so very young. Your years on this earth cannot possibly exceed twenty.”
“I saw one and twenty years on my last name day.”
“How the ladies of Paris must compete for you,” she continued. “A striking aristocrat such as yourself must have his pick. And now, of course, aristocrats are back in favor in France.”
Villefranche’s step hitched, and a surge of hope shot through Mariana. Had she needled her way into a chink in his armor?
“Oui, my family is aristocratic,” he began, “but we are French first. There are those who would have us revert to theAncien Régime.”
“Oh?” she asked, the question a blithe exhale.
“They refuse to admit the old way is unsustainable,” he said, the volume of his speech rising with each word he spoke, echoing down the long, stone arcade before them. “Yet we have a king again.”
“We have a king in England,” she responded, maintaining an innocent tone.
“Oui, but you also have a Parliament for balance. We French have trouble with balance.” An ironic laugh escaped him, taking Mariana by surprise. She wouldn’t have thought him capable of irony. “We like extremes.”
“But isn’t that human nature?” she asked.
“A government, Lady Nicholas, must be above extremes,” Villefranche expounded, instructing her as if she were a child. “It must be above human nature, pettiness, and whim. When one man rules without checks and balances, as the Americans would say, he becomes corrupted and a tyrant. Even our great Napoleon succumbed to it.”
