Her amoral, hedonistic Parisienne returned to her, accompanied by the familiar wash of shame that had plagued her all afternoon and into the night, which wouldn’t do. She must put aside her earlier failure and submit to learning her lessons like a good student, even if they had to come from Nick. Impetuosity and pride had led to her humiliation this afternoon. She wouldn’t let it happen again.
A few doorstops away, she spotted a lantern different from the others. This one shone purple and dim, its light extending no farther than its own doorway. Intuition carried her to its solid, oak door. She gave it a few discreet taps and recalled Nick’s terse response to her request—sent via an unquestioning Hortense—that they meet:
Rue de la Huchette. La Coquine Violet. Midnight sharp. Memorize and burn.
La Coquine Violet. Mariana understood the word violet easily enough, which explained the purple lantern hanging low above her head. Butla coquine? Years of French lessons had never taught her that word. Of course, she never had any patience for French, thus her retention of its vocabulary and grammar had been negligible.
Again, she rapped on the door, harder this time. Hand suspended mid-knock, the door swung open, startling her. Before her stood an enormous wall of man of African descent. Silently, his eyes swept up and down her person before he stepped aside and waved her into a dark foyer that offered no view into the room beyond. Only the muffled vibrations of boisterous music and men’s voices, followed by women’s laughter, reached her from the interior. The door clicked shut behind her.
“Your overcoat?” the doorman intoned in an accent that spoke of a complex past.
She nodded and allowed him to remove her coat.
Every fiber in her being tingled in anticipation of what lay beyond the door before her. “This isLa Coquine Violet?” she asked, an irritating note of uncertainty lacing her tone.
The doorman brushed aside her nerves simply by smiling and pushing the door open in response. She was across its threshold before anticipation could evolve into panic. Once inside, however, there was no room for ninny-ish considerations like fright or ambivalence.
The blue-tinged room presented every sort of tableau requisite for a gentleman’s entertainment: gaming tables dominating all four corners; whiskey carts scattered throughout; reclining sofas tucked into discreet shadows.
One might think this place a gentlemen’s club, except for two distinguishing features: the jangling piano which produced a convivial style of music conducive to frolic and fun, and the women. They were everywhere the men were. Ever listening. Ever agreeing. Ever nodding. Ever smiling. Ever at the ready, and ever on display.
And, oh, how they displayed themselves. The dark-eyed beauties draped in bold colors, the pale-eyed blondes in pastels, all swathed in diaphanous fabrics that left little to the imagination.
Mariana felt distinctly drab, clad in the serviceable boots and gray dress Hortense had insisted she borrow for the occasion. A servant balancing a tray of champagne and wearing nothing more than a chemise and pantalettes glided swiftly past. Mariana lifted a glass and took a cooling sip.
Her body flush with excitement, she stood enveloped by a Paris unlike any she’d experienced in her usual genteel circles. Not even in London had she ever stepped foot in a room like this. Maybe, especially not in London.
La coquine. There was a reason she’d never been taught this word in classroom French. This place was surely a—
From across the room, a pair of dark, sharp eyes drew her attention. She couldn’t look away from the sturdy woman clad in unrelieved black if she wanted to. Besides Mariana, she was the only woman in the room not smiling up at a man. She must bela Madame.
In the next instant, the Madame sprang into motion, agile and quick in her navigation of the room. The woman was coming for her. Mariana gulped down the remainder of her champagne in an attempt to gird herself. She knew a formidable woman when she saw one.
The Madame stopped in front of her and bluntly eyed her up and down before showering her with a tirade of rapid-fire French that Mariana didn’t bother attempting to translate. The Madame snatched the empty champagne glass out of her hand and pointed toward a nondescript door on the other side of the room. Through a haze of shock, Mariana gathered that the woman was absolutely livid. At her.
When the Madame finally ran out of words, Mariana asked, hushed and polite, “Could you speak more slowly? I am certain we can resolve this matter amicably.”
The Madame’s mouth snapped shut, and her eyes narrowed. “Anglaise?”
It was more statement than question. Mariana answered a simple, “Oui.”
The fire left the woman’s eyes. “Zeese way,” the Madame called over her shoulder, on the move again.
Mariana had no choice but to follow the woman through the room. Every couple she passed exuded their own unique and erotic scent—jasmine coupled with cloves, lavender with sandalwood, rose with almond—underlain by continuous notes of cigar smoke and whiskey, reminding her that despite the flowery wallpapers, quivering cleavages, and ornate furnishings, this was wholly a man’s world.
Behind the Madame, Mariana ascended a dark stairwell, the sounds of revelry growing more distant with each step upward. At the end of a corridor of tightly shut doors, the Madame knocked once and pressed an ear against oak, presumably listening for permission to enter.
“Oui,” the Madame called through the door, reaching for the jangly ring of keys at her waist. She slipped the correct key into the lock and pushed open the door. Mariana stepped through the threshold and stifled a gasp at the sight of an at-ease Nick lounging behind what appeared to be a gaming table.
“You are dressed as yourself tonight,” she said, unable to state anything other than the obvious.
With the fluid grace of a cat, he stood, his fingertips brushing across the felt tabletop. “In this establishment, it is necessary.”
The cold distance infusing his words brought her down to earth. Yes, he was himself tonight. Dressed in crisp whites and blacks, he was a vision of aristocratic English male. Ice wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Before her stood the man she’d assumed him to be until last night. Except he wasn’t that man, and possibly, he never had been.
She watched him approach the Madame and begin conversing with the woman in her native French. She couldn’t help admiring his cool, collected confidence. Nick had ever been so. He knew how to handle a moment capably without trying to prove himself to anyone.
Yet another attractive quality about her husband she’d willed herself to forget. Yet another attractive quality about her husband she again remembered.
