“Speaks of a certain national character, one would think,” Aunt Dot cut in.
“And Géricault’s depiction of those poor, lost souls on the raft was so—”
“Animalistic,” Aunt Dot again interrupted, a dramatic shudder quaking her generous bosom. “All those writhing limbs and bodies clad in only the loosest scraps of cloth, I daresay.”
“—Sympathiqueto their plight and their suffering,” Helene pressed on. Mariana had never seen Helene so determined. “Géricault understood the human condition well beyond his years. His loss . . . oh, what tragedy for Charlet. Friends are the family we choose.” She paused, allowing her latest jab to sink in before asking, “Mariana, do you know that our great Delacroix—I wonder if he is here tonight?—posed for Géricault as one of the poor unfortunates?”
“Oh, dearest dear, Delacroix,” Aunt Dot exclaimed. “That young reprobate? No thank you. Give me a painter like Mister Turner. Mariana, have you viewedThe Battle of Trafalgar? Now,thatis a national treasure of which to be proud.”
“It is my understanding,” Helene began, “a controversy surrounds this painting. Perhaps Monsieur Turner’s depiction isn’t so accurate? Is it possible that a looseness with the truth speaks—how did you say it, Madame Montfort?—of a certain national character?”
So stiff did Aunt Dot’s body go, it was a wonder the woman was able to continue placing one foot in front of the other. If emotion had been available to her, Mariana might have felt badly for her aunt. Perhaps. Likely not.
“Duchesse,” Helene exclaimed of a sudden before lowering herself into a deep curtsy. Mariana’s gaze lit upon a tiny, yet somehow statuesque, woman approaching them without a single stir to her features or person. Not even her skirts moved as she progressed forward. Mariana and Aunt Dot followed Helene’s lead and dipped into their own curtsies.
“What amagnifiquesoirée,” Helene sang out as she rose. “The stars. The fashion. The soirée of the year.”
The Duchesse inclined her head and granted the three women a smile that could only be characterized as condescending. She was aduchesse, after all. The daughter of an earl, Mariana wasn’t especially impressed. Still, this woman was Villefranche’s mother, and this was their Paris residence.
Like that, a solution to her problem struck her, and it became clear exactly how she could seduce a man who wouldn’t come within seducing distance.
After Helene went through the requisite introduction ritual, Mariana exclaimed with all the grace of a country ingénue, “Duchesse, the beauty of your garden overwhelms me with its splendor.” She may have been laying it on a bit thick. After all, she’d been presented at court, and none other than the current King George himself had named her and OliviaMilk and Honey, due to their respective complexions. A moniker that had followed them everywhere their debut Season. “If I may be so bold”—She leaned in ever so slightly—“our English styles pale in comparison.”
Helene gave her a smug pat on her right hand while Aunt Dot bristled to her left. If Mariana ever wanted to see the Folly again, she would find a way to make it up to Aunt. But that was a task for future Mariana. Tonight, she had a larger game at play.
“I wonder if . . . oh, this may be asking too much,” Mariana faltered, willing a blush to rise to her cheeks. The Duchesse eyed her with all the verve of a dead-eyed fish. “But I wonder if a tour of your residence would be a possibility? Of a sudden, I’m feeling inspired to renovate my London townhouse in exactly this style.”
The Duchesse’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Indeed?” With an elegant flick of her wrist, she summoned an attentive servant.
While a muted conversation ensued, Mariana glanced to her left to find a beet red Aunt Dot staring straight ahead. She turned right to find a quiet Helene studying her closely. “What is this all about,ma chérie?”
The Duchesse rescued Mariana from having to devise a lie. “Lady Nicholas, when you are ready, summon Gaston”—Her delicate fingers fluttered in the direction of the servant to her left—“and he will show you all you wish to see.”
Mariana stepped forward to implement her plan and leave the three women to negotiate the rest of the evening without her. She had some exploring to do. Gaston was going to show her every inch of this residence, including the room where Villefranche slept. Before this night was finished, it was entirely possible that she would employ every single one of her newfound spy skills—duplicity, guile, invisibility, lock picking, and seduction . . .
Unexpectedly, her eye caught on the figure she’d sought all evening, standing in a secluded alcove at the far end of the grounds: Villefranche.
Two facts became immediately apparent. He wasn’t alone. And, if the impassioned nature of his hand gestures was an indicator, he was angry.
Intrigued, Mariana took in the figure opposite Villefranche. Towering form . . . massive belly . . . sagging jowls . . . She knew that man.
It was Uncle Bertie, engaging in a heated argument with Villefranche. Theirs wasn’t a polite acquaintanceship made at a Society function. What on earth did Uncle Bertie and the Comte de Villefranche have to discussheatedly?
Another question followed quick on its heels: did Nick know of Uncle Bertie’s connection to Villefranche? Where was the dratted man anyway?
As if her unspoken question had the power to conjure him out of thin air, another familiar figure caught the edge of her vision. A collective gasp met her ears, and her body froze. A frisson of anticipation skittered through her veins.
One steadying inhalation of air later, she pivoted to face fully what her body already knew. Across the garden stood Nick attired in crisp whites and blacks, surveying the garden like he owned it.
Society’s eyes flitted between him and her as they awaited what would come next. Would he acknowledge her? Cut her? Embrace her? What a deliciousamuse-boucheof gossip she and he were serving Society.
Meanwhile, he remained seemingly oblivious to the hushed silence. How had she been fooled for so long by his façade of supercilious popinjay?
She knew how. She’d chosen to see it. In that way, it had been easier to dismiss him and fashion a new life for herself. And now she knew the fop was a disguise for the real Nick, a deceitful bastard.
As his gaze continued its thorough sweep of the garden, her heart hammered in her chest, her traitorous body winding up in expectation of the moment his eyes would land upon her. For the first time tonight, she felt alive. She could hate herself for it, even more than she hated him.
At last, his gaze found her. A quick smile quirked up his lips and lit his eyes, and her breath caught. How easily she could become enthralled by his smile. It was the sort of smile that had the potential to erase an entire past. This smile was so utterly unlike Nick—open, loving, genuine—as if his entire world centered around her.
