Zoe smiled at her. She’d definitely chosen the right maid. “I must be an adult,” she said. “I must be logical and look at the important points, in the way you did. I must have the Duke of Marchmont’s help to banish the shame I’ve brought on my family. I must have his help to be welcomed in Society and live the life I should have had, the life for which I risked everything. If he accomplishes these things, I can find a good husband, and then my father can stop worrying about me. Can you think of anything else?”
“No, miss. I think that covers it well. And if I was you, I’d go to bed now.”
To Zoe’s amusement, Jarvis started gently shooing her toward the bed, as one does a small child. “You’ve had a very long and trying day, I know,” the maid said. “Too much feeling this and feeling that, I daresay. Too much excitement. After a good night’s sleep, you’ll be able to look at everything more calm-like.”
Zoe let herself be guided to the bed. She climbed into it dutifully and lay down. Jarvis drew up the bedclothes.
“If I do not feel calmer tomorrow,” Zoe said as her head sank into the pillow, “there’s always Venice or Paris.”
“Miss, you haven’t even seen London yet, or you wouldn’t say such things.”
Zoe yawned. “No, I feel no great desire to go to those places—but it was amusing to hear my sisters scream when I suggested it. And there must be an escape route. I must have somewhere to go to, if Marchmont fails me.”
“Miss, I’m sure lots of women think of running away when men disappoint us. But if all of us was to actually do that, there wouldn’t be a woman left in London.”
Zoe laughed. “I like you, Jarvis.”
“Thank you, miss. I like you, too. Please go to sleep.”
Almack’s, later that evening
What Marchmont found especially entertaining was the way everyone in the club tried to be subtle. They were all wild to learn the truth of what had happened at Lexham House, but none dared to ask him outright. Instead they all probed, oh so delicately.
All, that is, except his mad aunt Sophronia.
In a logical universe, she would be firmly excluded from Almack’s. But mental imbalance was not necessarily a disqualification. In Lady Sophronia de Grey’s case, it was quite the opposite. The patronesses couldn’t have kept her out if they tried, and they were too terrified of her to even think of trying.
Tonight, as always, she wore black: an evening dress trimmed with all the magnificent excess of fashionable grief. As always, too, she was swimming in diamonds. He didn’t know which of her swains had given them to her or when or why. Aunt Sophronia’s past was a mystery he wasn’t sure he wanted to solve.
He’d danced with one after another lady dying of curiosity about his visit to Lexham House, and he’d amused himself by deflecting the unsubtle interrogations with his customary wit. The assembly was approaching its final stage when Lady Sophronia at last noticed him and/or remembered who he was. She raised a black-gloved, diamond-studded hand and beckoned.
He excused himself from the group of ladies trying in vain to get a decisive answer from him and moved to where his aunt presided, black plumes bobbing atop her faded blonde hair. About her stood an assortment of ladies of various ages, diplomats, poets, cabinet ministers, and rakes. All wore the bewildered expression usually observed in those who found themselves in Lady Sophronia de Grey’s orbit.
When he neared, she waved them away, employing the same gesture he’d used to eject the fellow from his favorite chair at White’s.
“You, sir,” she said.
He bowed. “Yes, Auntie,” he said. “It is I. Your nephew Marchmont.”
“I know who you are, absurd boy. What’s this I hear about your marrying a snake charmer?”
“I think not,” said he.
He could hear whispers from those straining to hear the conversation:I think notwould be making its way swiftly to the other end of the ballroom.
“No Duke of Marchmont ever married a snake charmer,” she said. “And I never thought of you as revolutionary. We may have been French once, but it was a very long time ago, and would we still have our heads, is the question? Quite unnecessary. Only consider the Americans. They shot and stabbed and hanged us like proper gentlemen. Have you met the American ambassador? A pleasant man, but confused.”
Most people became that way when attempting discourse with Lady Sophronia.
“She is not from America, is she?” his aunt went on. “They are agreeable enough girls.” She looked about her. “I saw one of them a minute ago. Quite pretty. But I can’t help thinking they’re not English. And then I wonder, ‘Who put it into their heads not to be English?’ Well, then, who is it, young Lucien? If it isn’t a snake charmer, it must be somebody else.”
“Your logic, as always, is irrefutable,” he said. “It is not only somebody else but something else entirely.”
He didn’t know where or how the rumor of his marrying Zoe had started, but it didn’t surprise him. Members of the ton received much of their gossip via servants. The version that reached aristocratic ears tended to bear small resemblance to the original.
Some of Lexham’s servants must have heard Zoe’s marriage proposal or had heard there was a proposal. This being exciting news, they’d wasted no time in passing it on.
He saw no harm in letting the rumor drift for a time through the Beau Monde. Society would find itself viewing Zoe not as the Harem Girl but as, possibly, the future Duchess of Marchmont. Once they pictured her in that way, it would be difficult to wrench their minds back to Harem Girl. They would have to start thinking of her as normal.
