17th March 1821
Paris
Dear Sir Weston,
Sophie paused to chew the end of her quill, wondering again how a visit to a modiste could have changed so much. Yet the location of the pastor meant she’d run out of time, and she wouldn’t put it past Lord Rotherby not to bundle her off en route from Versailles.
Silently, she let her eyes drift to Sir Weston’s previous letter:
I share neither Lord Rotherby’s income nor luxurious style, but I can offer you protection from his unwanted attentions if you agree to be my wife.
She swallowed, and continued writing.
I thank you for your recent correspondence, which was such a comfort to receive. In truth, while it goes against every natural feeling to presume upon your kindness, I find myself in such a fix that…
She paused again, recalling Josephine’s brief infatuation.
‘He seems to be exactly what a real gentleman should be…’
She’d said as much herself, and Lu Lu clearly thought him a gentleman of great character and kindness, all of which made a nonsense of her finer sensibilities now. She swallowed and forced herself on. Sir Weston had offered her the hand of friendship, and right now she needed it if she was to make it away safely. Her recent attempt at finding work had also made her realise that her best chance most likely lay in a quiet town, outside the city. Briefly, she recalled Madame Montmartre’s reference to a dressmaker cousin in Rouen and was conscious of a quiet spark of hope. Perhaps there, at last, she might find a place in which she could live and work for a while.
If you are intending to attend Le Grand Bal Masqué de Versailles,
She wrote, hoping Lu Lu had been successful in persuading him to attend.
I could meet you there– it will be busy, and most everyone distracted…
Sophie exhaled, hoping Lu Lu would forgive her for borrowing her delightful English gentleman friend for a short while; she wanted so much to tell her everything, but her relationships with Rotherby and Sir Weston made it too much of a risk. She also wished, with every bone in her body, that she could wait for Phoebe. But if the viscount and Rotherby were to duel, it could be disastrous for them all, whereas a sister who’d quietly disappeared would swiftly be forgotten by the ton.
Wanly, she imagined Lord Rotherby’s face when he learned of her flight. He would be incandescent, not least because he would presume she was leaving to marry Sir Weston– one of the very good reasons why she never could, he wouldn’t survive the week. Yet a female travelling alone in the small hours of the morning wouldn’t do either.
Your offer is the greatest kindness shown by one friend to another, but our hearts are not engaged, and I always said I would marry for love alone…
Sophie didn’t allow herself to read the letter back. Her path was set now and while she’d never regained her sketches from Lu Lu’s excitable modiste, she was certain she could come up with new ones– she was still a Fairfax after all, even when a million miles from the rest.
Briefly, she closed her eyes and pictured Matilda encouraging Duke Wellington across the library floor with shouts of ‘Banish Boney!’, in her most convincing general’s voice. Her eyes misted as she swallowed, and then she addressed the letter before she could change her mind.
As far as she could see, Le Grand Bal Masqué de Versailleswas her very last chance.
ChapterEighteen
MIRRORS, MASKS AND MAYHEM
Three days later
The morning of Le Grand Bal Masqué de Versaillesarrived very swiftly, bringing two distinctly unexpected things.
The first was a further letter from Phoebe, announcing her imminent arrival in Paris along with the Viscount Damerel, who, she wrote, intended to call on Lord Rotherby without delay. Sophie eyed her sister’s hurried scrawl with deep foreboding. She already feared a meeting between the viscount and Lord Rotherby, but she could barely bring herself to imagine a meeting with Phoebe. Her sister had left her on the brink of social success, and now she was almost destitute, with the scandal of the season brewing over her name.
The second was an expensive, scented box, containing folds of cream satin wrapped around the most delicate gold filigree mask she’d ever seen. It was breathtaking, and for a few moments Sophie did little but gaze at the swirling design and gleaming rhinestones, inset to reflect the flicker of candlelight. It was entirely different to the carnival mask Madame Montmartre had provided with the domino, and she was perplexed, until she spied a short, handwritten note also hidden within the silk:
Wear this, so I shall I know you.
‘Oh, mademoiselle, it must be from an admirer,’ Veronique, Lu Lu’s dresser gushed as she dressed Sophie’s natural ringlets à la Chinoise. ‘You will spend the whole evening guessing, until he reveals himself!’
Sophie felt quite certain she knew the identity of the sender already and suppressed a brief sense of disappointment. Of course it made perfect sense for Sir Weston to send something by which he could identify her. How else was he to know her amidst the crowd?
She placed the mask back into its box and forced a smile. It was just the sort of gift she’d have adored in her old life, and yet it was far too close to her new one now– a life of masks and whispers, where nothing was quite as it seemed. She closed her eyes and wished she could leave this very second; starting again in Rouen felt like her only chance of escaping the scandal and living honestly.
