Simone’s eyes gleam.
Gustave shifts beside me, tense, his mouth drawn in a line. I can feel the fire in his glance, but he doesn’t speak.
I have no idea why Simone’s going after me, anobody. Does she suspect? Has she seen anything? I can’t imagine. Gustave and I have been prim and proper in public, haven’t we?
I step back, eager to disappear into thefaceless crowd, when Simone says, “Tara, you must find it odd being here with so many”—she waves a hand at the room—"les gens connus?*.”
My French is rusty, but I know she’s insinuating I don’t fit in with all thesefamous people, her included.
“Simone, come on, hardly famous. No one knows who I am,” Philippe remarks, his eyes on me, dripping with curiosity. Evenhe’saware of the undertone. “Which is why I have to hang around with Sigrid,” he adds to lighten the air that’s now thick with animus.
Right then, Cece materializes at my side, sliding her arm through mine.
“Congratulations, Gustave. Brilliant purchase.”
“Merci, Cece.”
Cece greets our little group with her usual easy warmth. She’s been at the Louvre for a few years and can spot half the patrons and curators without needing introductions.
Simone’s glare flicks over her with distaste as well.
Ah—so that imperious attitude isn’t reserved solely for me. She’s a garden-variety snob, disdain reserved for the entireplébéien?* class.
“Come on,” Cece says brightly, her smile puremanufacturedsunshine. “They brought out the macarons. Let’s not let thearistocratseat them all.”
She tugs me away, leaving Simone’s perfect smile frozen mid-expression.
Behind us, Simone’s voice rises—loud enough to carry. “They let anyone into these parties these days. I’ll have to speak to Giselle about handing out invitations to the help.”
Gustave answers, but his words are lost as we weave through the glittering crowd, putting him—and his ex—behind us.
“What’s her damage?” I ask Cece after we to snag two macarons each.
Mine are vanilla and pistachio, and she goes for strawberry and passion fruit.
“She’s an elitist snob,” Cece mutters, biting into hers. “Sometimes I think that Robespierre didn’t do enough.”
I chuckle. “You French are so bloodthirsty. After all, you did produce a man like Dr. Joseph-Ignace Guillotin.”
Cece’s eyes twinkle. “You know, even though it’s named after him, Dr. Guillotin didn’t invent theguillotine. Dr. Antoine Louis, a French surgeon, actually designed it.”
I smirk, shaking my head. “Cece, you’re the Wikipedia of some truly morbid information.”
“Have I told you about how the catacombs were formed?” Cece’s expression lightens with amusement.
I laugh, and the venom from Simone that stung me dissipates.
* Corny (French)
* Well done
* Miss (French)
* Famous people (French)
* Plebeian
CHAPTER 10
