She smiled at me. “It is much celebrated in the country, is it not? With ribbon poles and queens of the May?”
“Oh, yes. There are festivals and flowers—it is quite something. Somehow one loses track of that in town. I wish I had remembered, I would have brought you a basket of sweet peas. It is traditional to hang them on someone’s doorknob and run away before they see you.”
Her eyes were dancing. “How charming! Tell me more.”
I did. I told her about bringing home hawthorn branches, and the morris dancers, and cricket matches, and found myself growing terribly homesick for the countryside. Abruptly I changed the subject.
“This drink is quite delicious, Madame. You must tell me how it is made.”
She wagged an elegant finger at me. “It was Fleur, do you not remember? The drink is very simple. I will write it out for you later. One of my little receipts.”
I fetched the little pot from my reticule. “This is all I have left of the last concoction you shared with me. My maid attempted to re-create it, but I am afraid she lacks your skill. The most she managed was a pale pink syrup.”
Fleur laughed and clasped her hands together. “Then you shall have more. I am always so happy to share.”
And I believed she was. I could see the genuine pleasure she got from giving to me, and I wondered if it was because she had rather made a living out of receiving. Accepting the jewels and bibelots and money of her admirers must be rather tiring after a while, I reflected. It must satisfy some primitive, nurturing side of her to be able to give something instead.
“You are pensive,” she said suddenly. “Forgive me for prying, but I think you are thinking too much.”
I smiled at her. “Yes, I am thinking rather too much. I wondered if you had heard from Brisbane.”
She nodded, her sleek dark head barely touched with silver in the strong morning light. “Yes, he goes to Paris today. I am very wicked. I know he goes on business, but I still say to him, ‘Nicky, please go to Guerlain and get my favorite perfume, and then I must have some chocolate and ribbons and fans and stockings…’” She trailed off with a laugh. “I am too awful to him, but he is very good to me, and I do so love my little treasures from my home.”
I hesitated, taking another sip of the citrus drink to smooth the way. “Fleur, I know about his past. About his being Gypsy, I mean.”
She lifted a delicately plucked brow. “Indeed? Did he tell you?”
“Not precisely.” I thought it likely he had told Fleur himself. I could picture him, sleepy and warm, tangled with her in a twist of heavy, crested linen sheets, murmuring confidences he would never share with me. Ruthlessly, I dragged my imagination back to its proper place. “You see, I followed him—it was during the course of the investigation,” I said hurriedly. “No, don’t look at me like that. I did not mean to pry, truly I did not. I thought he was in danger, but then…”
She smiled, the brief shadow of disapproval dispelled.
“I understand. He is very stubborn, you know, stupidly so. I imagine he did not take it very well when you learned his secret.”
I pushed away the memory of the rough tree bark digging into my back, his fingers twisting into my hair…it had been a worthy distraction. Had it been a tactic, a stratagem to lure me from the discovery I had just made?
I wrenched my mind back to Fleur and the question she had put to me.
“No. He was quite angry at the time. We made it up after a fashion, but I know he is still put out with me.”
She shrugged. “Men are prideful creatures and Nicholas is prouder than most. He will forgive you before he forgives himself.”
“Perhaps. I tried to make him understand that it does not matter, not a bit, but I know he thinks that it does.”
Fleur leaned forward, focusing her eyes so intently on mine that I began to wonder if she practiced mesmerism.
“But it does matter. Not to me, and not to you, but we are enlightened women, my dear. We judge him by the man he has become, not the child he was, and not the blood he bears. But there will always be those…” She paused, shivering slightly. “I remember one time, in Buda-Pesth, it was quite horrible, my dear. I truly thought he was going to be killed. He made the mistake of saying something in Romany to the wrong person, a powerful person with friends, and with a grudge against his kind. I do not think Nicky would have told me about himself if it were not for this man. But he needed help to get out of the city. He turned to me, I turned to my husband, and together we managed to smuggle him to safety.”
I was staring at her, stupefied. It sounded like something out of a picaresque novel. She gave me her little enigmatic smile.
“I know, it sounds fantastic. But that is how it ended, between Nicky and me. He fled for his life and I owed his salvation to my husband. I was so grateful to Serge, he risked so much to save Nicholas, just to make me happy. Do not worry, I repaid him amply,” she said, falling into a fit of warm, honeyed laughter. “So much has changed since then, but so much is still the same. Nicky is proud. No matter what he says about not caring, he does. Those little thorn pricks hurt—sometimes more than the sword.”
I nodded, remembering his bitter words about the taunts of his cousins. “I think you are right. I know it was difficult for him as a child, and is still so with his family. He told me he is not angry that I discovered his birth. Perhaps he is growing more comfortable with it.”
“Perhaps. He is more than thirty-five now. Men begin to change then, to grow more serious, more wise about the things that matter.”
“You are right, I am sure. He said he does not care if the truth comes out and he is finished in society. He said he merely cultivates respectability because it brings him more lucrative business.”
Again that sweet, warm laugh. “That sounds like Nicky. A bit of a pirate at heart, no?”
