The prostitutes who’d witnessed Miss Trent’s entry into Dain’s drawing room and his ensuing pursuit told all of their friends and customers about it. The male guests also related the tale, with the usual embellishments, to anyone who’d listen, and that was everyone.
And everyone, of course, had an opinion. Many put money behind their opinions. Within a week, Paris was seething and restless, rather like the Roman mob at the arena, impatiently awaiting the combat to death of its two mightiest gladiators.
The problem was getting the combatants into the same arena. Miss Trent traveled in respectable Society. Lord Dain prowled the demimonde. They were, most inconsiderately, avoiding each other. Neither could be persuaded or tricked into talking about the other.
Lady Wallingdon, who’d resided in Paris eighteen months and had spent most of that time striving, with mixed success, to become its premier hostess, saw a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and promptly snatched it.
She boldly scheduled a ball on the same day one of her rivals had scheduled a masquerade. It happened to be exactly a fortnight after the Chasing Miss Trent Down the Street Scene. Though Lady Pembury and her two grandchildren did not qualify as thecrème de la crèmeof either Parisian or London society, and though Lady Wallingdon would not have bothered with them in other circumstances, she invited them to her ball.
She also invited Lord Dain.
Then she let everyone know what she’d done. Though she, like at least half of Paris, believed him to be enslaved by Miss Trent, Lady Wallingdon did not expect him to come. Everyone knew that the Marquess of Dain was about as likely to attend a respectable social affair as he was to invite the executioner to test the guillotine’s blade upon his neck.
On the other hand, Dain had already behaved in an unlikely manner regarding Miss Trent, which meant there was a chance. And where there was a chance of something impossible happening, there would always be people wanting to be there in case it did.
In Lady Wallingdon’s case, these turned out to be the very same people she’d invited. Not a single note of regrets arrived. Not even, to her disquiet, Lord Dain’s.
But then, he hadn’t sent an acceptance, either, so at least she didn’t have to pretend she didn’t know whether he’d attend or not, and worry about being caught in a lie. She could keep her other invitees in suspense with a clear conscience. In the meantime, to be on the safe side, she hired a dozen burly French menials to augment her own staff.
Jessica, meanwhile, was acknowledging defeat. After a mere three encounters with Dain, a simple animal attraction had intensified to mindless infatuation. Her symptoms had not simply become virulent; they had become noticeable.
At Madame Vraisses’ party, Mr. Beaumont had made a few sly remarks about Dain. Jessica, whose nerves were still vibrating with the aftershocks of one stormy embrace, had answered far too sharply. Beaumont’s knowing smile had told her he’d guessed what her problem was, and she wouldn’t have put it past him to tell Dain.
But the Beaumonts had abruptly left Paris a week after the party, and Dain hadn’t come within a mile of her since the devastating kiss in the thunderstorm.
And so, if hehadbeen told that Jessica Trent was besotted with him, he obviously didn’t care. Which was just as she preferred it, Jessica assured herself.
Because there was only one way the Marquess of Dain could care about any woman, and that was for as long as it took to tumble her onto a bed—or a tavern table—unbutton his trousers, dispatch his business, and button up again.
Besotted or not, she knew better than to tempt Fate by risking another encounter with him, when he might see for himself her mortifying condition, and might take it into his head to treat her to his version ofcaring.
She had scarcely finished convincing herself that the intelligent thing to do was to leave Paris immediately, when Lady Wallingdon’s invitation arrived.
Within twenty-four hours, Jessica was aware—as all Paris was—that Dain, too, had been invited.
It did not take a genius to figure out why: She and Dain were expected to provide the main entertainment. She also understood that a great deal of money would change hands, based on her performance—or lack thereof—with His Lordship.
She decided she didn’t want any part of it.
Genevieve decided otherwise. “If he goes, and you are not there, he will feel humiliated,” she said. “Even if he merely wishes to go, for whatever reason, and learns you will not attend, he will feel the same. I know it is irrational and unfair, but men are often so, particularly in any matter they imagine concerns their pride. You had better attend, unless you prefer to risk his rampaging after you to relieve his wounded feelings.”
Though Jessica very much doubted Dain had any feelings to be wounded, she was also aware that Genevieve had several decades’ more experience with men. A great many men.
The invitation was accepted.
Dain could not decide what to do with Lady Wallingdon’s invitation.
A part of his mind recommended he burn it.
Another part suggested he urinate on it.
Another advised him to shove it down Her Ladyship’s throat.
In the end, he threw it into a trunk, which contained, along with various souvenirs of his travels, one mangled bonnet and one frilly umbrella. Six months from now, he told himself, he would look at those things and laugh. Then he would burn them, just as, years earlier, he’d burned the gloves he’d been wearing when Susannah had first touched his hand, and the piece of a feather that had fallen from her bonnet, and the note inviting him to the fatal dinner party at her uncle’s.
At present, all he had to decide was how best to settle accounts with Miss Trent, as well as with the pious hypocrites who expected her to effect the miracle of bringing Lord Beelzebub to his knees.
He knew that was why Lady Wallingdon had invited him. Respectable Paris would like nothing better than to see him fall. That his slayer was a slip of an English spinster made the prospect all the more delicious. He had very little doubt that every self-righteous blockhead in Paris was praying for his defeat—the more ignominious, the better—at her hands.
