“Why are you smiling?” she asked, her green eyes flashing at him.
“Don’t take offense. It’s a lovely name. But none of our encounters have been in the least bit serene. Have they?”
He watched her pause and consider, before her own lovely visage broke out into a charming grin. “I suppose you are right. I didn’t think about it, but I have never lived up to my name.”
“Regardless, it is a very pretty one. There will be celebrations every night this week to welcome Bonaparte’s return, maybe even longer. May I escort you to a dance?”
After another hesitation, she nodded.
“Then I need to know where you live.”
This time she dithered longer, and he felt the prickling of suspicion. But then she sighed.
“I suppose I will have to tell my grandparents about you, monsieur. If my grand-père says it is permissible, then I will go with you. I warn you, however, Englishmen arenothis favorite people.”
She lived with her grandparents!Considering he gathered information for a living, he’d been woefully inept at learning more about this young woman who’d sparked his interest. Of course, an Englishman wouldn’t be any Frenchman’s choice, first or last.
“Where are your parents?” he asked.
“They sent me to live with my grandparents,” she responded, which didn’t answer his question, but he sensed that was all he would learn about them, until he earned her trust.
“You must now tell meyourChristian name,” she demanded saucily. “And where does your family reside?”
She knew he was English already, but nothing else. In truth, he could tell her everything about his family since they would never meet.
“My name is Malcolm, and my home is in Berkshire.” Or at least his family’s estate was. He preferred his London house, and his parents, Lord and Lady St. John, also had a Mayfair address for part of the year. “You probably haven’t even heard of it.”
“Of course I have,” she said, then clamped her mouth shut, leaving him curious.
Perhaps he’d insulted her intelligence. “I only meant Berkshire is not London or Bath or even Brighton,” he said. “Nowhere I would expect a Parisian to go upon visiting England.”
“True,” she agreed. “I have heard of it nonetheless. Windsor Castle is there, is it not?”
“Yes. You are quite correct.”
They had strolled the riverside walk from the Quai de La Galerie du Museum all the way along to the Quai de L’École before she stopped by the Pont Neuf and spoke again.
“It seems as though Paris has only just seen the backs of the foreigners who camped here after the emperor’s exile. The Prussians and Austrians, the Russians and the British.” She glanced at him, as if to say,yet here you are again.
Malcolm wished to God he hadn’t been called to return under these circumstances. As far as he knew only British intelligence officers were currently roaming the city, coordinating with the royalists. But she was right that agents from other countries would soon follow. Malcolm only hoped they could get Boney out of Paris and ensure no serious fighting occurred in the city.
“No one here wants another war,” she added.
“Including me,” he agreed.
Nodding, she gestured to the left. “I must go this way to get home.”
He was as excited at the notion of seeing her again as he was having successfully guaranteed his welcome at the Tuileries Palace.
“May I accompany you so I know where to collect you? There is a ball in two nights at the Palais du Luxembourg. I promise I will obtain tickets.”
“You can find me at 29 Rue Coquillière. It is just off the Place des Victoires.”
“In two nights,” he promised. “Eight o’clock.”
She tilted her head, considering him. “You will not come wearing an apron, will you?”
Her humor lifted his spirits. If he had to be far from home, at the beginning of a new conflict, better to be in the company of a charming Parisian girl than with crotchety Versanne.
