Gigi wiggles her eyebrows, and we grin like idiots for a few seconds.
“Did she sign up to be an extra?”
Gigi’s grin reaches her ears. “Giselle Fisher is one of the seven women who paid ten grand to be your Elizabeth.”
“I’ll be damned! Which day?”
“Saturday, the final show.”
I lift my eyes to the ceiling. “God, give me patience!”
“You’ll need to flirt with her rather energetically to get her to invite you to visit her little museum as soon as possible after the show.”
“I’ve always found ‘energetic’ flirting counterproductive,” I say. “It comes across as clumsy, pushy, vulgar, or all those at once.”
“As a woman, I couldn’t agree more. But… you’re Mr. Darcy.” She flutters her eyelids theatrically, pressing both hands to her heart.
Riiight.“The ultimate Regency hero.”
“Better than that, Jonas! Giselle has been in love with Mr. Darcy for as long as she’s been in love with his era.”
I quirk an eyebrow. “Could it be that she loves the erabecauseshe loves the character?”
“Yes, but it could also be the other way around, according to what MESS dug up. It’s a chicken and egg situation.”
“Actually,” I say, “it doesn’t matter which came first. What matters is that Giselle comes with tons of goodwill for Mr. Darcy.”
“Primed and Prejudiced!”
While I hoot, Gigi hugs herself and rubs her arms.
I realize how cold this room is. “Come on, the secret part of this meeting is over,” I say and open the door. “I’m taking you to the kitchen for some tea and sandwiches.”
“This was your lunch break, wasn’t it?” she asks perceptively, following me out the door.
“Yes, Ma’am! And I’m starving.”
“I’ll leave you to it, then.” She points at her watch. “I’m having lunch with a friend. Just remember, the faster you intervene, the less time you-know-who will have to intercept.”
I incline my head. “I’ll flirt as vigorously as I can, short of discombobulating the lady.”
“That’s the spirit, Count d’Alenq!”
Gigi waves goodbye and heads to the back exit with her bodyguard in tow.
CHAPTER8
JONAS
It’s Friday lunchtime. I’m in my room, starved for food and quiet. There’s a familiar knock on the door.
I call, “Come in!”
Mrs. Everly enters, carrying a tray loaded with home-cooked food and drink.
She sets the mouthwatering fare on my desk and shoots me a crooked smile. “Fed up with that pizza, eh, my lord?”
“God, you have no idea!”
