The marquise turned to Catherine and Mr. Frampton, who had watched this exchange with a mix of relish (his) and wonder (hers). “Now that your friends have arrived, monsieur, shall we go up?”
“Of course,” he replied, and offered her his arm.
She waved him aside and grasped Lucy’s elbow. “I should like to talk to this young lady a bit more, I think,” she said.
She set a careful pace up the stairs, which Lucy took care to match.
“My ankle has not been the same this decade,” the marquise explained. “The emperor’s reign did not, it turns out, agree with me in every particular.”
They walked a few steps in silence while Lucy’s brain spun, placing new facts alongside the old ones and forging new connections and conclusions. The future had taken on a new but no less ominous cast—and not just for Lucy herself. She cleared her throat as they ascended to the first-floor landing. “I feel I ought to warn you, madame—the Polite Science Society has never admitted women to their membership before. When they realize you are not a man, they may rescind the invitation entirely. And...” she trailed off, took a breath, and plunged forward. “They may be cruelly insulting when they do it.”
The marquise narrowed her dark eyes. “Yes, I noticed how graciously they worded their invitation for tonight’s discussion. I also noticed how openly they questioned the legitimacy of your work. Such clever men, such logical arguments. Mr. Frampton sent me that paper, too. And told me how shamefully they have treated him during this whole business.”
“He is a very prolific correspondent,” Lucy said wryly.
The marquise chuckled. “But an earnest one. He reminds me of my nephews—and a little of myself.” She tossed her head. “Do you know, my grandmother was friends with Voltaire? So many clever men in that generation. I used to sneak down to listen to them sharpen their wits on each other in her salon. Once I was old enough to attend evening parties myself, I learned how vicious things could get when a dozen people are all trying to prove they are the cleverest one in the room. This was long after the great man’s death, of course—but I dare say nobody has proved half as clever since he left us.” Her lips curved with a duelist’s anticipation. “I do hope these Society men have cause to regret all the errors they’ll soon learn they’ve made.”
The lofty room at the top of the stairs was awash with candlelight and cutlery. Windows looked out on the darkened Thames and reflected images of the guests back to themselves. Botanists and chemists and astronomers and naturalists greeted one another after the long year apart, and immediately took up the thread of last year’s arguments. New debates sprouted up with each shift in the crowd, adding to the cacophony. The din lessened briefly as the assembled Fellows took note of Lucy’s arrival, then redoubled itself with vicious interest.
Lucy kept her chin high, though she still felt shaky. The marquise preened like a bird of prey.
Mr. Frampton indicated the raised table at the head of the room, with two podiums and places set to either side. “If you’ll pardon me, ladies, I should present madame la marquise to our host.”
Mr. Hawley was standing guard over one podium, his soft gray hair combed high. He’d chosen court dress for the evening, with breeches and buckles and a formal froth of lace. It made him look distinctly old-fashioned among the crowd, as though he’d stepped out of one of the last century’s portraits where they hung in the gallery.
The marquise nodded to Lucy. “I look forward to our conversation after dinner,” she said. With a touch of her hand, she allowed Mr. Frampton to lead her at a regal pace toward the front of the room.
Catherine asked a discreet question of a footman and learned that the other podium, and the place just beside it, had been reserved for Lucy. Catherine herself had been seated some ways apart with Aunt Kelmarsh. The countess grimaced to hear it, but quickly smoothed out her face and squeezed Lucy’s hands. “It will all come right,” she said. “Remember: you are brilliant.” Her eyes flicked down to Lucy’s mouth, and Lucy wished more than anything that she could steal a kiss for luck.
Afterward, she promised herself, then let go of Catherine’s hands and turned toward her lonely seat.
She slowed and lingered: Mr. Frampton and the marquise were approaching Mr. Hawley, and if Lucy took her own chair she would not have quite such a good view on the encounter.
Mr. Frampton was making the introduction, his face serene but for the fire in his eyes, and as he finished, the marquise held out one gloved hand, as graceful a gesture as Lucy could ever have expected of a French aristocrat. But Mr. Hawley...
Mr. Hawley went flat crimson as realization struck.
The marquise’s hand hovered in midair.
Slowly, as the blood drained out of his face, Mr. Hawley reached out and grasped her hand, bowing over it. He said a few words, and the marquise responded, and allowed the visibly flustered gentleman to lead her over to her seat, beside his.
Mr. Frampton took up the place on Mr. Hawley’s other side, and Lucy hurried forward to take her allotted seat beside the second podium.
For her sins, they’d seated Richard Wilby on her left. Dinner service began, and Lucy moved food around on her plate, put a little in her mouth to taste the sauce, and sipped only slightly at her wine.
Mr. Wilby, on the other hand, was in the highest of spirits, and tucked into his meat with an appetite. “Is the food always this good?” he asked, then immediately smirked and clucked his tongue. “Oh, I’m sorry, Miss Muchelney, I forgot—you’ve never been to a Symposium before.”
“Perhaps I never will again,” she replied, just to see him choke a little in surprise. She sipped her wine again, red as blood. “I can’t imagine they are all as dramatic as this one will surely be.”
He snickered. “That would be difficult, considering that we have never had an imposter as a guest before.”
“Of course you have,” Lucy contradicted breezily. Her fears were dissolving into bubbles that fizzed angrily in her thoughts. Not the wine, but the absurdity of it all had gone to her head. “Mr. Arbuthnot St. John in 1768 was found to have falsified several of his much-discussed experiments in magnetism. They struck him from the Fellowship rolls for his deception. That’s only one instance, of course, but there are several others if you look back through the archives ofPolite Philosophies. Not one of us is truly safe in this company, Mr. Wilby.” She raised her glass in a mocking toast, letting the rim tilt pointedly in his direction.
It took him a long, long moment to swallow that bite of steak.
Lucy warmed to her theme and leaned in conspiratorially. “Tell me: Do you really think I stole my father’s translation? Or did you just think it was a sound rhetorical tactic to increase your own standing in the Society?”
Mr. Wilby sputtered. “I think we have very little proof that the translation is yours, Miss Muchelney.”
