The Secret of Flirting

by Sabrina Jeffries

  No, she was Monique Servais—he would stake his life on it. Though it made no sense.

  “I’ll admit, Your Serene Highness,” he went on, “that I recognized you even without the introduction.” He waited until she paled, then added, “From your portrait in the Lady’s Monthly Museum.”

  “Someone did a portrait of me?” she said, sounding incredulous. “I don’t recall sitting for one.”

  “I believe they simply copied an older painting of you. Though it didn’t do you justice.”

  She shot her great-uncle a veiled glance. “An older painting of me. How interesting.”

  “It hardly deserved the title of ‘painting,’ ” Beaumonde said, avoiding her gaze. “Terrible likeness. I agree with you there, Fulkham.”

  “Thank you, Uncle, but you’re biased.” The woman fluttered her fan before her face exactly as she had three years before, cementing Gregory’s suspicions. “And I daresay I can hardly trust the opinion of a diplomat like Lord Fulkham either, since such men excel at giving compliments.”

  “Not always.” Gregory fixed her with a hard look. “Sometimes we manage to step awry. Especially when confronted with a woman who stoops to conquer.”

  If she caught the reference to their discussion of Goldsmith’s play in Dieppe, she gave no indication. “I assure you, sir,” she said in the melodic tones he remembered only too well, “I have not come to London to conquer anyone.”

  “Except those of us attending the conference,” Gregory said smoothly. “And you’ve made a good start, too.” He glanced about the room. “Judging from the way everyone is looking at you, your beauty alone has the delegates smitten.”

  “You see?” Beaumonde said jovially to the woman. “He’s quite the flatterer.”

  “In my line of work, it’s called diplomacy,” Gregory drawled. “And speaking of diplomacy, perhaps Her Serene Highness would wish to take a turn about the palace garden with me so I can make a more informal assessment of her ability to reign as queen of Belgium.”

  “An excellent idea!” the count cried. “She would be happy to accompany you. Wouldn’t you, my dear?”

  The faux princess’s eyes frosted over. “I would, indeed,” she said, then glanced at the doors, “but I believe they’re about to announce that dinner is served.”

  “Not for a while yet,” Gregory said. “Trust me, I asked.” He always liked to know the schedule of an evening, the shape of the party . . . how to plan his maneuvers.

  And one way or the other, he meant to get to the bottom of this mystery. Because an impostor playing the Princess de Chanay wasn’t acceptable. There was too much at stake—for Belgium and for him—with this conference.

  “Well, then,” she said with a furtive glance at the count. “I would be delighted, monsieur.”

  Somehow he doubted that.

  Monique fought panic as Lord Fulkham expertly maneuvered them through the crowded rooms of St. James’s Palace toward the garden. Curse the count for throwing her to the wolves! And after he’d said he and Lady Ursula would always be at her side, too!

  She should have known not to trust him. Ever since they left Calais she’d had the sense that he was hiding something. But she hadn’t expected him to sabotage her masquerade after he’d gone to such trouble to set it up. Could he not see that Lord Fulkham was baiting him? Baiting her?

  Probably not. To be fair, he didn’t know of her former association with Lord Fulkham. He must never find out, either. Because she had to secure help for Grand-maman in her final days, and this pretense was the only way to do so.

  But why, oh why, did Lord Fulkham have to be the man at the center of these proceedings? And why must he have recognized her? All his veiled remarks and his intense scrutiny—he remembered her. She was sure of it.

  And why hadn’t the count warned her that there was a portrait of Aurore in the Lady’s Monthly Museum? She must finagle a chance to see it. She dearly hoped it was indeed of poor quality, and not a likeness that highlighted the few ways in which she and Aurore did not resemble each other.

  When they reached the garden, her heart sank to see it so deserted. Apparently she hadn’t been the only one to think dinner might soon be served. Even the band they’d heard playing out here earlier had packed up and moved inside, closer to the banqueting room.

  You can handle this, she told herself. You’re an acclaimed actress, for God’s sake. This is what you do—play roles. You’ve even played a princess before. So get to it, and show this pompous gentleman what you’re made of.

  She went on the offensive. “Please forgive me if this is rude, Lord Fulkham, but I’m confused by what my uncle said concerning your part in these negotiations. I was unaware that undersecretaries were of such profound importance in English politics. I thought they were little better than clerks.”

  If she’d thought to insult him, his laugh showed that she’d failed. “Some of them are. It just so happens that England has two kinds. I’m the political kind. Especially with the foreign secretary laid up in bed.” He cast her a searching glance. “You have a better knowledge of English affairs than I expected.”

  She had her half-English grandfather to thank for that. He’d always kept up with politics in his mother’s country. “And you, monsieur, have a better facility for ‘diplomacy’ than I expected. I think my uncle is right. You do have a silver tongue.”

  “I hope not. It would make it awfully hard to eat,” he quipped.

  A laugh sputtered out of her. Curse him. She didn’t remember him having a humorous side. “You are very droll, monsieur.”

  “And you are very . . . different,” he said.

  She tensed. “From what?”

  “From what I expected. I’d heard that the Princess of Chanay was a rather haughty young lady.”

  She had no idea if Aurore was haughty. Though it would stand to reason. Weren’t all princesses haughty?

  Not the way Monique played them. And it didn’t matter how Aurore really was. According to the count, no one outside Chanay had ever met the princess, so Lord Fulkham couldn’t be sure what she was like. He was merely trying to catch the woman he had met in an error.

  Which meant she must be as different from Monique Servais as possible, to throw him off guard, make him doubt his eyes. Monique Servais had given him the sharper side of her tongue, so Princess Aurore must be engaging, flirtatious.

  “A man like you should know better than to listen to rumor,” she told him.

  “Actually, rumor is my life’s blood. There’s generally a bit of truth in every piece of gossip. It’s my job to find out which bits are true and which bits are trumped-up lies.” He led her down a path. “For example, I heard that you were partial to theatrical entertainments. Is that the case?”

  Curse the fellow, he’d heard no such thing. He was just baiting her again.

  She fought the urge to stiffen, keeping her grip on his arm deliberately loose. “I enjoy the occasional play, yes. Doesn’t everyone?”

  “It depends. I like plays, but only tragedies.” He shot her a veiled look. “Comedies set my teeth on edge.”

  She remembered only too well his ridiculous opinion of comedies. “I prefer operas,” she said lightly. “Doesn’t matter to me what the story is about as long as there’s singing. Do you enjoy the opera, monsieur?”

  That seemed to catch him off guard, for he frowned. “Not at all, I’m afraid. In real life people don’t speak to each other in arias.”

  “In real life people do not dress so lavishly to do their marketing, either, but one can still enjoy seeing such attire in that setting on the stage.”

  “Yes, those powdered wigs are quite entertaining,” he drawled. “Especially when the actors and actresses are running in and out of the boudoir.”

  She could feel his eyes on her. Clearly he was referencing Le mariage de Figaro directly. Silly man. As if that would make her lose control and spill her secrets. “Oh, I do like that kind of opera myself. Otello is so dramatic. And that s
cene in Desdemona’s boudoir makes me weep every time.”

  He halted to eye her closely. “You’ve seen Rossini’s Otello?”

  “Of course. In Paris. It was quite moving.”

  A triumphant look crossed his face. “I thought you rarely left Chanay.”

  Too late she remembered what the count had told her about Aurore’s secluded life. She scrambled to cover her error. “That’s true—I rarely do. But Maman took me to Paris to see Otello once when I was a girl. It’s her favorite opera.”

  “You said that it ‘makes me weep every time.’ That implies you’ve seen it more than once.”

  Her heart thundered in her chest. “I meant ‘every time I think of the scene.’ I misspoke. English is not my native tongue, you know.” She tipped up her chin. “And why do you dissect my words so, monsieur? Is it necessary for the prospective queen of Belgium to speak your language perfectly?”

  “That’s not why I ‘dissect’ your words, as you are well aware.”

  Merde, obviously he’d figured her out. She would have to tread carefully or else he would swallow her up, and with her, all her hopes for her and Grand-maman’s future. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “Come now, mademoiselle.” He leaned close enough to show the hardening planes of his face. “It’s time that you relinquish this pretense. You and I both know that you are Monique Servais and not the Princess of Chanay at all.”

  Three

  Gregory had expected guilt. Shock that he’d found her out. Horror that he’d actually confronted her over it.

  He had not expected the damned woman to laugh at him, long and loud, before saying, “Who on earth is Mona Servet?”

  “Monique Ser— Damn it, you know whom I mean. You. You’re Monique Servais.”

  Eyes twinkling, she cocked her head at him. “Oh? Tell me more. Why do you think I am not myself and instead am . . . am . . .” She waved her hand airily. “Some Frenchwoman.”

  “What makes you think she’s French?” he countered.

  That made her falter, but so briefly he could almost think he’d imagined it. Except that he hadn’t.

  “Servais is a French name,” she said stoutly.

  “Actually, there are Servaises in Belgium, Sweden, Luxembourg, and Canada, as well as Dieppe, France.”

  She didn’t even blink at the mention of Dieppe. “Are there? I had no idea. Nor do I care. This Monique Servais is nothing to me.” She arched an eyebrow. “And you still have not told me why you think I am she.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest, annoyed. This wasn’t going as expected. “So you intend to brazen it out, do you?”

  “Brazen what out? That I am some other woman pretending to be Princess Aurore? The idea is absurd.”

  “I agree. But true, nonetheless.”

  She shook her head. “You, monsieur, are quite mad.”

  When she turned on her heel as if to head back inside, he caught her by the arm. “No more mad than you and the count if you think you can perpetrate a deception of such proportions without consequence.”

  A cool smile crossed her lips as she faced him once more. Oh so delicately, she removed his hand from her arm. “Why would my country attempt such a thing at this critical moment in the negotiations? You must realize that such a tactic would be ludicrous.”

  “It would be, indeed. Which is why I must know the reason for it.”

  “You tell me. I have no idea.” As if to erase the feel of him, she rubbed her arm where he’d been gripping it. “But you must have some theory.”

  Sadly, he didn’t. He could think of no reason for the subterfuge. Yet.

  “Well?” she prodded, obviously sensing the weak point in his argument.

  He threw out the first thing that came to him. “Perhaps the princess is dead. And Chanay doesn’t want to lose its chance at having Belgium in its pocket.”

  “The princess isn’t dead.” Just as he was about to pounce on that slip, she added, “She’s standing right before you.” Then she fluttered her fan again in what he’d come to realize was a telltale indication of her nervousness. “And if she were dead, then how could anyone reasonably expect her to be made queen of Belgium? Unless you believe that the Rocheforts mean to put an impostor on the throne. Not only would they be risking the royal line, but such a conspiracy would require my subjects—excuse me, the princess’s subjects, according to you—to accept another woman in her place.”

  Another woman. Gregory kept waiting for her to forget herself and say, “an actress,” which he had deliberately not mentioned as the impostor’s profession, but so far Mademoiselle Servais had been better at maintaining her role than he would have expected.

  So Gregory fell back on his usual tactics—fix her with a stare, keep his silence, and wait for her to crumble. Unfortunately, she seemed to be familiar with the strategy, because she did the same thing to him. And as the silence between them lengthened, it gave him time to look her over, to remind himself of her sensuous curves, to be drawn in by her beauty.

  Damn her.

  Meanwhile, she’d shown no sign of being the least affected by him in that way. Though she was an actress, which meant that showing no sign of her true feelings was her forte.

  Apparently growing emboldened by his silence, she snapped, “Have you no answer to that?”

  It was his move now. He’d best make it a good one. “For all I know, the Rocheforts do intend to put an impostor on the throne—someone they can manipulate, someone they can control. The real princess is not such a person. And there is a resemblance between the two of you, after all, which might even be good enough to fool the citizens of Chanay.”

  As he’d hoped, that seemed to startle her. The only reason this subterfuge was working was that no one outside Chanay had ever met the real princess. Including him. But Mademoiselle Servais needn’t know that.

  “Are you saying that you and I have met before?” Her voice was strained. “Because I do not remember that. And I think I would remember a man of your sort visiting Chanay.”

  He gritted his teeth to hear her persist in the deception still. “Of course we’ve met before, as you well know. Not in Chanay but in Dieppe, where you lived as Mademoiselle Servais.”

  That didn’t seem to faze her. “So you have not met me, then. And all your talk about the ‘real’ princess not being able to be manipulated is just . . . what? Speculation? Because you have some notion that I am this woman in Dieppe?”

  “It’s not a notion, damn it!”

  He caught himself. The chit was annoyingly adept at making him lose control of his temper. And if he’d learned anything from his youth with Father, it was that controlling one’s emotions was essential. Not only in his position, but in every aspect of life.

  Forcing a measure of calm into his voice, he asked, “Why would I invent such a thing?”

  “Because you once encountered a woman who looks like me, and have mixed us up.” A brittle smile crossed her lips. “You saw that poor likeness of me in the Lady’s Monthly Museum and think that I look different. But men do not realize how easy it is for a woman to change her appearance merely with a touch of rouge to brighten the cheeks, a bit of kohl to darken the eyebrows. We can make them doubt their very eyes just with our crème pots. And we often do.”

  True. Most men were unaware of such female secrets. But he was not just any man. Secrets were his game.

  “How interesting that you should mention cosmetics,” he said, “when I would imagine a princess of your standing is forbidden to wear them. But Mademoiselle Servais wore them all the time. She was an opera singer.”

  Would she correct him? He watched her expression, but she gave nothing away.

  Instead, she broke into a smile. “An opera singer? How droll! Comic or dramatic opera?”

  “That is hardly relevant.”

  She made a face. “No, I suppose not. But it is no wonder you are confused. An opera singer wears wigs and face paint and patches. How could you even
tell what she looked like?”

  He tried another untruth. “I saw her without all of that.”

  Only the sudden sharpening of her smile betrayed her reaction. “Did you?”

  “Yes. Though even if I hadn’t, I never forget a face, cosmetic changes or no. And I noticed Mademoiselle Servais’s prominent chin in particular. The real princess has a very small chin, nothing like the opera singer’s.”

  She laughed. “That is the source of your evidence? My chin? You do realize, sir, that no woman wishes to have, as you call it, ‘a prominent chin.’ So of course I asked the artist to reshape my chin for the painting. Even a princess wants to appear beautiful in her portraits.”

  “You know damned well that you’re beautiful, prominent chin and all,” he snapped. “You’re certainly more beautiful than Princess Aurore.”

  “I’m not sure how that’s possible, given that I am the princess.” Her eyes shone merrily in the lamps of the garden. “But I shall take the compliment regardless.”

  God, she was as sly as a courtesan, and twice as tempting. “If you didn’t, I’d be shocked, since you didn’t seem to mind such compliments when I paid them before.” He tried to provoke her with another lie, crowding her in and lowering his voice to a murmur. “You didn’t mind anything we did before.”

  She blinked. That had shaken her. “Oh? Are you saying that this Mademoiselle Servais was your . . . paramour?”

  “Can you claim otherwise?”

  As if she knew what he was about, she met his gaze coolly. “Of course not. I am not she. What do I care if you have ten paramours?”

  He considered his choices. He could give up the fight for now, and see what he could find out. Which might be difficult, given that even the very respectable Beaumonde was obviously part of the plot.

  Or he could act to throw her off her game entirely. Because if he kissed her, the actress wouldn’t dare call out for help from the guests—she wouldn’t risk his voicing his suspicions before an audience. But she might lose her temper and give him what for. She hadn’t liked him, after all.