by Diana Quincy
“Three francs!” called the portly Monsieur Henri D’Aubigne, a Parisian writer of middle age she found quite amusing. She saw he stood next to Lucian Verney, a newer arrival to the city who worked for Ambassador Lord Whitworth at the embassy. She made a mental note to introduce herself to the young gentleman soon. Mr. Verney might prove useful.
Several others entered the bidding and drove up the price. In the few months since reopening the Paris house, she’d emerged as a popular hostess and sought-after guest. Elle had always had a way with people, and she intended to use it to her advantage, especially now, with so much at stake. The more people she encountered, the better the chance she’d meet someone of influence who might assist her in her search.
“Eight francs,” called the auctioneer. “Do I have an offer for eight francs for Madame Laurent, the most enchanting of ladies?”
Once the price for the pleasure of her company had grown too steep for many of the early bidders, Duret moved to the front center of the crowd so that he stood only a few feet away from Elle. He dipped his chin, signaling his acceptance of the price to the auctioneer. His emotionless raven gaze held hers, barely concealed desire emanating from his solid, square frame. With his silver-streaked thick, dark hair and strong features, he was not an unattractive man, but the hungry intensity with which he regarded her made the hair stand up on the back of her neck.
“Général Duret bids eight francs for a waltz with the lovely Madame Laurent!” The auctioneer’s words tumbled into each other, belying his nerves now that the powerful police ministry official had entered the fray. “A very generous offer, indeed.”
Elle smothered all outward signs of discomposure and smiled coquettishly. “Oh, la. Surely I am worth more than a mere eight francs.”
The crowd laughed, and a few called out that she was infinitely more valuable.
“Do I have an offer for ten francs?” the auctioneer called without much vigor, clearly expecting the transaction to be at an end given the reputation of the gentleman who’d made the last bid.
“Twenty francs.” The self-assured masculine baritone rang out from somewhere near the back of the room.
Surprised anyone would challenge the powerful general, even in this insignificant way, Elle looked in the direction of the smooth rich voice—obviously that of an Englishman—but couldn’t see to whom it belonged. The man stood near Henri and Mr. Verney but was obscured by the crush of people around them.
The permanent scowl on the general’s face deepened. “Twenty-five,” he said in a voice thick with displeasure.
“Twenty-five francs from Général Duret,” said the auctioneer with obvious relief.
“Forty.”
Duret’s expression hardened. He clasped his hands together and manipulated them until his knuckles cracked, a habit she detested. A murmuring hush swept the crowd as more heads turned toward the back of the room for a glimpse of the man who dared to publicly challenge Napoléon’s malevolent lieutenant.
“We have a bid for forty francs.” The auctioneer blotted perspiration from his forehead with a well-worn graying kerchief that had probably been white once. “Do I have an offer of forty-one, perhaps?” He gazed hopefully at Duret.
The general stared at him for a moment, banked fury evident in his dark eyes. “Alas, non,” he finally said in a light tone. “Sadly, I shall not dance with the lovely lady in public this evening.” The crowd seemed to release its collective breath and the chattering resumed.
Elle stepped aside to make room for the next lady on the auction block and proceeded through the horde, straining for a glimpse of the gentleman who’d paid so outrageously for the privilege of dancing with her. He stood with his back to her, mostly obscured by the crowd, but she caught a glimpse of dark copper hair. Her scalp tingled. There was something about the man…
She reached Henri and Mr. Verney, and her buyer turned. Their gazes met, and her heart dropped like a boulder off a cliff.
Chapter 3
She stared into pale hazel eyes that sent her tumbling back to long-ago summers in Dorset, to salty sea air and the weathered sandstone family home where her happiest memories were kept.
“Hello, Elinor.” Will Naismith’s watchful gaze studied her from behind black-framed spectacles.
“Will.” Shock—and a joy so unanticipated that it confounded her—robbed Elle of the ability to speak. Instead she soaked him in. His face had ripened in the years since she’d last seen him, but his unruly dark copper hair was the same, and he’d retained that off-kilter handsomeness that still provoked a jolt of yearning in her chest.
“Bienvenue, Madame Laurent.” Henri stepped forward and brought her hand to his lips. “As always, you are ravissante this evening.” Only then did she remember to acknowledge the other gentlemen standing with Will, somehow managing to say the appropriate things when Henri introduced her to Mr. Verney.
“I understand you are previously acquainted with our dear Monsieur Naismith.” Henri’s canny red-rimmed eyes studied her from beneath tufted brows.
“Yes.” Her voice sounded very far away to her own ears. She turned to Will, still not quite believing it was him. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m inclined to ask the same of you.” Time had sharpened Will’s features, hardening the high plains of his cheeks and firming the lines of his full lips. His nose was not as straight as it used to be; the slight detour in the bridge suggested he’d broken it since she’d last seen him, which seemed strange for a scholarly man like Will. The change altered his appearance, making him seem less boyish and more unyielding, like a roughly carved objet d’art. She almost smiled because despite his overtly masculine appearance, pale freckles still dusted his nose and cheeks. “I’d understood that you’d…departed…five years ago.”
“I have only recently returned.”
His expression remained inscrutable. “What a happy turn of events.”
“Beg pardon.” Mr. Verney cleared his throat. “How do you two know each other?” Before Elle could answer, she felt a hand brush her lower back.
“Cheri.” Coming to stand next to her, Duret moved a proprietary hand to her elbow. “Won’t you introduce me to the gentleman who paid so handsomely for the opportunity to dance with you?”
“Certainly.” She forced a measured tone. “Général Gerard Duret, allow me to present Monsieur Wilford Naismith, an acquaintance of my brother’s from university.”
“Enchante, monsieur.” He assessed Will with probing dark eyes. “What brings you to Paris?”
“I have private business to attend to.” Will spoke with chilly courtesy.
“Monsieur Naismith is an expert in ancient coinage,” Henri interjected. “He’s in our fair city regarding a numismatic matter.”
“Is that so?” Duret pursed his lips. “Are you in Paris to retrieve something of high value?”
“Hardly.” Will adjusted his spectacles. “I am here in a consultant capacity, to assess whether a piece my colleague wishes to purchase is authentic. Unfortunately, fourrées can be a problem for collectors.”
Duret’s forehead lifted. “Fourrées?”
“Ancient coins plated with precious metal to make them look solid,” Will said. “They are considered less desirable than the real thing.”
“Identifying counterfeits is a difficult task,” Duret said. “Objects, like people, are often not what they appear.”
“Ferreting out the truth is a challenge, but it can be done,” Will answered mildly, as if he hadn’t noted the tension crackling in the air.
“I shall keep that in mind,” Duret said. “In any case, I do hope you will enjoy your stay.”
“I fully expect to,” Will said. “It’s a pleasure to have occasion to enjoy the delights of your city now that the peace has been achieved.”
“I gather Madame Laurent is one of those delights,” Duret said with a strained smile, “considering the high price you have paid for the privilege of taking a turn with her.”
&n
bsp; Will held Duret’s gaze. “Such opportunities are hard to resist when the monies raised go to such a worthy cause.”
“Yes, one likes to do what one can to assist orphans and widows.”
“Especially with such a prize to be won.” Will moved to Elle’s opposite side and offered his arm. “I believe this is my dance.” Beneath her fingers, she felt the warmth of his skin through the fabric of his tailcoat.
Displeasure lined Duret’s face as he watched them touch, albeit through gloves. “Do not let me stop you.”
“I would not dream of it.”
Elle’s heart hammered as he led her away. Few dared to draw Duret’s ire as Will had just done. They strolled toward the doors leading out of the salon, following a stream of other couples to the ballroom, with Elle acutely aware of his masculine presence at her side after all these years.
“You are quiet, as ever,” she ventured.
“I hardly know what to say,” he said. “Except perhaps that death becomes you.”
She sensed a question beneath the cool irony. Where have you been? But she was not prepared to answer, so instead she said, “You shouldn’t have challenged Gerard publicly in that way.”
His arm went rigid beneath her fingers. “You make free with his Christian name.”
She ignored the rebuke, anxious to make him see reason. A scholarly gentleman like Will wouldn’t immediately comprehend how ruthless a blackguard such as Duret could be. “He is dangerous, especially to people who cross him or take what he thinks is his.”
“And are you his?”
Heat stung her cheeks. “You of all people should comprehend I am no one’s mistress but my own.”
“I suppose it is understandable your lover wouldn’t care to share you with another.”
She wanted to protest. To tell him he had it all wrong. But she bit her lip and said nothing. He had no right to judge her, especially not after what he’d put her through.
When they reached the dance floor, Will took her into his arms, and the leathery scent of his shaving soap drifted over her. A heightened sense of awareness at its most corporeal settled between them. His other hand went to her waist, and they moved into the waltz. Will’s dancing had always been a perfunctory endeavor, not something he gave himself over to. The Will she knew wasn’t a social creature; he’d always preferred to lock himself away with his coins and numismatic books and journals. And yet, secure in the steady strength of his embrace as he guided her across the floor, she felt truly safe for the first time in years.
“Where have you been all of this time, Elle?” Genuine worry softened his tone.
Her throat ached. There was so much she longed to tell him. “I was unavoidably detained.”
“Are you being held here against your will?” Urgent concern lit his gaze. “You have only to say the word and I shall see you returned safely to your family.”
Fear rippled through her at the thought of Will facing off against a merciless brute like Duret. “No. I choose to be here. I do not do anything that displeases me.”
A muscle twitched in his cheek. “Yes, and well I know it.” He studied her face intently, as if searching for the truth there. “What I fail to understand is how being away from your father and brother—who’ve been devastated by your supposed demise—could possibly please you.”
Guilt twisted in her chest for having failed the people she loved most in the world. “Why are you surprised?” She spoke sharply, the bitterness of their parting still vivid in her memory. “You’ve always believed me to be inconstant.”
He pressed his lips inward. “What an interesting way to characterize what transpired between us.”
She remembered it all too well. Especially the silences. The painful memories cut through her like an ax. “I’m surprised you recall it at all.”
He exhaled loudly through his nose. “What passed between us is hardly something I could forget.”
They moved in silence, both of them suffused in their own emotions. The music―a triumphant revelry that paid tribute to the revolution―swirled around them, the sharpest notes seeming to punctuate their embittered feelings. When the music came to an end, they broke apart and he offered a stiff elbow to escort her from the ballroom.
“What shall I tell your father?” The controlled words were edged with the anger she’d felt rising in him throughout the dance. “And your brother, who happens to be one of my oldest friends?”
“If you wish to shield them, you will tell them nothing.” Soon enough, they would all know how unnatural she was. “They have already mourned me. Leave things as they are.” For now.
He turned his head sharply to look at her; his disbelief was palpable. “What the devil is the matter with you? Do you honestly believe no one from back home will eventually recognize you and send word to your father?”
Of course it was bound to happen. Now that the peace had been signed and Britons were flocking to Paris to enjoy its delights, it was only a matter of time before someone recognized her, as Will had this evening. But she was determined to remedy the disaster her perfidy had wrought before facing her family’s disappointment when they learned of her terrible failing. And she had no doubt they would eventually learn of it. “I will send word to my family in my own time and in my own way.”
“How do you think Aldridge will react when he learns that his daughter lives but hasn’t bothered to inform him?”
“I’m afraid it cannot be helped.” Unable to meet his shocked gaze, she stared blindly ahead. “Urgent matters keep me in Paris.”
“And what matters are those?”
“Matters of a private nature.”
“I see.” The words were soaked with disdain. “I can well imagine who that private business might concern.” They’d reached the edge of the ballroom, and he stepped away from her, offering an abrupt bow before turning stiffly away.
Watching him go, she leaned shakily against a nearby column and released a long, shuddering breath. Will. A sharp, sweet pain throbbed in her chest.
If only he knew the truth. But it was better that he did not, because if he did, he would hate her all the more.
—
The following day, Elle sat in her breakfast room with the ironed morning newspaper untouched by her side, sipping her tea and nibbling on a piece of toast. Her usually healthy appetite, unladylike as it was, had deserted her this morning.
She absently turned the ancient Cleopatra coin in her hand. The piece had become something of a talisman, and she’d kept it close all of these years. It was cool to the touch, the patina intact, exactly as it had been when Will had given the piece to her. He’d always said the value of ancient coins could be ruined if someone cleaned them the wrong way.
She ran her thumb over the ragged surface. It wasn’t surprising Will had come to Paris to pursue his old obsession; ancient currency had always been far more important to him than anyone or anything, including her. Regardless, she regretted not accepting his proposal all those years ago. How different life would have been. Perhaps she would never have discovered how broken she was inside.
“Won’t you invite me to join you in breaking the fast?” Duret’s gravelly voice sounded from the threshold behind her.
She suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. The general enjoyed calling on her at inappropriate times, but she endured his boorish behavior because he might prove useful in her search.
She slipped the coin into her pocket. “By all means,” she said pleasantly, signaling her footman to set another place at the table. Duret claimed the seat at her right while his man, Jean Paul, who went everywhere with his master, stood stiff-spined against the wall behind the general, his gaze fixed straight ahead.
The Frenchman helped himself to a piece of toast from her plate and took a hearty bite, chewing it with gusto.
“It is hardly gentlemanly to call upon a lady in the morning,” she said lightly.
“I have never claimed to be one of your aristocrats.” Her footman cam
e forward to pour his coffee. “Indeed, since the great revolution your so-called gentlemen are in short supply.”
“Yes, Madame Guillotine certainly saw to that.”
He sipped the hot liquid. “Most efficiently.”
“Are you going to enlighten me as to what brings you to my door at this ungodly hour?”
“I have a proposition for you.” He shifted to allow the footman to place a meal of eggs fried in butter, beans, and pork crepinettes before him.
“Oh?” Elle carefully returned her floral porcelain cup in its saucer. “And what might that be?”
Duret signaled for her footman to leave the room. With a nod from her, he acquiesced, closing the door behind him. As always, Duret’s man remained by his master’s side.
“As much as the thought of sharing you with another pains me,” Duret said. “The time has come.”
She tensed. “Share me with another?”
“I fully intend to seduce you one day.” He ran a beefy finger over her bare forearm. Suppressing a shudder, she sent up a prayer of gratitude for the rumored war injury that robbed Duret of his ability to perform certain manly functions.
At first she’d been puzzled by his restraint—Duret was not a man who denied himself—until she’d understood the reason for it. According to her enterprising maid, Sophie, the general frequented a discreet brothel where clients with very particular, and often depraved, tastes were entertained.
It wasn’t just that Duret enjoyed rough play in the bedchamber; the whores gossiped about his desperate fury when the doxies failed to resurrect that which had long lain dormant. Elle surmised Duret’s quick temper and rumored ruthlessness arose from his frustration at being unmanned. Somehow, rumors of his malady had not circulated in society, likely due to fears of harsh reprisals.
“I cannot explain my infatuation,” he continued. “You are no great beauty, and that body of yours could certainly use some padding.”
She shifted her arm away. “You’ll turn my head with such compliments.”