“Oui, I do, for a subject. Mais, il y a… there is something personal in your paintings, and it affects me so. Do you understand? It is, euh, that I feel I am intruding on, privé, euh, your private grief?”
It was the most she had ever heard Geordy speak at once. The French phrased in questions when they felt apologetic or timid. He was clearly uncomfortable.
He added, “You have, euh, perdu — lost something? You are grieving? En effet, just a moment ago I see your face, you remembered something douloureaux, painful?”
“Everyone suffers, Geordy,” she dismissed. “You should turn your pen to Moreau’s Orpheus. A guaranteed publishing contract, there.”
Another French noise, the snort. “I do not treat beheadings, Lise. Non, merci.”
At that she had to laugh, and he broke into an easy smile and twirled her around. He drew her a little nearer and gently kissed her head, in her hair by her temple. Geordy stood only an inch or so taller than she, so she saw his fond smile for her.
“Thank you, Geordy, for rescuing me so quickly.”
Apparently Geordy was finished pontificating. He nodded and winked.
“I am sorry I deprived your court of your company.” A few of the ladies he had left were still shooting her looks of displeasure.
“Euh. They will still be there later, or not.”
They danced a while longer, then Geordy said askance, “It is your innocence, you know, that provoque? Provokes them so.”
“Hmm. What?”
“See, you are très belle, magnifique vraiment, but you do not seem to know it. And you have never been with a man, je crois?”
Alysia rapped him on the shoulder with her fan. “Geordy! You are too bold!”
“Ah, I see it is so. Je peux le sentir, and they can smell it too, you know. It puts them on the hunt for you.”
“Absurd.”
“I think not. I am French. Je sais. I know these things. Mais, n’ayez pas peur. I will not hunt you, compris? I know you do not like me.”
She returned his teasing smile. “How do you know, Geordy? Maybe I do like you, and I am plotting your seduction as we speak.”
“Say the word, ma belle!” He twirled her around again with a short laugh. “Je crois… but I believe you left your heart in England, ma chérie.”
“On the contrary I have no heart, only the blackened soul required of a woman in my circumstance.”
Geordy kissed her hair again. “You do not wish to claim any of these willing protectors?” He swept his eyes around the room as though any one of the men there were hers for the taking.
“Decidedly, no.”
“Alors, I supposed you were hunting for a situation. Mme. Desmarais indicates as much, je crois? And these unlucky gentlemen, they think they have a chance, no?”
“Madame Desmarais? What do you mean?”
“Bien sûr, madame helps ladies find les bienfaiteurs — benefactors. I supposed you will be une courtesane, like your famous mother?” He puzzled at her aghast expression, “That is not why you are the protégé of Mme. Desmarais?”
“No, Geordy! Not at all! I do not wish it in the least.”
“Je m’excuse, Lise. I meant no offense. I assume… euh, compris?” he trailed sheepishly.
“I am not cross with you. But I am distressed to hear you think I am seeking a career as a courtesan. You said Mme. Desmarais says I am?”
“Bien, oui. That is what she does. Many of les célèbres courtesans in Paris began with Mme. Desmarais as a sponsor.”
“Oh?” Alysia hid her alarm. Why had Mme. Desmarais never said so?
“I imagine these men here think they are bidding for you ce soir.”
Bidding? Like a cattle auction? Or the slave block? The waltz ended, and Geordy led her off the floor. Alysia grasped his arm to hold herself steady.
“You may like a drink?” He seemed amused by her clinging to his side for dear life while other men began to close in on her. She nodded, and Geordy led her to the refreshment table. Surely Mme. Desmarais would not set her up as a courtesan? Alysia had no recollection of ever discussing it. Had she not been aware of some protocol or custom that obliged her without her knowledge?
“Lise, ma chére, you are distressed?” He pried her fingers from his arm.
“Yes. No. I am fine, thank you. Only surprised I am the last to hear I am on the market, as you say.”
“Peut-être it is not so bad, euh?” Geordy gestured with his head toward the guests in the room. “You shall have your pick of them, ma belle. And you should be choosy. I hear talk of an important English lord vient d’arriver. They say he is very rich, and even more handsome. And unmarried, toutefois. Perhaps you may fall for him? ”
“I don’t want a man.”
Another French snort. “Do not want a man? You mean you like women? Très intéressant. D’accord, c’est Paris,” he said with a dismissive flourish of his hand.
Alysia rapped him again with her fan. “No, you scoundrel. Not that either. I have an inheritance; I have no need of a protector.”
“Ah, you think you will live without love? Money instead!” He scoffed. “Tiens! You are not French, and I cannot understand you!” He threw his hands up in a gesture of resignation, and Alysia smiled.
Evigny approached with a gentleman she hadn’t met, while Leduc and Ramsgate followed close behind. Alysia spied Mme. Desmarais trying to catch her attention from across the room. She pointed with her fan, and Alysia tried to look in that direction but couldn’t see through the crowd. Geordy apologized, saying Mme. Desmarais was shooing him away, then left her side.
Perhaps the people around her were speaking; she couldn’t say, for she was momentarily stunned and not sure why. Then she heard the voice again. A British, bass voice. “Excuse me, pardon.”
Was it her imagination? She shook her head.
Evigny and Ramsgate were pushed aside, and there stood Andrew, a head taller than the others and gloriously angry. Her heart stalled then kicked. She couldn’t breathe.
He gave her a low, formal bow. Pressed a slow kiss on the back of her gloved hand before turning it to press the palm to his face. Closed his eyes and inhaled deeply at her wrist. Grazed his nose along the inside of her forearm, as though hundreds of eyes were not observing.
One of the men nearby, probably Ramsgate, scoffed, “And without an introduction! Such presumption! Come now, who is—”
“We have met,” Andrew took her glass, and for the second time that evening, Leduc found himself holding it while another man cut in.
“Andrew.” Her voice caught, and her throat felt swollen. A dozen gasps sounded around her, seeming to echo.
She became aware of a chorus of lowered voices. “That is Lord Preston!” or jealously, “How does he know Miss Villier?” said as though her name meant horse manure.
“Lord Preston, The King of Threadneedle Street.”
“Lord Preston, youngest peer to sit in the House of Lords.”
All hail Lord Preston, the demi-god. Who should not be here.
She was suddenly conscious of how she must look to him, no longer the plump, modest country maiden to whom he had bid farewell over a year before. After a year of Madame Desmarais’ strict diet of vegetable juices, sprouts, and deprivation of sweets, Alysia was a noticeable one or two stone lighter. She thought she was an inch taller, as well.
But that wasn’t mortifying. Alysia resisted the urge to cover herself with her fan. She didn’t want him to see the pleated silver bodice in translucent gossamer, wasp-waist corset and low Parisian décolleté. Wisps of gossamer—a poor excuse for sleeves—sat low on her arms, exposing her shoulders and half her back. The cosmetics, the exotic perfume, her hair coiffed in semi-dishabille topped with jeweled combs…
She must truly look a harlot to him. Did he think so? He was certainly staring.
Ignoring the protests of her so-called admirers, he led her to the dance floor just in time for the next waltz, oblivious to her wooden movements. He pulled
their dance position completely closed. Pressed against him from shoulder to knee — oh, the shock! His thighs rubbed hers, leading the steps as he had over a year before at his sister’s wedding. It seemed ages ago.
Constrained in the corset, she couldn’t draw a clear breath. If the dizziness grew worse, she would faint in his arms. At least his shoulder blocked her view of the room. Alysia had no desire to survey all the curious and accusing glares she knew were aimed at her.
Oh, why did Andrew have to appear this evening? She felt like an opium addict locked in a closet saturated with the scent, smoke, and juice. Tentatively his fingers moved over the exposed skin of her back, across her shoulders, blazing a sensation strangely like fire and ice together. His head turned a little and rested against hers. He hummed softly in her ear as though it was perfectly ordinary that they should be waltzing at a ball in Paris on a random autumn evening.
It seemed pointless to say, Hello, Drew. What on earth are you doing here?
What she feared would sprout from her mouth: I have missed you every day, all four hundred forty-nine of them. But there was also, Your father will have my head for this!
Instead she said nothing.
Alysia silently reacquainted herself with Andrew; the way her head fit in the hollow of his shoulder, the rhythm of his breath, and the soothing heat of his hands. She matched his movements, letting him guide the dance with the pressure of his legs on hers and the firm messages sent through his hands. At home she had grown accustomed to his familiar scent of balsam, leather, clean starch, and the natural musk of his skin, but stripped of immunity she now drank it in greedily.
The stray thought came to her that she was nineteen now, and his twenty-and-second birthday had passed only a week earlier on November the fifth. “Happy birthday, Drew.” She hadn’t meant to sound dejected.
“Hmm?”
“Your birthday.”
“Oh, hmm.”
Apparently he wasn’t feeling chatty. It discomfited her, being held so closely, a sensory overload she was ill-equipped to handle.
“Did you like the present I sent for your birthday?” he finally said. “It was a little late.”
“My mother’s amethysts?” Of course. Whom else? “I should have known. Yes, Drew, I was beside myself with joy. I can’t imagine how you did it, but thank you.” She turned her head to give him a swift kiss on the neck since she couldn’t reach anything higher at the moment.
“Hmm,” he sighed at the touch of her lips. Perhaps he was as undone as she. He slid his fingers between hers, their hands still outstretched in dance position.
She closed her eyes against the thrill. Heaven help me.
In a few minutes the waltz would be over and she would have to gather her wits. However welcome a sight, Andrew shouldn’t be there. And now that Alysia knew she was possibly being sold to one of the revolting men here like a common slave, she would have to decide what to do about it, and quickly. She had promised Lord Courtenay she wouldn’t pursue Lord Preston. Before he had understood she meant to comply, the marquess had threatened to use his influence to blacklist her or complicate her inheritance if she rescinded. He hadn’t said it in so many words, but his meaning was quite clear.
“Are you aware of your dangerous situation this evening, Lisa?”
She startled then resigned herself to being the last to know her own business. “I was warned of it only moments ago by a friend.”
“Then you know you must part company with Madame Desmarais?”
“Yes…” But how?
“Then I suggest you take Lady Chauncey’s offer to stay with her for a while.”
“But she has made no such offer, Drew.”
He twirled her across the floor to the southeast corner where Lady Chauncey sat. It only took a moment for her to look up and see them. She nodded in response to Lord Preston’s expectant gaze then lifted a crimson satin fan with her right hand to cover her face, meaning, Come with me. She ran a finger through the ribbing, I must speak with you.
“She has now. I hope you have the good sense to accept.”
“I…” She hesitated, feeling run over.
“Accept,” he commanded. “Unless you prefer becoming Paris’ favorite tart.” He pushed her away and raked his eyes accusingly over every inch of her from head to toe. Alysia felt herself heat.
“Of course I accept,” she snapped. “Lady Chauncey is most kind.” Alysia turned to catch Lady Chauncey’s eye once more and acknowledged her acceptance by resting her fan on her right cheek to mean Yes. Lady Chauncey clasped her hands and smiled knowingly at another lady at her side, whom Alysia recognized as the regal and stylish Lady Lambrick.
Alysia also spied Mme. Desmarais, watching her and Lord Preston with eager satisfaction. She would imagine that Alysia had quickly snared herself the top prize. Alysia could only imagine her mentor’s disappointment when she learned otherwise.
Andrew saw her glance toward Mme. Desmarais. “Vile woman. I didn’t believe she was actually collecting bids until I saw for myself.”
“What?”
“Over 250,000 francs, last I heard.” Alysia scoffed, but he paid her no heed. “Hmm, that would be, roughly ten thousand pounds.”
“Outrageous!”
“Yes, I know. That is why I bid twenty. I don’t like competition, when I have my heart set on the prize.”
Alysia pulled back and sputtered, “What? How? You—you bought me?”
Andrew nodded with a smile across the room to Mme. Desmarais, who rested her fan on her right cheek: Yes. She beamed in satisfaction, and Alysia couldn’t believe it. It was true, then. Andrew bowed at the end of the waltz and led her to the front of the room.
“That is…” Andrew signaled to a brute-sized footman waiting against a wall. “She thinks that is the case.” The footman approached Mme. Desmarais. Lady Chauncey rose and came toward Alysia. “But only for twenty seconds longer.”
He wore a little smirk while Mme. Desmarais read the note Andrew’s footman delivered. Lady Chauncey cooed a greeting as she took Alysia’s other arm. Mme. Desmarais looked up in horror at Lord Preston, her mouth agape.
Andrew shot her a jaunty salute as he strode past the entrance and out through the doors with Alysia and Lady Chauncey.
Alysia could scarcely believe what had just taken place.
“You need not concern yourself with Madame Desmarais,” Andrew said cheerfully. “Robert will fetch your things and bring them to Lady Chauncey’s house this evening.” Andrew didn’t wait half a minute for his carriage to be brought to the front doors. He handed the ladies inside and sat next to Alysia on the bench. Lady Chauncey didn’t even bat an eye at the impropriety.
“Andrew, what happened just now?”
“A rescue, of sorts.”
Alysia glanced between Andrew and Lady Chauncey, both looking rather smug. “What did you do to Madame Desmarais?”
“It is not my business if the woman wants to arrange situations for consenting women. However, I have a problem with slaving.”
Alysia wondered what was so horrifying in that note. “I hope you aren’t doing anything illegal, Drew.”
“You mean threats of bodily harm or blackmail? Nonsense. Much easier to attack my enemy where it counts. The wallet.”
Lady Chauncey gave a prim humf in agreement.
“Andrew…” Alysia warned.
“Don’t worry, Lisa. I only shifted around some capital and placed it where it would concern Mme. Desmarais’ finances, should I put pressure on certain stockholders to move certain holdings. They would, if I ordered it. I merely made her aware of the precarious situation.”
“That is extortion!”
“No! Selling an innocent girl as a whore for twenty-thousand pounds—that is a crime, not to mention what she planned to do to force your compliance. I merely explained to madame what she had gotten herself into and informed her of what would take place if she ever attempts this sort of thing again.”
After a thick
silence, Alysia asked, “Where are we going?”
“We—all of us—are going to Lady Chauncey’s house on rue de Jardinet.”
“Lady Chauncey,” Alysia asked carefully, “You are well-acquainted with Lord Preston?”
“Why, yes, wouldn’t you say so, Andrew?” Lady Chauncey obviously relished all the mischief.
He smirked. “Yes, quite.” Satisfied after removing what seemed like half his clothing, Andrew settled back against the cushion and closed his eyes with a sigh. He unceremoniously shed Alysia’s glove, looped her arm around his, and held her hand with their fingers entwined.
She had tried for over a year to cool her feelings for Andrew. Judging by the way her skin burned and her heart squeezed, it hadn’t worked in the least. Alysia couldn’t decide if she was relieved or ill, or both. She groaned. “Lord Courtenay is going to kill me. And then you, Andrew.”
Chapter Eight
Reputation is an idle and most false imposition;
oft got without merit, and lost without deserving.
Othello, William Shakespeare
“Well, well. And here you are in the Times, finally,” Lady Chauncey said airily. “It has crossed the channel.”
She quoted, holding the paper high, “The recently disappeared Lord P. resurfaced in Paris, attending a function of questionable repute. Reportedly Lord P. departed with a Miss V., lately well-known for her Prix de Rome near miss and lead role in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream at Théâtre du Châtelet. Also seen in their company was one of our favorites, Lady C., to whom we send our thanks for most colorful and entertaining reports Season after Season.”
Lady Chauncey beamed. “Oh good, they did comment on my gown, but that is farther down in the article. It seems you have become the new darling of the society columns, Miss Villier.” She smiled in mock-apology. “I relinquish the title proudly.”
Alysia moaned. “Could it possibly get any worse?”
“It already has. Here, in Journaux, just today… oh, yes, they have decided what you are about.” She translated, “We have it on good authority that Mlle. V. left the patronage of Mme. D. and has taken a benefactor, the English earl Lord P., who has not been spied in London nor in Paris for some weeks. It is assumed he is otherwise occupied— How scandalous! That truly is unkind,” she commented before continuing.
The King of Threadneedle Street Page 9