Three Lessons in Seduction

by Sofie Darling

  Villefranche’s step hitched, and a surge of hope shot through Mariana. Had she needled her way into a chink in his armor?

  “Oui, my family is aristocratic,” he began, “but we are French first. There are those who would have us revert to the Ancien Régime.”

  “Oh?” she asked, the question a blithe exhale.

  “They refuse to admit the old way is unsustainable,” he said, the volume of his speech rising with each word he spoke, echoing down the long, stone arcade before them. “Yet we have a king again.”

  “We have a king in England,” she responded, maintaining an innocent tone.

  “Oui, but you also have a Parliament for balance. We French have trouble with balance.” An ironic laugh escaped him, taking Mariana by surprise. She wouldn’t have thought him capable of irony. “We like extremes.”

  “But isn’t that human nature?” she asked.

  “A government, Lady Nicholas, must be above extremes,” Villefranche expounded, instructing her as if she were a child. “It must be above human nature, pettiness, and whim. When one man rules without checks and balances, as the Americans would say, he becomes corrupted and a tyrant. Even our great Napoleon succumbed to it.”

  Mariana watched the Comte de Villefranche transform before her eyes. No longer was he an awkward pretend suitor. He was a confident man passionate about his beliefs.

  “If we are to have an aristocracy,” he continued, “then we must have a constitutional monarchy, like your England. Otherwise, good riddance to the aristocrats.”

  “Yours is a powerful branch of the Orléans family,” she countered. At last, she was getting somewhere. “It seems your family would lose a great deal.”

  “My family is French first,” he repeated on a rising note. As if shocked by his own fervor, he came to an abrupt stop. “You must pardon me,” he said, his voice hollowed of the passion that had infused it seconds ago. The moment was lost. Drat. “At times, I become too . . .” he trailed off as if unable to find the correct word.

  Mariana took pity on him and exclaimed, “Oh, this is the shop I’ve been searching for. My son, Geoffrey, simply adores”—She glanced up at the sign, and her stomach dropped to her feet—“tobacco.”

  Villefranche’s brows knit together. “You cannot possibly have a son old enough—”

  “Who do you think the cigar box is for?” Mariana asked, her eyes locked onto his, all but daring him to contradict her. It wouldn’t do to mention that Geoffrey would reach his eleventh-year next month.

  Or that, in the letter she’d retrieved from Helene today, he’d made a shopping request that she bring home a box of French bon-bons. He was trying to convince a sweet-toothed cook at Westminster to give him larger dinner portions. The boy certainly possessed a fundamental understanding of what made the world go round. In fact, he was much like his father.

  No, none of that would do presently.

  In for a penny, in for a pound, she went on, “Geoffrey is a connoisseur of the fogus.”

  Villefranche cocked his head. “Fogus? I’m not acquainted with that word.”

  “Tobacco is characterized as such in certain areas of London.” She would keep to herself which areas of London and that she’d never once ventured into any of them.

  Oh, how Francis Grose’s little dictionary was infecting her mind. The thought provoked a tiny smile that wouldn’t be bitten back.

  Villefranche’s mouth drew into a silent, grim line, and he pushed the door open. As Mariana stepped inside the shop to the delicate tinkling of bells, she regretted her bravado. Feigning interest in the various forms of tobacco on display, her mind raced to find a usable angle for how to proceed. Flirtation hadn’t succeeded. She floundered about for yet another role.

  “Lady Nicholas,” Villefranche began, “would you like me to sample a particular . . . fogus for your son? It is my understanding that ladies have difficulty appreciating cigars.”

  How Mariana longed to reach inside one of the many open boxes on display, pull a cigar from its depths, and puff it alight before his scandalized eyes. Perhaps it was the paradox of Paris calling out to her, but last night’s foray into the Foyer de la Danse slipped into her mind. Heavenly and sordid.

  A frisson of excitement trilled up her spine, and her next role came to her. Seductress. Hadn’t it been Nick’s idea to use any means necessary to finesse information out of Villefranche? She could transform into a hedonistic, amoral Parisienne. Morals, it must be admitted, could be so tiresome . . .

  Quickly on its scandalous heels followed another thought: Nick had been spying on her last night, Nick could be spying on her right now.

  Impelled by a bold and unfamiliar brazenness, she propped her elbows on the display case behind her and allowed a flirtatious smile to play about her lips, thoroughly channeling the role of hedonistic, amoral Parisienne. If such a position forced her breasts to thrust forward and draw Villefranche’s eye—or any other eye that might happen to be watching—then so be it.

  Any means.

  “Have you never pulled out your cigar and invited a woman to appreciate it?” she asked.

  Shock mingled its way into Villefranche’s bland features. “Never.”

  “Have you never longed to watch a woman—”

  His eyebrows arched toward to the ceiling.

  “Puff your cigar alight?”

  His throat moved up and down in a gulping motion. She almost wished she could give him a glass of water and a pat on the back—almost. When he finally regained his capacity for speech, he sputtered, “I have not experienced the pleasure—”

  “Non?” she interrupted. “I thought every sort of pleasure was to be experienced in Paris.”

  As Villefranche averted his gaze, she considered Nick’s eyes possibly lingering on parts of her body long left untouched. A mixture of unanticipated excitement and desire flowed through her, casting a warm glow down the winding length of nerve endings aching to be used again, furthering her sense of unreality.

  Memories of a past best forgotten threatened to descend upon her. Memories London would suppress; memories Paris would ignite. Even after all this time, they could consume her in a fire that had never been convincingly extinguished.

  In an effort to pull herself together and allow reality a foothold in the present, she dragged a breath deep inside her lungs and released it on a slow exhale.

  Villefranche’s gaze stole toward her décolletage for a fraction of a second before darting away. “It seems I was mistaken.” He shifted his weight to the left, then right, then left again. “Since there is nothing you don’t seem to know about cigars—”

  Mariana blushed at the unintended barb.

  “—I shall bid you adieu.” He inclined his head in a shallow bow.

  Alarmed, Mariana discarded her role of seductress, pushed off the counter, and reached out to grab Villefranche’s upper arm. She couldn’t allow him to leave. Impossible that this day would end in failure. “Perhaps we could meet again on the morrow and further our”—She wracked her brain for a word, any word—“delightful”—That wasn’t quite the right word—“friendship.” Neither was that one.

  Villefranche hesitated, his gaze unable to meet hers. “I have a previous engagement.”

  Mariana felt a thin sheen of perspiration coat her body. No, no, no. “What a shame. Then the next day it shall be,” she pressed. She was making an utter fool of herself, but she cared not. Nick could be watching.

  “I’m afraid—” he began.

  “Then the next day.” Her fingers tightened around his arm. “You must show me the sights of Paris.” Rigid metal bit into the tender flesh of her other hand—the cigar box. “Perhaps the famed Jardin du Luxembourg?”

  As if Villefranche sensed the only way to extricate himself from their increasingly awkward
interaction was to relent, he said, each word clearly a negotiation with his rational mind, “It will be my pleasure. I shall send a note—”

  “I shall meet you at the Medici Fountain at half past three on the dot,” she interrupted. She wouldn’t allow him to wiggle out of it later. Her fingers released their grip around his arm, and she rushed out of the shop, her mind racing faster than her feet.

  Shame assaulted her from every angle. She’d made a tactical error with Villefranche. He had no desire to be flirted with, flattered, or seduced. And her behavior in the tobacconist shop . . . Her shame flared hotter.

  Her enthusiasm to best Nick had blinded her to the fact that she knew nothing about his world and the methods she would need to navigate it with success. Her willfulness and overconfidence had ruined this day. How could she face Nick again and retain a measure of her pride? For surely, he knew. He had people.

  As her heels clicked across the cobblestone arcade, she nearly groaned aloud as another thought occurred to her. When she’d engaged with the phantom Nick of her imagining, it had . . . excited . . . her. Had she forgotten what she’d felt when he’d melted away from her life a decade ago?

  A black void. And voids longed to be filled.

  The thought sobered her. She couldn’t give him that power over her again.

  As a girl, she’d prided herself on learning her lessons the first time around. And she’d learned her lesson regarding Nick ages ago. Once was enough, yet she needed further guidance if she was going to continue with this adventure.

  She squared her shoulders and faced the gallery before her. Over the last few years of patronizing The Progressive School for Young Ladies and the Education of Their Minds, she’d come to understand something fundamental about knowledge: it was easy to attain if one was willing to set aside one’s pride and admit ignorance. This was what she must do.

  Tonight, she would put her pride behind her and streak naked in front of Nick, in the metaphorical sense, of course.

  And after she picked up a box of bon-bons.

  Chapter 7

  Born Under a Threepenny Halfpenny Planet, Never To Be Worth a Groat: Said of any person remarkably unsuccessful in their attempts or profession.

  A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue

  Francis Grose

  Mariana alighted from the cramped and noisome hackney, tilted her face up to the open night sky, and basked in the muted brilliance of the moon’s rays. Refreshed, she glanced about the street, her eye drawn to the red lanterns hanging singly above the row of doorstops.

  This was a side of the city, an area known as the Left Bank, she hadn’t yet experienced. Every surface from cobblestone street to slate rooftop glistened with midnight light that danced to the competing rhythms of music from opposing open windows, creating a cacophonous symphony of sound not unpleasant to her ears.

  And on the street below those windows, where she stood, a pace and demeanor that belonged to the night replaced the hustle and bustle of daytime activity. It was a pace no less hurried, but one that spoke of hidden intentions and secret destinations.

  How stark was the contrast between this place and the bright and vivacious environs of the Palais-Royal. Every city had two versions of itself: one version openly displayed with a pride of ownership, and a second version that filled in the shadows, even within a bold and candid city like Paris. All one had to do was take a carriage ride out of one’s comfortable life to see the shadows hiding in plain sight.

  This was a Paris that both unnerved and delighted her.

  As a girl, she hadn’t been allowed to leave the family’s property unescorted. Any number of cutthroats and thieves surely lay in wait for a little girl like her to happen along. As an adult woman, it embarrassed her to admit that she still adhered to the instructions of her youth when she ventured forth in London.

  What had she been missing all these years? This raucous Parisian night didn’t feel unsafe; it felt alive. Paris was adventure.

  Her amoral, hedonistic Parisienne returned to her, accompanied by the familiar wash of shame that had plagued her all afternoon and into the night, which wouldn’t do. She must put aside her earlier failure and submit to learning her lessons like a good student, even if they had to come from Nick. Impetuosity and pride had led to her humiliation this afternoon. She wouldn’t let it happen again.

  A few doorstops away, she spotted a lantern different from the others. This one shone purple and dim, its light extending no farther than its own doorway. Intuition carried her to its solid, oak door. She gave it a few discreet taps and recalled Nick’s terse response to her request—sent via an unquestioning Hortense—that they meet:

  Rue de la Huchette. La Coquine Violet. Midnight sharp. Memorize and burn.

  La Coquine Violet. Mariana understood the word violet easily enough, which explained the purple lantern hanging low above her head. But la coquine? Years of French lessons had never taught her that word. Of course, she never had any patience for French, thus her retention of its vocabulary and grammar had been negligible.

  Again, she rapped on the door, harder this time. Hand suspended mid-knock, the door swung open, startling her. Before her stood an enormous wall of man of African descent. Silently, his eyes swept up and down her person before he stepped aside and waved her into a dark foyer that offered no view into the room beyond. Only the muffled vibrations of boisterous music and men’s voices, followed by women’s laughter, reached her from the interior. The door clicked shut behind her.

  “Your overcoat?” the doorman intoned in an accent that spoke of a complex past.

  She nodded and allowed him to remove her coat.

  Every fiber in her being tingled in anticipation of what lay beyond the door before her. “This is La Coquine Violet?” she asked, an irritating note of uncertainty lacing her tone.

  The doorman brushed aside her nerves simply by smiling and pushing the door open in response. She was across its threshold before anticipation could evolve into panic. Once inside, however, there was no room for ninny-ish considerations like fright or ambivalence.

  The blue-tinged room presented every sort of tableau requisite for a gentleman’s entertainment: gaming tables dominating all four corners; whiskey carts scattered throughout; reclining sofas tucked into discreet shadows.

  One might think this place a gentlemen’s club, except for two distinguishing features: the jangling piano which produced a convivial style of music conducive to frolic and fun, and the women. They were everywhere the men were. Ever listening. Ever agreeing. Ever nodding. Ever smiling. Ever at the ready, and ever on display.

  And, oh, how they displayed themselves. The dark-eyed beauties draped in bold colors, the pale-eyed blondes in pastels, all swathed in diaphanous fabrics that left little to the imagination.

  Mariana felt distinctly drab, clad in the serviceable boots and gray dress Hortense had insisted she borrow for the occasion. A servant balancing a tray of champagne and wearing nothing more than a chemise and pantalettes glided swiftly past. Mariana lifted a glass and took a cooling sip.

  Her body flush with excitement, she stood enveloped by a Paris unlike any she’d experienced in her usual genteel circles. Not even in London had she ever stepped foot in a room like this. Maybe, especially not in London.

  La coquine. There was a reason she’d never been taught this word in classroom French. This place was surely a—

  From across the room, a pair of dark, sharp eyes drew her attention. She couldn’t look away from the sturdy woman clad in unrelieved black if she wanted to. Besides Mariana, she was the only woman in the room not smiling up at a man. She must be la Madame.

  In the next instant, the Madame sprang into motion, agile and quick in her navigation of the room. The woman was coming for her. Mariana gulped down the remainder of her champagne in an attempt to gir
d herself. She knew a formidable woman when she saw one.

  The Madame stopped in front of her and bluntly eyed her up and down before showering her with a tirade of rapid-fire French that Mariana didn’t bother attempting to translate. The Madame snatched the empty champagne glass out of her hand and pointed toward a nondescript door on the other side of the room. Through a haze of shock, Mariana gathered that the woman was absolutely livid. At her.

  When the Madame finally ran out of words, Mariana asked, hushed and polite, “Could you speak more slowly? I am certain we can resolve this matter amicably.”

  The Madame’s mouth snapped shut, and her eyes narrowed. “Anglaise?”

  It was more statement than question. Mariana answered a simple, “Oui.”

  The fire left the woman’s eyes. “Zeese way,” the Madame called over her shoulder, on the move again.

  Mariana had no choice but to follow the woman through the room. Every couple she passed exuded their own unique and erotic scent—jasmine coupled with cloves, lavender with sandalwood, rose with almond—underlain by continuous notes of cigar smoke and whiskey, reminding her that despite the flowery wallpapers, quivering cleavages, and ornate furnishings, this was wholly a man’s world.

  Behind the Madame, Mariana ascended a dark stairwell, the sounds of revelry growing more distant with each step upward. At the end of a corridor of tightly shut doors, the Madame knocked once and pressed an ear against oak, presumably listening for permission to enter.

  “Oui,” the Madame called through the door, reaching for the jangly ring of keys at her waist. She slipped the correct key into the lock and pushed open the door. Mariana stepped through the threshold and stifled a gasp at the sight of an at-ease Nick lounging behind what appeared to be a gaming table.

  “You are dressed as yourself tonight,” she said, unable to state anything other than the obvious.