Chapter 6
Starched: Stiff, prim, formal, affected.
A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue
Francis Grose
Next Day
Twin slivers of anticipation and anxiety snaked through Mariana as she strolled the wide, crowded promenade of a Palais-Royal gallery. She unclenched the damp fists at her sides and attempted to soak in surroundings bright and pulsing with life, even as she watched for the Comte de Villefranche.
From the Rue de Richelieu, she’d passed through a screened entrance and into the rectangular interior arcade of bustling shops and cafés. While she could indulge in shopping and trade on the perimeter, she preferred the view provided by the interior grounds: perfectly aligned rows of apple trees and meticulously manicured gardens. In the center of the space stood a large circular fountain where Parisians of every class gathered to soak in a bit of afternoon sun to the mellifluous sound of bubbling water.
Here, the Revolutionary principles of Liberté! Egalité! Fraternité! shone like nowhere else. Helene’s words were true: London had nothing on Paris.
The mix of high and low on display both refreshed and invigorated her. Coarse broadcloth mingled amongst superfine; dull woolens wove amongst vibrant silks. Tourists ogled fashionable Parisians; Parisians, in turn, pretended not to notice. The prostitutes, whom she chose not to directly acknowledge, cast jaded eyes over the entire tableau as they waited for second floor gaming dens to spit out the odd, flush gambler.
Mariana was just stepping aside to allow one such dissolute gentleman to pass when Villefranche appeared at the far end of the arcade. Her heart thumped a hard beat, and her stomach fluttered as competing emotions of fear, uncertainty, determination, and excitement washed over her. A tiny voice of calm attempted to tamp them down: she was here to shop and stroll with the man. Two activities she understood as they were two of the leading activities of her social set.
Today is different, the tiny voice reminded her. Today, she would be shopping, strolling, and spying on Villefranche. It was the last part that had her insides tangled up in knots.
She gave herself a mental shake. She was complicating the day, when in reality it was simple: she was here to play a role. The ability to become someone else seemed to be an essential element of navigating the world of espionage effectively.
Last night, Nick had come to her as a waiter and a fugitive in the space of a few hours. Although she would be none other than Lady Nicholas Asquith today, she would need to become a different version of herself if she was to finesse any closely held secrets out of Villefranche.
She might have asked Nick for guidance on the matter.
Her head gave a tiny shake. It was impossible. She was an intelligent, capable woman. She could navigate this outing without running to her husband.
She’d told Nick she’d agreed to his plan for crown and country. But a deeper truth also lay at the heart of the matter: the prospect of entering his shadowy world of intrigue and besting him at it was a temptation too delectable to resist.
It was a world that frightened her a bit, a world that excited her no end. It was Nick’s world. She would sooner streak down this promenade naked than implore him for help. But his words came to her: by any means necessary. Would any means really be necessary?
She pivoted to face the front window of a curiosity shop and feigned interest in its wares, even as she tracked Villefranche in her peripheral vision. Judging from his intensely gathered brow, she intuited he was too deep inside his own thoughts to have noticed her yet.
What sort of spy was the Comte de Villefranche anyway?
Just as he was about to stride past her, she silently counted one . . . two . . . three before swiveling around in a dramatic flurry of skirts, a bright smile pasted across her face. “Comte de Villefranche, it is you!”
As if startled out of a trance, he jerked to a stop, his eyes wide with surprise. “Lady Nicholas?”
“The one and only,” she chirped like a brainless bird. Villefranche must be the same sort of spy as she: an inexperienced one.
“But,” he began slowly, “you and I agreed to meet at Le Grand Véfour a quarter of an hour hence.”
“Yet here we are . . . meeting.” Mariana noted how rattled he was by this slight alteration to their plan, certainly an unpromising trait for anyone involved in espionage. “Shall we proceed with our shopping excursion from here?”
Villefranche’s demeanor shifted in subtle acceptance, and he held out his arm for her. “Of course,” he replied, his tone as wooden as his person. “Would you care to peruse this shop?” He glanced up at the sign. “Le Grenelle is renowned for its selection of eglomise boxes.”
“How delightful,” she exclaimed. In a fraction of a second, she assumed her role: Vacuous-Lady-Who-Lives-For-Shopping.
After just two footsteps inside the shop, however, Mariana regretted her blithe acquiescence. This particular shop was the breadth and depth of a horse stall—complete with its accompanying odor—and stuffed from ceiling to floor with all manner of bibelot, making it impossible for her and Villefranche to walk side by side.
Carefully navigating cramped aisles, she picked her way to the back, where the proprietor stood behind a counter. The two men exchanged a few words in rapid French, setting the proprietor into a flurry of motion with an obsequious smile pasted onto his mouse-like face. Soon, he’d assembled various sizes and styles of eglomise boxes for her inspection.
She singled out a box edged with lacy gilt and depressed its tiny lever, clicking open its ornate lid depicting the famed Medici Fountain of the Jardin du Luxembourg. Her gaze fixed on the box beneath her hand, she asked, “Are you an admirer of eglomise?”
Who knew espionage could be so deadly dull?
“I do not believe in accumulating material possessions for the sake of a collection. It is waste,” Villefranche pontificated. “All objects must be of use; otherwise, what is the point of that object?”
Confounded by his absolute assuredness, Mariana felt her eyebrows lift. “How does art fit into your view of usefulness?”
A blush crept up his youthful cheeks. “You will have to forgive me, Lady Nicholas. Sometimes I forget that not everyone shares my beliefs.” With an air of self-consciousness, he averted his gaze toward the velvety depths of the open box. “You look . . . comely . . . today,” he added in a tone both conciliatory and strangely flat.
A bewildered smile found its way to Mariana’s lips. Villefranche wasn’t even looking at her. His skills as a suitor equaled his skills as a spy.
“Your eyes,” he stuttered out, “they glow.”
“Oh dear,” she returned, “I hope I haven’t caught a fever.”
Eyes wide with alarm, he swung toward her. “You have mistaken the intent of my words.”
“That is, indeed, a relief,” she returned, the words dry as dust. She tapped the box and nodded at the proprietor. With a dramatic flourish, he swept up the box and began bundling it for transport. “So you aren’t an admirer of eglomise?” She sensed a useful strand running through this particular conversational thread. “I would have thought you appreciative of a craft that requires such immense skill and expertise.”
Villefranche averted his gaze. “Those who paint these tiny and intricate scenes for masses of rich tourists receive little pay, and their eyes fail at very young ages, leaving them with no livelihood and no eyesight. It is a tragedy,” he proclaimed to the room empty of patrons save themselves.
In an attempt to prevent Villefranche from seeing the huge roll of her eyes, Mariana directed her attention toward the enormous sideboard to her left. She lay a hand on its marble surface and allowed its stone coolness to seep into her skin through the silk of her gloves. She glanced over her shoulder to find Villefranche righting an Oriental vase caught by his elbow.
“This is quite a massive structure,” she began, hoping to lighten the conversation. “How did they manage to squeeze it inside this tiny shop? It must weigh a half a ton.”
“Well actually, it’s not so heavy, but heavy enough to gravely injure a man who has the misfortune to find himself on the wrong side of it. Every day, dock workers maim themselves while moving such structures.”
Mariana heaved a frustrated sigh. Had the man never heard of hyperbole or idle chit-chat? Above every exchange with the Comte de Villefranche hung a rain cloud ready to burst. How was she supposed to finagle any useful information out of this man? Her only hope lay in the fact that he was clearly, blessedly, as unskilled in the art of espionage as she.
“Madame,” the proprietor cut in with a discreet murmur, “your cigar box is ready.”
Cigar box? What did she need with a cigar box? She reached inside her reticule for payment. Money and item efficiently exchanged between her and the satisfied proprietor, she faced the young Comte. “Shall we venture on?”
Villefranche nodded, and they began stutter-stepping through the cramped shop, each movement forward an intentional negotiation with the hodgepodge of furniture, stacked books, and various trifles and trinkets. Mariana glanced behind her and caught Villefranche restacking a column of books that he’d accidentally kicked over.
Nick was never so clumsy.
She shook her head. Where had that thought come from? The part of her brain that couldn’t stop thinking about him after last night. That was where. Nick was alive, and he was a spy.
Nick was her . . . overseer? How best could she characterize this new twist in their relationship? Regardless of the title, she now spied for him, if one could call what she was doing spying.
She needed a new role. Vacuous-Lady-Who-Lives-For-Shopping wasn’t working. Perhaps, flattery would. It usually did with young men. Lady-Who-Brazenly-Flatters-Younger-Men could be her new role. It was worth a try.
At last rid of the cramped and odiferous shop, Mariana rested her hand on Villefranche’s extended arm and exclaimed, “Oh my, what hard muscles you have hidden beneath this superfine. Do you lift heavy objects?”
Polished and handsome, the Comte de Villefranche was the sort of man who set young girlish hearts alight, but who left hers cold. Yet, she was struck by an observation that should have been obvious from the start: in build and coloring, Villefranche was eerily similar to Nick.
Both men were tall, lean, and possessed a similar dark handsomeness that drew the eye.
Still, a subtle, but distinct, difference in bearing differentiated them: Villefranche faced the world with a preposterously erect posture, while Nick held himself in a manner not precisely defensive, but in a way that kept himself to himself. It was one of the qualities that had drawn her toward Nick: the mystery of him.
“I labor at our family estate when I have the opportunity. A connection to the earth is vital.”
His words brought Mariana back to the present. Memories of Nick’s eternal mystery weren’t helpful at all. “Those muscles combined with your commanding height make you one . . . healthy, young man.”
Healthy? Young man? That was the most flattering response she could devise? Her improvisational skills sorely lacked panache.
“A healthy body is the foundation of a healthy mind,” Villefranche returned, so certain of his own rightness.
“Of course,” she replied. Did the man speak in nothing but aphorisms? She cleared her throat and pressed on, “You possess such wisdom for one so very young. Your years on this earth cannot possibly exceed twenty.”
“I saw one and twenty years on my last name day.”
“How the ladies of Paris must compete for you,” she continued. “A striking aristocrat such as yourself must have his pick. And now, of course, aristocrats are back in favor in France.”
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.