I think for a moment she may not have noticed, but then her mouth twists up and I know she’s seen. But instead of slapping me or calling me a boor and storming off, she says, “My lord, would you like to see . . .” Telling pause. Eyelash flutter. “More of Versailles?”
“You know, I believe that I would. Though I’m short a guide.”
“Perhaps you’ll allow me.”
“But this party seemed to be just picking up speed. I’d hate to drag you away.”
“Life is filled with sacrifices.”
“Am I a sacrifice?”
“One I’m happy to make.”
Zounds, this girl is fun. And right now, I need a bit of fun. Get my mind off Worthington and the damned duke and Percy and that handsome bastard with the freckles putting his hands all over him. I offer her my arm. “Lead the way, my lady.”
Jeanne puts her small, perfect hand on my elbow and steers me toward a set of French doors opening into the hall. As we cross the threshold, I let slip my resolution for a single second and, like Lott’s wife turned to salt, glance over my shoulder to see if I can spot Percy. He’s right where he was before—on the fringes of the dance floor, but alone now, and looking at me in a way that suggests he’s been doing it for a while. When I catch his eye, he starts and gives a self-conscious tug on his jacket collar. Then he offers me a bit of a disappointed smile, an I’d expect no more from you sort that strikes flint inside me.
My mind plays a quick roulette of what variety of look in return will most affect him. Perhaps pleading eyes—Save me from this girl dragging me away against my will—and then he’ll come rushing to my rescue. Or perhaps a curled-lip sneer—Jealous? Well, you had your chance with me and you missed it.
I settle on a shrug paired with an indifferent smirk. That’s fine, it says. You have your fun and I’ll have mine. And perhaps a smidge of I am not even a bit thinking of what transpired between us at the music hall last week.
And Percy looks away.
Jeanne knows her way through the gilded labyrinth that is the interior of Versailles, and she drifts along like a cloud of perfume. Every room we wander through is filled with people, and though I enjoy the crowds and the noise and the frescoes the colors of a bowl of ripe fruit, I would much rather find a quiet place to be alone with this winsome girl and her excellent breasts.
She leads me to a deserted wing I’m certain we aren’t meant to be in, then stops before a painted door and slides her hand into the pocket slit of her skirt, withdrawing a gold key on a black ribbon.
“Now, where did you get that?” I ask, leaning in as she unlocks the door like I’m interested in it, but really it’s to get a better angle down that dress.
She smiles. “My position comes with privileges.”
The room she leads me into looks like a private parlor, the antechamber to someone’s bedroom. Three crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow across the rich red walls and mahogany furnishings. There’s a fireplace so large that it seems rather a small room that can be safely set on fire, and an Oriental rug so thick it makes me feel wobbly in my heels. The window is open onto the grounds, and the music and bright chatter of the party waft in, though they sound muted and far away.
Jeanne slips her fan from her wrist, then spreads her hands across the felt-topped card table before the fireplace. “This is quieter, non? Versailles can be overwhelming.”
“Oh, I find it rather whelming.” She laughs, and I give her what I know from experience is a knee-weakening smile. “Quite a scandal to bring a gentleman unaccompanied to your apartments, madam.”
“How fortunate that these aren’t my apartments. Though you flatter me in thinking I’ve rooms this grand. A friend of mine,” she says, enough of a lilt on friend that I can make the inference. “Louis Henri.”
“Louis the king?”
“There is more than one Louis in all of France, you know. This one’s the Duke of Bourbon.”
“Oh, him.”
“You sound as though you’ve met.”
“Yes, we had words.” I don’t mention the particulars of the incident, though the thought of it makes me feel small and shriveled-up again.
But now here I am in his apartments.
Retaliation is calling my name.
My first idea is to piss in his desk drawers, but there’s a lady present. Thievery seems a better choice—something easy enough to get away with but not so obvious as to tie me to the crime. The task is to pick something that will annoy the shit out of him when he finds it missing, but not incite an international incident.
I wander around the salon, making a show of inventorying the place, a casual thief. I can feel Jeanne watching me, so I keep my chin tipped up, waiting for her to look away so that I can pocket something. Though I’m rather hard to look away from—I’m giving her my finest angle, the sort that belongs on a coin.
Atop the desk, there’s a set of ivory dice that I consider, and a scent-and-patch case with a clear glass facet and silver screw top. Fine movables—everything here is fine—but too ordinary to achieve the desired level of annoyance. At the writing desk, I flirt briefly with the notion of nicking the inkstand, until I realize it would be beastly inconvenient to carry around for the rest of the night, as it’s full of ink.
But beside the inkstand there’s a small trinket box, made of slick ebony and a little larger than my fist. The top is set with six opal dials, each inscribed with the alphabet in sequence. When I run my finger along them, they turn, the letters shifting.
“All right, you’ve seen the room,” Jeanne calls. There’s a rustle of skirts as she settles herself. “Come pay attention to me now.”
I glance up to see if she’s watching, but she’s already seated at the card table with her back to me.
Vengeance and a pretty girl—the pair is turning this initially disastrous evening into one of the better parties we’ve been to in Paris. If only Percy and I weren’t quarreling, I think, then squash that thought like a spider underfoot.
I slip the box into my pocket—consider leaving a ransom note as well, or not so much a ransom note as a three-word statement: You’re a bastard—then slide into the chair across the table from Jeanne. “Are we playing?” I ask as she flicks a deck of cards between her hands.
Her eyes dart to mine. “What do you play?”
“Everything. Anything. What do you play, madam?”
“Well, I find myself partial to a game in which each player is dealt two cards, adds their numbers, and whichever pair is a sum closer to ten and three wins.”
“Why ten and three?”
“It’s my lucky number.”
“I’ve not heard of this game.”
“That is because, my good lord, I have just now made it up.”
“And is there to be a wager? Or a consequence for the player with cards less close?”
“They must sacrifice an article of clothing.”
Good. Lord. I deserve some sort of medal for the effort it takes not to look down her dress when she says that.
Jeanne purses her lips, smearing the scarlet paint upon them. “Do you care to play?”
“Deal me in.” I whip off my coat and toss it onto the sofa.
“Hold on, we’ve not started yet.”
“I know. I don’t want to make it too hard for you. I’d hate for you to lose your dignity.”