If Juliette had not left hours ago, she would have been witness to the rare show of charity. As it was, Céleste sat alone in her parlor with its tall, lavender walls and elaborate, floral furnishings. A large Aubusson rug covered nearly the entire floor of lacquered wooden planks. Windows brightened the space, but today, they only magnified the emptiness of it all.
Glancing around the room, Céleste was reminded of Pierre sitting across from her, helping her choose which invitations to accept or deny between his rants of the shortfalls and shows of genius of Napoleon and his theory on how the war could have been won. Other times, he would be reading or smoking his pipe. She missed the smell of his pipe and the way he frowned and held it near his lips as he mulled over her occasional argument or reflected on something he had read.
A tear trailed down her cheek. She missed him. Not a day went by that she did not yearn to hear his voice again. His gentle voice. The deep ache never abated; the emptiness he left, never satisfied. One might think the pain would lessen over time, but she only missed him more. Perhaps the pain was dull now rather than sharp as it was, but it was no less painful.
She dashed the tear away and refocused on the piles of envelopes. She was now more determined than ever to redeem the honor of her dearest friend, a friend who would never have left her in such a way unless he had been forced to. She was sure of it. She was only in want of the evidence to prove it.
Céleste entered the modest home of Lily Talbot fashionably late and with low expectations. The house itself was missing a ballroom, but the parlor was large and decorated tastefully.
“Lady Dumonte, quelle surprise!” Mrs. Talbot smiled broadly. “What an honor it is that you grace us this evening, and you look absolutely stunning.” She took Céleste’s hand and squeezed affectionately, her warmth catching Céleste off guard.
“It is my pleasure. You have a lovely home, Mrs. Talbot.”
“That is kind of you to say, my dear.” The arrival of another guest noticeably caught her attention. “Oh, forgive me, but I must greet the other guests. You might be interested to know a member of your class is expected to join us this evening. When he arrives I shall instruct him to keep you company.”
“That is not necessary, Mrs. Talbot,” Céleste said, but the older woman waved away her objections.
“He is utterly enchanting,” Mrs. Talbot returned, already walking toward the door. “Madame Leroy, so glad you could come.”
Céleste blinked, rather certain she had never been so neatly dismissed in her life. She was sure she did not know anyone nearly as blithe as Mrs. Talbot seemed to be, and was baffled to realize she could not dislike the woman. In fact, she rather desired to converse with her.
She glanced over to where Mrs. Talbot now stood. The hostess was barely viewable, surrounded as she was by at least ten other women. They were all laughing.
To her shame, envy churned in her gut, and she turned away, forcing thoughts of Mrs. Talbot to the back of her mind. She wasn’t here to make friends, or find some fabled secret to happiness. As impossible as it might sound, she was here to convince a scoundrel to restore her late husband’s honor by uncovering the truth about his death.
She took a moment to scan the room. It was an intimate affair with no more than fifty people, and she didn’t see a single scoundrel amongst them. Pembridge must have made a last minute decision not to come.
She fought an unladylike frown as she made her way to the refreshments table. She might as well try to eat something. It might calm her stomach, and give her time to concoct an excuse for leaving early.
Baba au rhum and cream puffs with chocolate shavings. If anything, she could not fault Mrs. Talbot’s cook. The simple desserts tasted delicious, and she made quick work of savoring every last bite. Her own cook seemed to overthink food and ended up with an overly complicated art exhibit rather than something edible.
“Perhaps you will accept another plateful before all is eaten?”
Céleste startled and whirled to face the rumble intruding on her thoughts. Any excuse for leaving she might have formed was lost completely when she nearly collided into the scoundrel’s chest.
“I understand there is a new guest present who is devouring all the sweets,” Pembridge added, grinning down at her.
He was dressed to perfection in gray trousers, a light blue silk waistcoat, a perfectly snowy cravat, and a dark blue superfine coat. The man dressed as though he was born for high fashion, yet he seemed to fit in effortlessly with this crowd. Perhaps it was that wolfish smile he was always sporting, which was boyish when it was tired of being wolfish. For him, smiling must be a chronic affliction.
Céleste stepped back, bumping her thighs into the table. “Pardon?”
“Another plate?” Pembridge smiled—boyishly today—as he proffered a plate piled with sweet desserts and truffles, all of which looked incredibly delicious to Céleste.
“Are you intimating I overindulge?” she asked, licking her lips to make sure there was no lingering chocolate. That would be too humiliating to endure.