“But… you are, are you not?”
Though they were in a small carriage, and the noise of the wheels on cobblestones nearly drowned out his voice, Dardanelle glanced around as though looking for spies. “Not tonight, I am not.”
“What should I say, then, if I am asked my opinion?”
“For God’s sake, do not give it. Not your true one, anyway. Platitudes about the equality of all men work well. Better yet, pretend your French is so poor that you do not understand the question, or stutter badly when you answer. Whatever you do, though, do not harp on your being English. The one thing all Frenchmen share in common, whether they are nobility or commoners, is a hatred for your king.”
Evan still could not bear to speak her name aloud – so he used her
nom de plume
instead. “Then why do they love
L’Anglaise
so much?”
Dardanelle chortled. “Despite her birth, Marian is more French than English. And in our love of scandalous matters, we French will overlook anyone’s nationality as long as they amuse us. She is quite amusing, you will see.”
“I look forward to it,” Evan muttered.
The house of Madame Renaud was lovely, an old mansion situated inconspicuously amongst older buildings. The carriage dropped off Evan and Dardanelle in the cobblestone street, behind a string of other carriages. They made their way through the courtyard to the front door, where the butler recognized Dardanelle and ushered them both into the salon.
The house was filled with guests. Some were dressed extravagantly, some simply but well. The adornments ranged from ornate wigs and white-powdered faces to simple ribbons tying back the men’s hair. A great many of the guests – usually the less elaborately dressed – also wore the tri-color cockade with its blue, white, and red.
Everyone stood together in small groups of three to a dozen, drinking wine from crystal glasses and talking – some gaily, some argumentatively. Evan heard snatches of political discourse from one group as he passed, quotations from Rousseau in another, and heated discussion on the best region for wines in a third.
But the largest group – and the loudest laughter – was centered around a sofa in the middle of the room. The crowd was composed entirely of men, of all ages and all social standings, and they all had a fawning attitude about them.
Evan heard her voice before he saw her.
“Please, dear sirs, address me as
mademoiselle
rather than
citoyenne –
else how shall the single young men know that I am available?”
Even in French, the musical quality of her voice was unmistakable.
A cold sweat broke out on Evan’s brow, and he wondered if coming here was perhaps a terrible mistake.
“Ah,
mademoiselle,
you break my heart!” a man to Evan’s right cried out in jest. “Why only the single men?”
“Because, Marquis, I fear your wife more than I do even Citizen Robespierre,” Marian replied.
The crowd laughed.
“And why only the young men?” asked another man, who appeared to be well past fifty. “As you should know, wine gets better with age!”
“Well I do know, dear sir, from firsthand experience. But I fear for your health; should I lavish my affections on those unable to handle them, I might accidentally claim as many lives as Madame Guillotine.”
“Ah, but what a way to go!” one man exclaimed.
“Indeed, for I assure you, I am interested in a different head than Madame Guillotine is,” Marian purred.
Every man in the group laughed raucously. A few ladies near the periphery of the group looked away in disgust.
“I will make you a deal,” Marian continued from behind her wall of would-be suitors. “If you can read my forthcoming novel and not have a heart attack, I shall consider handling your bottle and popping your cork.”
“Hear, hear!” the crowd of men roared and hooted.
“When will it be published? I must begin reading right away!” an older man joked, to the enjoyment of the crowd.
“In two weeks,” Dardanelle said from where he stood shoulder to shoulder with Evan.
“Ah! I believe I hear the voice of my publisher!” Marian cried. “Gentlemen, please part the Red Sea for my very own Moses!”
The men looked around at Dardanelle, most of them grumpily, and stood aside.
As the bodies cleared, Evan got his first view of her.
She was sitting on a sofa, languidly waving a fan in front of her face. Her ornate, ruffled gown deliciously exposed the uppermost swell of her bosom. She had on a white wig styled in the French fashion; though Evan did not care for it, it did bring greater attention to her face, which was even more beautiful than he remembered. Her skin was only lightly powdered, and it glowed with joy and health. Her eyes sparkled, and her ruby lips smiled when she saw Dardanelle.
“Laurent, I am so glad you have come! And you have brought a frien– ”
Her voice caught in her throat as her eyes met Evan’s.
Her fan tumbled from her fingers, and her skin blanched whiter than any powder could have made it.
“My lady!” one of the men exclaimed. “Are you all right? You look as though you have seen a ghost!”
Marian recovered herself well. She smiled at the crowd and laughed as she picked her fan up from her lap. “For a second, I thought I had – unfortunately, he is very much alive!
Messieurs,
allow me to introduce Evan Blake of England.”
Evan swallowed; his mouth was bone dry. He bowed slightly. “Miss Willows, it is good to see you again.”
“I wish I could say the same, Mr. Blake, but then I would be lying,” Marian smiled. “Or is it Lord Blake yet?”
“No, it is not.”
“I see. How
is
your charming
father?”
“Alive and well.”
“How nice for him, how inconvenient for you.”
“I bear my father great love, Miss Willows.”
“No doubt. I am sure you bear his title great love, as well. At least, that was my impression when last we met.”
Evan clenched his jaw, but said nothing.
Marian looked over at the publisher. “Did you bring him along, Laurent?”
“I did, my dear,” Dardanelle said, obviously uncomfortable.
“Really, Laurent, you should know better than to take in stray dogs from off the street. You never know when they’ll turn on you.”
The men in the group had all turned their attention to Evan. Their expressions ranged from curious to openly hostile.
“If he is bothering you,
mademoiselle,
I would be happy to remove him for you,” offered one of the bolder members of the group.
“Oh, good heavens, no!” she exclaimed. “In fact, gentlemen, you should all thank Mr. Blake, for without him, I would not be here, and there would be no
L’Anglaise!”
“Who is he?”
“Why, he was… ‘research.’”
Evan’s stomach twisted.
Some of the men guffawed. Others fixed Evan with a jealous gaze.
“Surely not very good research,
mademoiselle!
After all, he is English!”
“Yes, English suitors are to French lovers what English cuisine is to… French lovers.”
The group laughed.
“Bland and tasteless!” one of them piped up, not quite realizing that Marian had intentionally scrambled her analogies.
“But gentlemen,
I
am English,” she cooed. “Surely you do not think so poorly of me?”
The crowd could not trip over themselves quickly enough to compliment her.
“You are an honorary Frenchwoman,
mademoiselle!”
“You are the very embodiment of all that is French!”
One man seemed to win the contest: “You are neither English nor French,
mademoiselle –
you are a goddess!”
The crowd of men roared its approval.
“That’s funny,” Evan said, “I seem to recall someone calling you a parrot once.”
The entire group of sycophants glared at him.
Marian grinned. “How
is
dear old Pemberly?”
“Far less obsequious than your friends here.”
The group muttered and cursed under their breath. Dardanelle began to look very nervous indeed.
“You offend my admirers, Blake,” she said lightly.
“Perhaps they will leave, then, and I can talk to you alone.”
“Whatever will you have to say to
la Citoyenne
, I wonder?” said a familiar, arrogant voice.
Evan turned around and found himself staring into the eyes of Lt. Villars.
Behind a desk at the guardhouse, the soldier had looked formidable. Standing, he was even more so. An inch taller than Evan, Villars looked down on him slightly. His broad shoulders and muscular arms strained beneath the spotless jacket of his uniform.
“Lieutenant,” Evan said in a controlled voice, though his heart was racing. “What a surprise to see you here.”
“What an even greater surprise to see
you
here,
Anglais,
” Villars said, his gaze boring into Evan’s face. Then he stared at Dardanelle. “Especially in the company of men whose dedication to the Revolution is questionable at best.”
Dardanelle blushed furiously. “That is not true! I love the Revolution, like every good citizen!”
“Is that so,” Villars smirked.
“I would lay down my life for my country!”
“We shall see about that.” Villars turned back to Evan. “More puzzling to me, though, is that you told me upon your arrival you had met
Citoyenne
Willows before, but not that you were intimately familiar with her. Why would you lie to a representative of the Revolution?”
Evan noticed in the periphery of his vision that all the crowd surrounding him and Dardanelle had edged away, as though afraid of being tainted by contact.
He could understand why.
Suddenly Evan felt a small, feminine hand wrap around his arm.
“To protect the honor of a lady,” Marian said gaily as she pressed against his side.
Her touch was electric. After a year and a half of dreaming about her body, to have it pressed against him now sent a shudder of ecstasy through Evan – and a pang of heartbreak, as well. In one instant he felt all that he had lost, and all that he longed to regain.
There was an immediate change in Villars, as well. His eyes flitted to Marian and softened. For an instant, his face lost the cruelty that marred its handsomeness.
“Though I admit his concern was misplaced, as I am most certainly not a lady,” Marian purred. “Ah, Lt. Villars, it is so good to see you again!”
“Gerard,
Citoyenne.
Please call me Gerard.”
“Well then, Gerard – can you not forgive a long-lost friend of mine a tiny indiscretion? Especially as his intent was pure, and no less an act of gallantry than I am sure you would have done in his place.”
Evan almost believed that her spell would work.
Then Villars’ gaze trailed down to the tiny hand around Evan’s arm, and the softness in his eyes hardened again into steel.
When he smiled, it was like his voice – smooth and melodious on the surface, but dark and dangerous beneath.
“For you,
Citoyenne,
I would forgive anything… if we were speaking only of myself. But as a representative of the Revolution, there are many things I can never overlook, much less forgive.” His eyes shifted to Evan. “Including lying to a representative of the Revolution.”
“I did not lie,” Evan said, a snarl creeping into his voice. “You asked if I had ever met her when she lived in England. I replied that I had. You made no further inquiry. How is that a lie, Lieutenant?”
Marian’s hand tightened around Evan’s arm. She was either trying to signal him to back off, or reacting in alarm.
But Evan had run into his share of bullies through the years, and Villars was certainly that. Everything inside Evan urged him to stand up to the man with a display of strength, rather than weakness.
Villars’ eyes narrowed. “It was a lie of omission.”
“It was an exercise of discretion,” Evan said, and gave him the same smile a mongoose gives a cobra. “Surely you would not ask a gentleman such private questions about his relationship with a lady?”
“If it is pertinent.”
“In this case, I assure you it was not.”
Villars stared Evan down – the same look the cobra gives the mongoose before it strikes.
For a split second, Evan wondered if he had not made a terrible mistake.
Marian saved him.
“Oh Gerard, you are such a cruel tease!” she laughed, and threw herself into Villars’ arms before giving him a kiss on the cheek.
The shock of it was enough to cause the entire group to gasp – and Villars to react in confusion. And pleasure. From his expression, Evan guessed that this was something Villars had been longing for, but which Marian had never bestowed upon him. Until now.
The lieutenant’s face brightened, and he smiled as he looked down at her face. Evan was momentarily forgotten.
“You are incorrigible,
Citoyenne.
”
“Only around very handsome men.”
Villars’ eyes flickered up to Evan and lingered there for a brief instant before he looked back at Marian. “You should keep your friend on a short leash. He has the air of a mad dog… and in France, we shoot mad dogs.”
“I shall chain him and beat him unmercifully, and he shall bother you no more,” she cooed, tracing one finger down Villars’ jacket.
“Oh, that I might be your dog,
Citoyenne!”
one of the men from the group said, and all the group roared with laughter. Villars smiled along with them, but whenever his gaze returned to Evan, it seemed as though the lieutenant were seconds away from pulling out a pistol.
“Let us speak later, Gerard,” Marian said, and turned away with one last, coquettish smile. She then took Evan’s arm and led him away from the group.
As they walked away, Evan leaned his head closer to Marian’s. “I suppose I should thank you for – ”
“Quiet,” she whispered in English, though she kept her smile plastered on her face. “And don’t look back.”
Alarmed by her tone, he did not say anything until they had passed into another room that was largely deserted.