Page 12 of A Most Improper Duchess
Eyes still closed, Algernon fumbled with his pocket and passed him a considerably lighter purse. ‘Don’t spend it all at once,’ he murmured, then snored again.
Arley clipped it open, fuming. A little less than half of the francs he had brought remained, but still enough. Enough for… anything. Anything he wanted. For an afternoon with Miss Chevalier to extend into an evening…
Arley fished out half a dozen coins. He flung them onto Algernon’s chest, tucked the remaining funds into his pocket, and headed out into the city.
When he had come a decade before, Paris had been a city in flux. Demolitions and constructions were moulding the city into a new vision, that of Haussman and Napoleon III. Scaffolds had lined the streets, bricks had both been stacked and tumbled as the narrow medieval alleys were wiped away. Whereas London always seemed determined to progress only if it was dragged kicking and screaming, Paris rushed headlong into any idea it had, good or bad, but with such wholehearted, obsessive passion that when everything was done, no one seemed to remember that there had been other choices.
And now the construction continued, a combination of completing the vision from a deposed emperor and rebuilding the shattered wreck left by the war and its own citizens. Dust showered from shells of buildings, as workers struck at walls and threw down old doors and shutters. A twinge in his chest brought forth the memory of when, only seven or maybe eight years before, the old houses on the opposite side of the street had been torn down. Then it had only been two houses, both sprawling, ancient things, even older than Number 10, with a paddock linking them. One place had been owned by the immovable Mrs Crofts, the other leased by Lawrence and his wife.
At the time, the change had jolted Arley every day he stepped out of his own, unchanging home. Now, he’d become accustomed to the towering wall of replicated white townhouses and their occupants, that he barely remembered how it had been before.
Would Paris, one day, forget all the places that had been demolished? Would she, too, move on?
The opera house had been little more than a lattice of frames and scaffolds, and while some official who had shown him the city all those years before had tried to describe the vision, he’d been too disinterested to allow imagination to fill in the gaps. Now, knowing it held Vivianne, and that it mattered to her, he paused between the construction, activity and dust of the Avenue de l’Opéra to take it in. Opulent to the extreme, he couldn’t decide if it was garish overstatement or architectural brilliance. The entire building glistened bright against the vivid hue of a Parisian sky. Apollo, the sun god, sat perched atop a central dome, and gold sculptures glinted. Tall columns flanked the front, and below them was a long row of decorative arches. Poetry, music, drama and dance—he recognised each carved relief, and the busts of the master composers—Beethoven, Mozart, Auber, Bach, and others. The entire façade was a homage to music and performance, layered in myth, symbolism and achievement. Would he impress Vivianne if he showed her how he understood her building? That he could read it as easily as a child at their letters? He had studied classics at Oxford, after all. All that effort would finally be of some relevance to his life.
He tapped the coins in his pocket. Maybe there were easier ways to impress her. He’d made his deal the night before only thinking of how to keep her in his reach. He could suggest they skip her tour completely, and he could take her back to his rooms, turf Algernon out, before satiating the hungry fantasies that had plagued him all night.
Tourists and gawkers milled outside the opera house, but there was no sign of Vivianne. Impatient, he stalked the laneway, searching each feminine face for her. At the back of the building, a plaque set in a sandstone archway readThéâtre de l’Opéra—Administration. The stage door. Maybe she meant for him to wait for her here.
Arley leaned against the block stone column. Its ridges rubbed at his shoulder blades, and here in the buildings shadow, the cool March air pinched his skin. A man wearing a black coat and swinging a solid cane entered the building. A few light-footed girls followed. Another man. Arley scratched his temple, then coughed against the city dust. He went to the door and tapped. It opened a crack. A grubby ear emerged, and against the dark it appeared disjointed, like it was hovering in the shadows.
‘I, errr… I have a meeting with Miss Chevalier,’ he said.
The ear disappeared. In its place, a hand, palm up, fingers rubbing together, emerged.
‘She’s expecting me,’ Arley growled. He only had 5-franc coins, and he wasn’t handing one of them over to a doorman.
Thick lips with a hint of stubble moved into the gap. ‘Subscriber number?’
‘Subscriber? I’m just visiting.’
A tongue flicked out, and the mouth chuckled. Arley straightened and prepared himself to be given admittance, when all body parts disappeared, and the door slammed closed.
He knocked. No reply.
He thumped. Silence.
‘I will have you know,’ he began, inhaling his self-aggrandisement, ‘I could have you—’
He caught himself in time. Duke Osborne could make such complaints and be heard. Arley West could not.
He shoved his hands in his pockets, kicked a stone, then leaned back against the pillar. He scrunched into his coat, searching for some protection against the cold.
A few more men passed. Women. Girls.
Arley had never had to wait on anyone before.
Waiting was tiresome.
‘Monsieur?’ A bright, peaked face angled itself into his line of vision. The woman from the brasserie, who had been there with Vivianne and left with Algernon, smiled at him. ‘You are the duke’s friend, yes? Are you cold?’
‘A little,’ he grumbled. ‘I have a meeting with Miss Chevalier.’
‘Lucky her,’ she said, tilting her head. ‘Follow me, I’ll take you to the foyer de la danse. You can wait for her there.’
Vivianne’s friend introduced herself as Nicole, and with a light tap and a word, secured his entrance into the opera house. He trotted behind her as she wove through the slightly darkened staircases and hallways as they moved both deeper and higher into the building. He’d never been backstage at the theatre before, and as he warmed, his annoyance melted, and he could not turn his head fast enough to follow the maze of movement and noise. Lights fluttered, doors opened, giggles erupted, and deep voices bounded. Sweat and heat mingled with urgency. Every breath smelt like lust.
‘There are more men here than I expected,’ Arley said as they moved to one side of the hallway to allow a line of dancers to pass, their muslin skirts brushing against his knees. ‘Are they teachers? Do they work here?’
