Page 7 of A Most Improper Duchess
Arley unclipped his purse. He retrieved a few coins and stuffed them into his pocket, then handed the rest to Pascoe. ‘This is all the francs I have. Make it last, for if I have to make a withdrawal at a bank, I’m fairly certain the ruse will be up.’
Algernon took the purse and inspected its contents, then gave a low whistle before snapping it shut. ‘Are you certain you want to go incognito? You could have a riot as yourself.’
Arley shook his head, part of him still marvelling at the focus of the crowd. ‘Just keep attention diverted so I can have some peace.’ He rummaged through his satchel, leafing through the papers from Elise. ‘The first thing we should do is head to our accommodations. Then we can work on a plan for each day—’
‘You there!’ Algernon barked in his rough French as he pointed at a scrappy boy wearing rough hemmed trousers and a too big flat cap. He flipped a coin through the air and the boy snatched it so fast, Arley barely saw his hand move. ‘Keep an eye on our luggage, and there’s two more of those when we get back.’
The boy bit the coin and then, with all the menace of a blood hound, clambered onto their trunks and perched himself atop them, slightly snarling at everyone nearby.
‘Now...’ Algernon clapped his gloved hands together. ‘After all that excitement, I need a drink.’
Arley hated parties. Hated gatherings, crowds, ballrooms, fundraisers, and his least favourite activity, the theatre. Every conversation always wound back to some discussion about an upcoming debate in the house, and could he be relied on for his support, or to an introduction to some insipid debutante, or for a request for patronage to a new cause.
And being patron to the Society for the Promotion of Civic Morality and the Adherence to Proper Values already taxed his energy, thank you very much.
Arley scanned the shimmering surfaces of brass, glass and mirrors in the brasserie. So many reflections. Himself hunched over the bar shimmered back as a curved distortion. Another visage of himself wrapped around a post. A flipped image in the glass. He hunkered down a little more.
‘Your grace,’ someone called. ‘What would you like to drink?’
‘The house specialty, of course.’ Algernon clapped Arley’s shoulder. ‘And the same for my friend, Monsieur West.’
Duke Osborne hated parties. But how did Monsieur West feel about them?
The barkeep sat two glasses of lurid green liquid before them. Algernon picked his up, clinked it against the remaining glass, then tipped it back. Arley held his glass before him, entranced by the vividness under the gas lights.
‘What on earth is this?’ he asked.
Algernon gave one of his all-knowing smiles, the sort Arley was learning was a sign he was about to impart some lesson. ‘Absinthe. Also known as the green fairy.’ He splayed his hands before his face, like a magician in a market, his face animated, his fingers a performance. ‘The elixir of the bohemians. A gateway to creative transcendence, and an unraveller of the sorrowful.’ He lowered his tone and leaned close. ‘Possibly, a bringer of visions.’
‘It’s a hallucinogenic?’ Arley half lowered his glass.
‘Not really,’ Algernon said, with a theatrical, confidential hand raised against his cheek. ‘But after five or six, the writers claim what they want.’
Arley raised the glass and narrowed his eyes as he inspected its contents.
‘It’s an experience. Embrace it. Embrace this new Paris, Monsieur West.’
Monsieur. Mister. A man. The incredible novelty of it sent a jolt of elation through Arley, and he couldn’t help but mirror Algernon’s grin. Ejecting reason, he threw back the liquor. It burned, then ran sweet. He slammed his glass on the counter. ‘Another!’ he called.
The barkeep looked to Algernon, who hesitated. Arley frowned. ‘Don’t push your luck,’ Arley snarled.
Algernon’s lips twitched, before he threw back his head and laughed the freest, most rambunctious laugh Arley had heard in his life, and then he was there too, laughing with his new friend. ‘Another!’ he called, and when the barkeep deposited their drinks on the counter, they raised them in unison, and clinked them together.
‘Welcome to Paris, Monsieur West. Let’s create that diversion.’
From brasserie to cabaret to café to dance halls, they all passed in a flurry of luminescent brass, green fire, laughter, and excitement. They crossed to the left bank, and in some room with low ceilings, lit by candles in jars, Arley found himself at the piano and set the entire room ablaze with his playing, and three doors down, during a cabaret, Algernon climbed onto the stage to join the show, every hand clapping in time to his heels.
He hadn’t had fun like this since he was…
Since when?
Exhausted, but not in the usualpeople are fucking awfulway, Arley leaned into his palm, his elbows propped on the bar in some tavern, somewhere. He didn’t even know what side of the river they were on. Left bank? Right bank? He didn’t care. An ache pulled at his thigh and his back throbbed from sitting in robustly made chairs. He felt used and energised and properly wrung out.
Marvellous. Beyond marvellous. Euphoric.
Using his thumb and his forefinger, Arley raised his glass from the bar and let it swing, as if hinged. ‘Your grace,’ he said, the false title rolling off his lips with ready ease and a snicker. ‘I thought you said it was a myth that the green fairy brought forth apparitions.’
Algernon leaned his back against the bar and rested his elbows on the wooden counter. ‘It is.’
