Page 15 of The Secret of Flirting
“Someone did a portrait of me?” she said, sounding incredulous. “I don’t recall sitting for one.”
“I believe they simply copied an older painting of you. Though it didn’t do you justice.”
She shot her great-uncle a veiled glance. “An older painting of me. How interesting.”
“It hardly deserved the title of ‘painting,’ ” Beaumonde said, avoiding her gaze. “Terrible likeness. I agree with you there, Fulkham.”
“Thank you, Uncle, but you’re biased.” The woman fluttered her fan before her face exactly as she had three years before, cementing Gregory’s suspicions. “And I daresay I can hardly trust the opinion of a diplomat like Lord Fulkham either, since such men excel at giving compliments.”
“Not always.” Gregory fixed her with a hard look. “Sometimes we manage to step awry. Especially when confronted with a woman who stoops to conquer.”
If she caught the reference to their discussion of Goldsmith’s play in Dieppe, she gave no indication. “I assure you, sir,” she said in the melodic tones he remembered only too well, “I have not come to London to conquer anyone.”
“Except those of us attending the conference,” Gregory said smoothly. “And you’ve made a good start, too.” He glanced about the room. “Judging from the way everyone is looking at you, your beauty alone has the delegates smitten.”
“You see?” Beaumonde said jovially to the woman. “He’s quite the flatterer.”
“In my line of work, it’s called diplomacy,” Gregory drawled. “And speaking of diplomacy, perhaps Her Serene Highness would wish to take a turn about the palace garden with me so I can make a more informal assessment of her ability to reign as queen of Belgium.”
“An excellent idea!” the count cried. “She would be happy to accompany you. Wouldn’t you, my dear?”
The faux princess’s eyes frosted over. “I would, indeed,” she said, then glanced at the doors, “but I believe they’re about to announce that dinner is served.”
“Not for a while yet,” Gregory said. “Trust me, I asked.” He always liked to know the schedule of an evening, the shape of the party... how to plan his maneuvers.
And one way or the other, he meant to get to the bottom of this mystery. Because an impostor playing the Princess de Chanay wasn’t acceptable. There was too much at stake—for Belgiumandfor him—with this conference.
“Well, then,” she said with a furtive glance at the count. “I would be delighted, monsieur.”
Somehow he doubted that.
Monique fought panic as Lord Fulkham expertly maneuvered them through the crowded rooms of St. James’s Palace toward the garden. Curse the count for throwing her to the wolves! And after he’d said he and Lady Ursula would always be at her side, too!
She should have known not to trust him. Ever since they left Calais she’d had the sense that he was hiding something. But she hadn’t expected him to sabotage her masquerade after he’d gone to such trouble to set it up. Could he not see that Lord Fulkham was baiting him? Baitingher?
Probably not. To be fair, he didn’t know of her former association with Lord Fulkham. He must never find out, either. Because she had to secure help for Grand-maman in her final days, and this pretense was the only way to do so.
But why, oh why, did Lord Fulkham have to be the man at the center of these proceedings? And why must he have recognized her? All his veiled remarks and his intense scrutiny—he remembered her. She was sure of it.
And why hadn’t the count warned her that there was a portrait of Aurore in theLady’s Monthly Museum? She must finagle a chance to see it. She dearly hoped it was indeed of poor quality, and not a likeness that highlighted the few ways in which she and Aurore didnotresemble each other.
When they reached the garden, her heart sank to see it so deserted. Apparently she hadn’t been the only one to think dinner might soon be served. Even the band they’d heard playing out here earlier had packed up and moved inside, closer to the banqueting room.
You can handle this, she told herself.You’re an acclaimed actress, for God’s sake. This is what you do—play roles. You’ve even played a princess before. So get to it, and show this pompous gentleman what you’re made of.
She went on the offensive. “Please forgive me if this is rude, Lord Fulkham, but I’m confused by what my uncle said concerning your part in these negotiations. I was unaware that undersecretaries were of such profound importance in English politics. I thought they were little better than clerks.”
If she’d thought to insult him, his laugh showed that she’d failed. “Some of them are. It just so happens that England has two kinds. I’m the political kind. Especially with the foreign secretary laid up in bed.” He cast her a searching glance. “You have a better knowledge of English affairs than I expected.”
She had her half-English grandfather to thank for that. He’d always kept up with politics in his mother’s country. “And you, monsieur, have a better facility for ‘diplomacy’ than I expected. I think my uncle is right. Youdohave a silver tongue.”
“I hope not. It would make it awfully hard to eat,” he quipped.
A laugh sputtered out of her. Curse him. She didn’t remember him having a humorous side. “You are very droll, monsieur.”
“And you are very... different,” he said.
She tensed. “From what?”
