Page 3 of The Secret of Flirting
“She has a husband and children to attend to, I suppose,” Gregory said.
“An aging grandmother, sir. Mademoiselle Servais is unmarried.”
Interesting. And unexpected. Since the French always referred to their actresses asmademoiselle, one could never know for certain if they had husbands. But he’d assumed that a woman of such unparalleled attractions would. So he felt an oddly powerful satisfaction at hearing that she didn’t.
He could easily imagine her in his bed. She was exactly his sort—sensuous but graceful, an elegant siren.
Siren, bah. He was as bad as Hart. He had no time for women right now, certainly no time to dally with a French actress. That would hardly be wise for his career. And his career trumped everything.
Hart stood. “You may not know this, but I am a marquess’s son and my companion is a baron of high rank in the British government. If you can manage a meeting, we’ll make it well worth your while. We won’t keep her long.”
Gregory lifted an eyebrow at Hart. What was the man up to?
The porter nodded. “I will see what I can do, gentlemen.”
After he left, Gregory said, “If you’re hoping that your maneuver will distract me from my questions—”
“Actually, I’ve been wanting to make the ‘French chit’s’ acquaintance, and I figure two men of consequence are more likely to interest her than one.”
Ah, yes. Johnhaddescribed Hart as a bit of a lothario. “Andwewill make it ‘well worth’ the porter’s while?”
“You can take my part out of my first payment as a spy.”
Gregory snorted. “You certainly are sure of yourself.”
“A useful ability for a spy, don’t you think?” Hart said with a grin.
It was. But that didn’t mean Gregory would let the fellow lead him about like a mule. “For tonight, you can practice those skills without me. I intend to return to my room after the play is over. I’ve got reports to write.”
“Surely those can wait until later. How often do you get to meet a woman of such stellar talent as Mademoiselle Servais?”
“Often enough for me to be cynical about it. Performers belong in the golden light of the stage. In my experience, once they climb down from their lofty perch to become ordinary people, they prove either boring or flighty or both.”
Hart laughed. “Come now, I doubt she’ll be boring, and if she’s flighty, who cares? A little flirting never hurt anyone.”
In an instant, the voice of Gregory’s late unlamented father leapt into his head.Come now, boy, who cares if I tipple? A little drinking never hurt anyone.
Except when it was followed by the back of a hand. Or a fist.
He pushed that thought down into the well of secrets it had come from. “I prefer my flirting to be with a woman who can further my interests, frankly.”
Hart shook his head. “Good God, for a fellow in his thirties you act like an old man. Live a little. You’re too focused on work, you know.”
His brother and mother often made that accusation. Gregory found it ludicrous. Work kept him sane. Work drove out the memories and banished the cold sweats at night. Work was a godsend.
Hart slanted a glance at him. “Unless you’re afraid that the ‘French chit’ won’t take to you.”
“Don’t attempt to manipulate me with insults, old chap. It won’t work. I perfected the strategy when you were still a cornet.”
A heavy breath escaped Hart. “Damn it, Fulkham. Just half an hour to spend with an actress. I might not get even that if you don’t come along. She’ll be nervous if it’s just one of us.”
The man was like a dog with a bone. Which would actually make him very good as an informer. And it never hurt to stay on the good side of a marquess’s son. “Fine. If she’ll see us.” Not that Gregory doubted she would. His own rank and the promise of money generally got him whatever he wanted, and Hart’s rank alone would do that.
But after the last act ended and a servant brought them backstage, he began to think he’d been proved wrong in that, too. For as they wended their way through a warren of dressing rooms, they could hear the porter arguing with a woman in French. There was no mistaking the dulcet tones of Mademoiselle Servais, who was clearly annoyed.
“I don’t care how important these men are,” she said. “Cursed Englishmen, always expecting to get their way. I have to get back to my grandmother. If she should wake and become confused—”
The porter said something Gregory couldn’t make out, and the woman released a drawn-out sigh. “Oh, very well, then. If you must. I know you need the funds.” Her voice hardened. “But don’t expect me to fawn over them. I have no patience for men who are arrogant, usually with no reason.”
