Page 7 of The Secret of Flirting
Anger flashed through him, tangled up in his sorrow and guilt and pain. Damn her to hell. She had no idea what she was talking about. A moated castle kept things in as well as out. It could hide shame and heartache, neglect and abuse, blood and gore and death.
Especially death. And now John was dead.Dead.Gregory must get that through his head or how was he to continue?
So as he let his grief overtake him, let himself sink into its madness, he put all thoughts of Mademoiselle Monique Servais from his head for good.
One
Dieppe, France
October 1830
Monique Servais sat alone in her dressing room, reapplying face paint between acts. Once again, the Dieppe theater was performingLe mariage de Figaro, but this time she was playing the Countess and not Suzanne.
She grimaced. Ofcourseshe was playing the older woman these days. Some ingénue had the role of Suzanne now that Monique had reached the advanced age of twenty-four.
No, that wasn’t fair. It was her peaked appearance and her lapses in remembering her lines that had relegated her to the lesser role. She got little sleep anymore, with her grandmother Solange wandering outside the apartment at all hours.
So it was just as well that Monique had an easier part. She would soon have to hire a servant to keep watch even at night. And how was she to pay for that? It wasn’t as if the theater would give her more money, especially in her current state.
A knock came at the door, and Mr. Duval poked his head inside. “There is a gentleman who wishes to meet you after the performance.”
“Another?” She waved her hand dismissively. “You know I don’t do that.”
“I think you may want to speak to this particular man, my dear. He says—”
“I don’t care what he says or how much he pays you.” She swiveled on her chair to look at Mr. Duval. “I can’t linger after the performance these days—youknowthat. Grand-maman is getting worse. Besides, I hate all those leering fellows. There was that merchant who thought he could convince me to become his mistress by giving me a fur tippet. And that... that vile Dutchman who wanted to suck my toes.”
So far she’d avoided taking a protector. But if Grand-maman got worse, she might have no choice.
She shuddered. “Not to mention the baker with the admittedly delicious cakes who also stank of fish. Evenyousaid it wasn’t worth the money he paid you for an audience with me.”
“And let’s not forget that British lord, the one who annoyed you so thoroughly.”
Gregory Vyse, Baron Fulkham. Even after three years, she remembered his name. And his faintly accented French and the way the room had seemed to shrink to fit him when he walked in. Not to mention his eyes, so starkly blue in his handsome face, and his wealth of wavy hair, black as a starless night.
Curse him. Turning back to her mirror, she resumed touching up her face paint. “British lord?” she said with forced nonchalance. “I don’t remember any British lord.”
Mr. Duval chuckled. “You rage about him every time anyone mentions the virtues of tragedy over comedy.”
“He was arrogant and insufferable in his opinions,” she snapped. “Of course I rage about him.”
“So youdoremember him,” Mr. Duval said smugly.
She glared at Mr. Duval in the mirror. “I remember that you forced the man on me and that I regretted it. Just as, no doubt, I will regret the one you are trying to make me see tonight.”
“This one is different.”
“You always say that,” she muttered.
“He’s from Chanay.”
She paused with her powder brush in midair. Grand-maman was also from Chanay, in Belgium. “What’s his name?”
“The Count de Beaumonde. He says he’s your great-uncle. Your grandmother’s brother-in-law.”
She recognized the name. Grand-maman had spoken of the count many times, and with great affection, too.
Monique’s hand began to shake so much she dropped the brush. “He’s here. In the theater.”
