Page 30 of Lord Appleby's Gorgeous Imposter
The maid smiled and pressed her lips together in that look which said she knew better. “You always have it to hand when you entertain.”
“Ah.”Do I? Drat.“So many details.”
The maid had been with Charmaine for three years and knew every nuance of the actress’s habits. Fans in public, silk chemises, fine gloves to match gowns, cognac in her morning coffee, men, certain men, demanding but discreet, with specific sexual appetites. None of those delights had ever been counted among Viv’s particular joys.
She held out her hand for the fan. “Merci beaucoup, Alice.”
“De rien,” said the young servant politely. During her tenure, Alice had learned some French from her mistress, and for this venture to Paris, she had agreed to accompany Viv. She knew only that Viv was to take Charmaine’s place here in France and that she was to go with Viv everywhere and ensure her safety. That was all the maid had been told.
Viv took her staircase down to her first-floor salon. The house on rue du Bac was a four-story townhouse built decades later than her former family home on rue du Four. Rented by the theater manager for Charmaine on her written instructions, the house was completely furnished. Charmaine had required a house ready to be used as an abode and as a place of entertainment. She required a staff to manage the place. Thus Viv had a butler or majordom,châtelaine, footman, housemaid, cook, scullery maid and Suzette, the kitchen maid.
She entered the salon and inhaled the drama of its appointments. Surrounded by pale green walls, the gilded ivory furniture was from the last century. In various shades of green to darker jades, the upholstered settees and chairs grouped together to enhance conversation. Viv preferred her little cottage gathering room to all this folderol, even though she admired its beauty.
“Is it all to your liking, mademoiselle?” Her majordom hovered by the threshold. An older gentleman of pleasing personality, Monsieur Allard Franck was a chubby little man devoted to his work. Her staff ran happily on his every word, and efficiently too. She could not say the same for her châtelaine, Madame Clery, who had few words and no smiles.
“Indeed, Franck. Please thank Cook and the staff for the array of dishes. I am certain the French will admire the pastry and the British the creams.”
“We expect eleven today, mademoiselle.”
“A full drawing room. Wonderful.” She clasped her hands together. “List for me once more those who have responded.”
He began with the ladies who had accepted. Two were wives of Bonaparte’s generals, another a widow of a Frenchcomtewho had been a friend of her father’s. The last were a mother (also a widow) and daughter, both a lively part of this year’s social circle and both in search of husbands. The others were men, many married, others not. Most she had invited because they held high government posts and indulged in Society events to garner useful gossip. They knew how to carry a decent conversation, little of which focused on themselves. One was a dashing young widower, a vintner whose estate was in the Loire valley. Viv liked Luc Bechard and had invited him because he injected life and color into any salon he entered. She planned to go to Luc this afternoon if her conversation with Cyprien Montagne became difficult.
“A good mix for today,” she told Franck. She fluttered the damn fan. For once she felt natural using it.
She had no reason to be anxious. The afternoon began well, everyone enjoying the diversity of company, the wine an added aid to conversation. Cyprien Montagne took his time attempting to get her alone today. Perhaps he did not attempt to seduce women when the sun shone. Truth was, the man had invited her to three of his dinner parties and to two of his entertainments. She had attended all, heaven help her. Each time he had become even bolder, alluding to his desire to become more than friends. If she could ignore him, she would. Alas, she needed to be in his house and his company if she were ever to chance upon the likes of the Jarre brothers.
“Excuse me, mademoiselle.” Franck appeared before her. He looked perturbed.
“Is there a problem, monsieur?”
“If I might have a word,s’il vous plaît?” He nodded toward the hall.
She strolled with him.
“We have an uninvited guest at the door, mademoiselle. I understand he is a family friend, but I hesitate to admit him. He insists you will welcome him.”
Though she suspected who this bold person might be, she asked who he was. She need not have. She did not have Franck bar him. Nor did she scold herself at that weakness so much as welcome the relief he brought by his presence. Tate represented such an old touchstone of safety that, no matter how she wished him gone, she could not rob herself of the assurance of his company.
“I see, Franck. Do welcome Monsieur le Comte upstairs. I know him quite well, and I think he is acquainted with many here.”
Tate had evidently mounted the stairs right behind her man. Tate came strolling in, joyous in his coup, looking superb in stamped sapphire wool frock coat and Pomona-green silk waistcoat. Making her heart sing, he brought such light and air into her day.
“You are happy to see me,” he said with a roguish smile, and bent close to kiss her hand.
“You flatter yourself, sir.” She tossed off the allure of the lush touch of his lips to her skin and sent him a spirited lift of her brows. “Hungry?”
“Famished.” His gaze devoured hers.
“Come have your fill,” she said with a laugh. He was a man for suggestive conversations.
“I intend to.”
She swallowed her guffaw as she walked with him to her buffet. “What will you have?”
He stilled, his blue eyes with those bright green shards absorbing her. “Everything.” He cleared his throat. “I am here to save you.”
“From myself?”
