Page 19 of Lord Carlisle's Enticing Lure
Had she continued and approached them, Lord Carlisle wouldhave seen by Amber and Gus’s reactions to her that they and she were acquainted. Both ladies were expert at discretion, but Giselle wished not to navigate the murky waters of espionage in the presence of Carlisle. The less he knew about her, the better.
Three years ago, each of the two ladies had met the men to whom they were now married. Agents for a network of spies managed here in London by a lady merchant, both Lords Ashley and Ramsey had left France after the declaration of war and brought their lady loves with them here to England’s shores.
Giselle had not seen either lady since they had met in Paris until she’d arrived in England last autumn. That journey from her home near Blois, along the Loire River, had been long and dangerous. Only with the help of one of Ashley’s men—his former majordomo of his house in Paris—had she been able to make secret connections to get to Le Havre on the coast. Not only was she escaping from Joseph Fouché’s deputy, René Vaillancourt, but she was gifted with a rare talent. Amber and Gus knew that skill could help the British cause. They and their husbands had welcomed her to England, smuggled in as she was by one of their colleagues. Jacques Durand, by name. It was Durand’s associate who had not posted a few nights ago outside the hotel.
She winced. She had too much on her mind to play the polite lady who met old friends on the street. Never had she been a good actress. It was her frankness, her lack of subterfuge, that had created the tensions with her husband. But it was on her ability to truly see people for what they were that she had built her strength and survived her husband’s cruelty and his embezzlement of public tax money. The French deputy had argued that to scrub the public records of her husband’s theft, she could become Vaillancourt’s mistress. She knew it a false and vengeful offer. Vaillancourt had loved only Amber St. Antoine, now Lady Ramsey. His loss of her to Ramsey in a scene that denigrated Vaillancourt publicly sparked that man’s resentment ofAmber and all her friends. Giselle’s alternative, he said, was to be shackled and go to the infamous Parisian prison of La Force. Long ago with the death of her husband by Vaillancourt’s order, Giselle had vowed never to allow another man to mistreat or abuse her.
She summoned now the pride that she had escaped Vaillancourt’s threats and concentrated on her future. She turned and walked back at a brisk pace. She’d return to the Lanes tomorrow for her supplies. Three days’ hence she would meet her two friends in the house they had rented here. That had been the plan for the three of them to meet. Gus, Lady Ashley, had sent a letter to her at the hotel last week confirming that. Clearly, they had changed their plans unexpectedly and arrived earlier.
Giselle hurried along, calming herself. There had been no mishap. She was fine, saved from a tense scene. She intended to live a very long time in serenity. Rewarding herself was her way to calm her nerves and grant herself those little prizes that made her life enjoyable.
So as reward, when she returned, she would sketch for herself a new gown or two, serviceable styles to replace those so recently ruined by the sea and the rain. She would also sketch a new embroidery design for a bodice. Or perhaps for the cover of a new reticule—and take them all to the modiste in the Lanes who created her new royal-purple silk gown. She deserved nice things. Beautiful things. She’d have them…and once her work here was done, she might even allow herself a true holiday. She’d go, perhaps, to Cornwall. There, she’d heard, were dramatic coasts and landscapes in that far corner of England to rival those on the French Normandy coast near Étretat.
She could live as she wished—and immediately a vision of Carlisle stood before her. Tall, bold, laughing, he could be in her life after this task of hers was finished. He could be hers in the fullness of time. She saw the interest in the sparkling depths of his silver-gray eyes. She could have him, perhaps not forever but for a day, a week, an interlude filled with rapture.
But no.No!She was not for him. She was not a virginal lady with a pristine past and only a spotless future before her. Still, she closed her eyes. She could imagine him without all the folderol of his cravat and this and that and other. Naked to her eye and her hand, he would be a marvel in bed. Inventive and tender, he would fulfill her one desire for bliss she’d barely glimpsed. He would be a man she could savor for as long as he wished, for as long as she cared to amuse him.
Oh, she was quite mad for him, wasn’t she?
She sped along. She was fantasizing now.Crazy, you are, Madame Laurant.
She chuckled at herself and slowed. She picked another dream. Achievable, too. She could live in Cornwall for a long time, find a man who appealed. She would be picky. Choose a nice man. A kind man. Someone who resembled one dashing marquis she was beginning to suspect she would never forget.
But was there anyone his equal?
No. Do not fool yourself, Giselle.
There is no one.
Chapter Eight
As soon asGiselle closed her door the next morning on the footman who’d brought her breakfast, she strode to her table to open the two surprise letters on the tray. One was on Amber’s stationery, and she begged Giselle to forgive the delay in notifying her that she and Gus had arrived early in town. But their husbands had business to conduct and they all came posthaste. Amber also told her to open the other letter on her tray if she had not already. The second note was paper of a delicate ivory, scented with lemon verbena, and Giselle knew at once whose it was. Tickled as a child that the letter most likely came from one of her mother’s best friends, Giselle tore it open.
Oui, miraculous!Madame Élisabeth-Louise Vigée-Le Brun, the famous portraitist of Marie Antoinette and so many other royals and dignitaries, not only currently visited Brighton, but she invited Giselle to luncheon tomorrow.
Giselle had had no idea the famous portrait painter was here in town. Furthermore, the lady had discovered she too was in Brighton. How that had occurred was no mystery. The answer had to be that her friends, Amber and Gus, had sent word to Madame Le Brun that Giselle was here in Brighton. Amber and Gus not only knew the famous portraitist from their years in France, but also that Giselle had known the artist had been one of her mother’s good friends. TheFrenchwoman knew that Giselle would not refuse her invitation.
Giselle sat with a smile and sigh, her reverie providing glimpses of her childhood. She remembered well her mother’s and the lady’s laughter in each other’s company. In her family’s Paris house in the Rue du Bac, Giselle had studied madame’s work as she painted portraits of her parents. Later, the artist had come to their chateau on the Loire and painted one landscape of their verdant forest along the rushing river. Taken by her mother to view Le Brun’s studio in Paris, Giselle fell in love with the ability to produce not only landscapes true to a leafy tree, but creations of others’ faces in hues and shades so real that the people could step off the canvas into the world.
Giselle had not seen Madame Le Brun in many years. The lady had fled Paris and traveled over much of the Continent since the royal Bourbons had been guillotined twelve years ago. Her visits to any notable man or woman in any part of the world were duly reported by newspapers everywhere. She made her way among the titled, rich, and famous, many of whom she had met when she was the favored artist and portraitist of Queen Marie Antoinette.
Giselle had endeavored to be as good, though she knew her skills at painting people would never equal madame’s. She stuck to scenery, landscapes, and seascapes, and called herself useful, if never brilliant.
That Madame Le Brun was here in Brighton was a joy to learn. That the lady invited her to meet her for luncheon at her rented home was a boon.
Giselle felt her spirits lift. She would enjoy renewing their friendship. More than that, she felt content that Gus and Amber were also in town to talk about her progress. She’d tell them about the failure of Jacques Durand’s man to meet her the other night, and about the seeming disappearance of the guard they had hired to shadow her. Both Gus and Amber, with their husbands, and their ties to Scarlett Hawthorne’s espionage network, would not only have answers for her. They would have solutions.
She strode to the window overlooking the bustling streets of the town and the wide, welcoming shoreline shimmering in the sunlight. She’d not had the pleasure of seeing Lord Carlisle since yesterday in the Lanes. She dared to hope that he would not be invited to the artist’s little soirée. She doubted he would know Madame Le Brun, but then, he was a marquis, titled and therefore, to some extent or another, part of London Society. If he came, so be it. She would cope.
She inhaled, her confidence returning. She had much to do—and she would do it best if she cast off her stubborn fascination with the dashing Lord Carlisle.
*
“Gigi! Gigi!”
Giselle spun on the stone walk to the sound of a child calling the name her own mama had used for her. “Bella!”
The little girl broke from her father’s grasp. She ran toward Giselle, her chubby arms up and waving at her.
