Page 27 of The House Saphir
“He is a lord. He’s a count. That’s… the official… Is there something in your eye?”
“He’s handsome.”
Mallory crossed her arms. “I thought we were here to fake-exorcise a few ghosts and take a few thousand lourdes, but if you think you can steal a wealthy, titled husband in the interim, I support you.”
“Not me, you dolt.” Anaïs leaned closer to flick her on the earlobe. “You!”
“Ow! And also—what?”
“You like him.”
“I do not. He’s a count.”
“You’ve always been ambitious.”
Mallory scowled, her thoughts tumbling with the rumors she’d heard about the Saphir heir over years of researching his family legacy. Armand was said to be solitary. Reclusive. Quiet. Particular. It was said that he mostly kept to himself.
It was difficult to resolve those rumors with the boy who had come on her tour. Who had held his hand out to her, urging her to trust him enough to jump out a window, promising he would break her fall.
He had been brave last night. Clever. A little reckless. Far kinder than she would expect a nobleman to be, especially to a lowly tour guide like herself. She could admit there seemed to be a goodness in him she’d rarely witnessed in her fellow humans.
And… yes. He certainly was handsome.
And also far too trusting.
“We’re here for a job. Don’t get distracted.”
“Don’t be so quick to write off the possibility of a romance with his lordship. Imagine—Mallory Fontaine, master of skepticism, falling in love with a wealthy count who just happens to be the heir of a grand haunted mansion?” Anaïs laughed. “That might be the greatest con of all.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Anaïs insisted that Mallory wear one of her own colorful gowns to dinner, rather than the practical gray Mallory preferred. Too tired from their travels to argue, Mallory found herself being buttoned up into a satin burgundy gown that had once been their mother’s, and onto which Anaïs had spent hours adding a conservative lace ruffle that climbed to the top of Mallory’s throat, because Mallory refused to reveal any skin below her neck, regardless of the current fashions. Mallory actually liked the dress, to her own dismay, but she’d never have admitted it out loud. She even begrudgingly let her sister braid her hair and tie it with a ribbon, but only because that was the sort of detail her sister cared about. Not because she wanted to be presentable for the count.
“That will have to do,” said Anaïs, inspecting Mallory’s hair with grumpy dissatisfaction.
“What have I always told you?” Triphine said. “You could behalfway to pretty with a modicum of effort.” She sat in the window seat, cocooned in a quilt from the bed. “Though standards have dropped so far this past century. Back in Gai-Yin, I would never have worn my hair down for dinner. In my day, your sister would have been considered an abysmal harlot.”
Choosing not to repeat this sentiment to Anaïs, Mallory stood from the vanity chair and dug through her satchel, retrieving the knife she’d stashed away at the bottom of the bag. She tucked it into her boot.
“It is only dinner, Mally,” said Anaïs. “What do you need a knife for?”
“Do you really need to ask me that?”
Anaïs raised an eyebrow.
“I might need to slice some meat from a bone. Or trim wayward threads from the fine silk napkins. Also, you heard Armand mention monsters, and I was recently attacked by a voirloup, so forgive me for overpreparing.”
Anaïs considered. “Fair point, but don’t let our host see it. We need to be careful around Armand. If this is going to work, he must think that we’re respectable witches. Like Mother.”
Mallory crinkled her nose. “Boring.”
“This was your idea. Try not to ruin it by being yourself.”
“Embroiderthatonto a pillow, why don’t you?”
A knock came at the door. Mallory glanced at the mantel clock—it was precisely nine o’clock.
“Are you coming?” she asked Triphine.
