“I think Mademoiselle Cherie would tell you that even the classics were new once.” With a bow that made his corsets creak, the elderly Lord Sawbridge added, “When I was a boy.” He laughed at his own joke, and Cherie joined him. Encouraged, he continued in the ringing tones of the slightly deaf, “Remember Plato, I do. I advised Will Shakespeare on his plays.”
“And was the model for Polonius,” Webster muttered.
“Heh? What’s that?” Lord Sawbridge put his hand to his ear.
“He commented on your wisdom.” Cherie stepped away from Sawbridge’s wandering fingers with an ease born of weeks of practice.
Sawbridge smirked, presenting a long, thin package. “For you, mademoiselle.”
“Merci, Monsieur le Duc. You are most kind.” Tearing away the tissue, Cherie spread the ivory fan wide and held it aloft. “Ah, c’ est très beau, non?”
Blushing like a boy, Sawbridge said, “I saw it and thought of you….”
“A fitting addition to my collection,” she assured him. He turned his cheek as if expecting a more concrete form of thanks, but she pretended she hadn’t seen. Instead, she smiled on the three young blades who crowded forward. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”
“No, mademoiselle,” they chorused.
The most extravagantly dressed of the three stepped forward. “We’ve heard tales of your charm and beauty and came to see if it was the truth.” All three bowed. “We are in awe.”
“Awe will not earn you a place at Madame Rachelle’s salon,” she reproved. “You must be ready to learn, and to share your knowledge with others.” She linked arms with two of the gentlemen and strolled forward, her admirers following like a train behind her. “Our function here is to encourage the arts and sciences.”
She would have continued, but a circle of men and women crowded the center of the large salon, and from the depths of the group she could hear Daphne’s voice. She shut her fan with a snap. What was the girl up to now? Daphne had a reputation for saying what she liked.
The evening was young, and Cherie functioned as unofficial hostess until Rachelle arrived. Having excused herself from her devotees, she insinuated herself between two gentlemen, and using her elbows, she edged forward to hear Daphne pronounce, “Male body parts are the converse of female body parts, facilitating the mating procedure.”
Before Cherie could stagger under the shock, the man she feared most asked, “Where did you learn that?”
Adam.
In an instant transformation, the scintillating Cherie became plain Bronwyn. She couldn’t breathe. Her heart functioned haphazardly, beating in bursts of speed and sudden cessations. She touched her forehead and found it beaded with sweat.
He was here, just as Rachelle had predicted four weeks ago, and she still wasn’t ready to face him. She’d never be ready to face him.
Yet when Daphne answered proudly, “Out of a book,” Bronwyn knew she must move, but she couldn’t seem to tear her feet from the rug.
A murmur rippled through the assembly, and Bronwyn remembered how kind Rachelle had been to her. She couldn’t allow this to continue, but before she could act, Adam spoke again. “Did they explain what happens when the male is aroused?”
Propelled by horror, Bronwyn squeezed forward. Catching Daphne’s wrist, she squeezed.
“Cherie!” Daphne said. “I’ve been having a fascinating discussion with Monsieur le Vicomte.”
Out of patience, out of breath, Bronwyn snapped, “I heard you. So did half of London. The other half will know before the evening grows older.”
Glancing around, Daphne saw the censure of the crowd. “But…the study of the human body is of interest to everyone.”
Praying for patience, Bronwyn answered, “In England, anatomy is discussed discreetly, if at all, and never in public.”
Again Daphne looked around her. The offended ladies raised a breeze as they fanned their hot cheeks and waited to hear more. The titillated gentlemen smirked boldly. For the first time, Daphne thought better of her discussion. She glared at Bronwyn as if it were all her fault, and Bronwyn realized how much Daphne resented her. She braced herself, not surprised when Daphne lashed out, “Look, Cherie blushes. She’s so embarrassed, her chest is red and mottled.”
Bronwyn resisted the temptation to cover her bosom with her hands. Quietly she asked, “Is this how you repay Rachelle’s kindness?”
Daphne couldn’t back down. To Adam she said, “Cherie is older than I, yet I suppose this poulette petite knew not how animals mate.”
Bronwyn could taste her dismay, but she retained her composure enough to say, “It’s not the subject that embarrasses me as much as your behavior.”
From the doorway Rachelle said, “Daphne, if we could speak?”
The girl tossed her head as she curtised to Adam, nodded at Bronwyn. The gathering broke into gossiping groups as she left, but Bronwyn beheld none of it. She could see only Adam, austerely handsome, dark and haughty. She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping he would disappear.
When she opened them, he still stood before her, but she’d never seen him dressed like this. Gone was the country squire he had been. In his place stood a gentleman dressed in the height of fashion. Gold braid trimmed his dark blue velvet coat. Dark blue breeches and blue stockings hugged nicely formed legs. He posed with one foot extended, his tall walking cane at an angle.
He showed no respect, no interest, only an insulting curiosity in her décolletage. “Charmed,” he drawled. “How do you get your hair that color?”
In her mortification, Bronwyn thought about how she had blushed before. Now fury washed over her, and she replied hotly, “I’m sorry you don’t like it, but I’ll not don that wig again, not even for you.” She swiveled on her heel to stalk away, but his walking stick snagged her elbow and turned her back.
“I can’t imagine why you would.” He only smiled, untouched by anything but a distant amusement. “Are you a new stray Madame Rachelle has picked up?”
Speechless, Bronwyn stared with her lips parted.
“Catching flies, mademoiselle?” he mocked.
Didn’t he know her?
Here in the salon, she was Cherie, the intriguing woman with no background. Freed of the burden of her family’s expectations, she had discovered in herself a female who could flirt, discourse, tempt.
Noblemen who’d ignored her in previous encounters now stared at her without recognition and complimented her on her exotic appearance. She had learned to smile and lower her lids over the eyes they described as enormous, cinnamon-colored, inscrutable. To move aside when they rubbed her hair between their fingers, trying to make the color come off.
With an irony unappreciated by others, she carried an ivory fan at all times. Almost without volition, she had cultivated a French accent, wondering all the time what she would do if a visitor from France should address her in the language. She played a part, the part of a siren, and discovered her own acting talent. Perhaps, just perhaps…Cautiously, testing Adam, using her new accent, she said, “We haven’t been introduced.”
“Since when do the French rely on the courtesies?” He turned and limped to a settee.
She followed him, consumed with curiosity. He lowered himself onto the cushion. Appalled, Bronwyn watched as he examined her, every inch from top to bottom, then leaned back, his wrist limp. It shocked her to find his vitality replaced with indifference.
What had changed him so?
She glanced at the mirror over the fireplace. Nothing had changed him, it was she who had changed. Changed out of recognition, it seemed. Groping for a semblance of dignity, doubting his sincerity with every step, she advanced on the lounging Adam. “Should you be here if you think so little of the French? Your hostess is French.”
He placed broad hands one atop the other on his malacca cane. “Madame Rachelle has gained my respect.”
Delving into the deep pockets of his coat, he removed a carved, painted, ornate box and opened it. With outst
retched hand he asked, “Would you care for a mint pastille?”
She shook her head, and he popped one in his mouth. “One of the few useful French inventions,” he assured her. He scooted closer to the arm of the narrow settee to make room and then patted the place.
She lowered herself to his side. She laid her hand on his arm, felt the caress of velvet on her fingertips, and swiftly removed it. Regardless of her role, regardless of her confidence, she couldn’t touch him without a jolt of memory, a jolt of pleasure. “I am Cherie.”
“Which is not your true name.” She didn’t deny it, and he mocked, “A mystery. How I love them. I must warn you, I will do my best to solve yours.”
She had heard that before from the endless, infatuated visitors to the salon and replied smoothly, “You may try.”
“I’m not familiar with your accent. Where are you from?”
The falsehood came easily to her. “From the north of France, in Picardy.”
“You just arrived from Picardy?”
“Oui.”
“Yet you speak English amazingly well.”
She looked him right in the eye. “My governess insisted I learn the language of Norman and Anglo-Saxon. Do you speak French?”
“Touché.” He touched his forehead in a salute. “My French is inadequate.” She relaxed until he added, “When I speak French, I’m fluent in only the language of love.”
Thoughtlessly she chewed on her index finger.
He rescued the abused hand, drew it from her mouth to examine the ragged nails. “You mustn’t bite yourself so,” he chided. “Save that for a lover.”
She blushed. Although she’d been fielding such intimacies with ease from other men, when Adam spoke she could think of no riposte. Jerking her hands out of his, she asked, “What brings you to London, monsieur?”
“I allow you to divert me”—he contemplated her hands as they twined together—“for the moment. I’ve been neglecting Change Alley, and she’s a fickle mistress. I’ll be there tomorrow, circulating among the coffeehouses.”
“You speak of Change Alley as a woman?”
“An exaggeration, of course. A woman is twice as fascinating”—he touched her cheek with one finger—“and twice as fickle.”
“What good does it do you to come to the Alley now? The South Sea Company closed their books at the end of June, and Sir John Blunt took his family to Tunbridge Wells for a rest.”
“Sir John?”
“Haven’t you heard? The profit he made so delighted the king, he rewarded his faithful servant with a baronetcy.” She chuckled as she spoke of the head of the South Sea Company, for Adam cradled the sweep of his forehead in his palm in mock despair.
“Fools, all of them. Where stands the South Sea stock now?”
Forgetting her role, she told him, “Over a thousand, and Change Alley still mad with investors.”
A small smile molded his lips. “You’re knowledgeable.”
Slipping back into the persona of Cherie, she said, “La, how could I help it? Madame Rachelle tries to keep the conversation to the arts and sciences, but one and all want to discuss their profits on Change Alley.” Daring, she added, “I’ve discovered an inexplicable distaste for monetary matters.”
“Have you?” He sounded dangerously neutral. “As I’ve always said, a woman should never muck up her pretty head with such matters.”
She opened her mouth, then shut it. She’d almost begged him to say that; she couldn’t blame him for giving in to such temptation. Seeking a diversion, she cast her gaze around the room and found a remarkable gentleman peering at them through silver eyeglasses. He dressed well, his wig designed in the newest style, his cravat tied in a French twist. His face was smooth, the color of his complexion even. Like a portrait, he looked perfect—and contrived.
“Who is that man?” she asked. “The man who stares at us?”
He lifted his attention from her with flattering reluctance. “I see no one staring.”
Contemptuously she said, “I can best describe him as the marvel of the paint box.”
“Ah.” He chuckled, and the sound sent thrills up her spine. “You must mean Carroll Judson. He comes to speak to us. Look closely at him, Cherie, and tell me what you see.”
Judson minced up on high heels and bowed to the couple on the settee. “What a pleasant surprise, Lord Rawson.”
“A surprise, anyway.”
Amazed by his rudeness, Bronwyn glanced at Adam and observed the tense muscle of his jaw. It was the return of the old Adam, the man who’d met Bronwyn and found her lacking. He found Carroll Judson lacking, also, and displayed it with no finesse. Did Adam have any measure of tact in his bones?
Judson seemed to take no offense. He smiled, displaying a fine set of Egyptian pebble teeth, and asked gaily, “How do you stand the brute, dear?”
“My visit with Monsieur le Vicomte has been a delight.” More than anyone could know, indeed.
Judson positioned himself just beyond the illumination of the candles. “He’s so like his father, I hear. A veritable ladies’ man.”
Adam’s teeth, fine, white, and his own, snapped together as he replied, “I am nothing like my father, and I’ll shoot the man who says I am.”
Taken aback, Judson batted his eyelids. “My dear man, I meant no offense. After all, who better to tease you about your pater? We have so much in common, you and I.”
With only a small change, Adam repeated the phrase. “I am nothing like you, and I will shoot the man who says I am.”
“There’s just no pleasing you.” Judson flounced. “Very well, I’ll leave you to your conversation, but remember, dear lady”—he turned to Bronwyn—“when you weary of this creature, come to me.”
The interlude left Bronwyn with nothing to say, nothing to do, but watch as Adam’s fingers strained to shape the round amber knob of his cane. She liked the length of them, the breadth of his palm, the whole of his hand, but disliked the frustration that brought him such anguish. “He has no hair.”
“What?” The fingers relaxed a bit, and he asked in tones of simulated amazement, “Do you mean his disguise didn’t hoax you?”
“The wig, the penciled brows, the false lashes? No, they were no deception. His skin appears to be putty, with only a coating of paint to give it color.” She lowered her own lashes to shield herself from his admiration.
“Smallpox so damaged him, his hair disappeared. His skin, as you observed, is filled with coarse white in the hopes it will fill the pits left by the disease, and that covered with carmine, ceruse, powder, and all the rest.” He caressed her cheek with his knuckle. “Its texture is crude enamel, not the fine china of your own skin.”
She wanted to turn her lips to his fingers, and her reaction, so contrary to the ill will that she should bear him, brought her a pain in the region of her heart. Faltering, she asked, “Who could be fooled?”
Toying with the top bow of her bodice, he leaned closer, and the scent of mint brushed her face. “I assure you, my dear Cherie, the hope rattles in his vacant breast all will see him as he wishes to be seen.” With a little jerk, the bow was untied.
Bronwyn slapped at his hand. “Monsieur, you mustn’t play such games with my clothing. No one here wishes to see my corset.”
“On the contrary”—he spread aside the material and touched the flesh that swelled above the whalebone—“many may wish to see it. I find, however, I desire to be the only one so privileged.”
Bronwyn was shocked at his desire, expressed so boldly. She caught the ends of the bow and retied it in a flurry. “Isn’t that what we all seek? To be seen as we wish to be, rather than as we are?”
Adam untied the lopsided bow once more and retied it with an elegance that revealed experience. “Some seek to hide themselves beneath a mask, some seek to hide themselves by revealing.”
Rattled by his insight, she flipped open her fan, placed it between them, and peered at him from beneath lowered lashes. Again he appeared faintl
y bored, as if he’d said nothing of significance. Afraid to make much of it, she asked, “Would you care to join a discussion on Pope’s translation of the Iliad?”
Adam curled his lip as he considered the possibility. “I’d rather discuss you and me, the maze of our lives, and how we came to this predestined meeting.”
That was exactly what she did not want to talk about. “One of our ladies is an astronomer. Perhaps you would like—”
He shook his head.
“Would you like to join the experiment being performed?”
“How have I offended you, Cherie? We speak of the general, and you’re willing to converse. We speak of the intimate, and you wish to fly.” Before she could answer, he waved a regal hand. “No matter. You wish to observe this experiment. Let us do so.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to…that is, the experiments performed in the salon always interest me, and I wish to observe this one.”
Leaning heavily on the arm of the settee, he stood. “What is so special about this one?”
“Young Mr. Webster just returned from his Grand Tour, bringing something from Germany.”
“Yes?” he encouraged. He grimaced as he put his weight on his leg.
“He calls it a vacuum pump. Insert a clock within, he says, pump the air out, and the chiming of the clock will be silenced. Light a fire, place it within, pump the air out, and the fire will fail.”
Adam sighed. “And you believe him?”
She would have been annoyed with his skepticism, but the obvious discomfort of his leg made her answer gently, “I’ve seen many strange things demonstrated during my visit here.”
“Charlatans.”
She longed to put her arm around him as he limped to the table surrounded by chattering people, but the image of his displeasure stopped her. “I confess, I still view it as magic rather than science.”
“Perhaps you’re not so credulous after all,” he grunted, adjusting himself until most of his weight rested against his walking stick.
She didn’t reply, standing on tiptoe to watch as Webster displayed the German globe he claimed would miraculously silence a clock and kill a flame.