One for All, page 25
I took a deep breath. “First you’re convinced I have feelings for Henri, and now Étienne? You’re losing your touch.”
She smiled. But it was tired. “You might be able to fool yourself. But you can’t fool me. It’s like I said before—you crave care in return. I can’t make you believe we’re enough. I can’t undo the hurt done to you. I know it will take time for you to understand and accept that we care. But, in the meantime … promise you won’t get too far in over your head. We can keep you from falling if you’re too dizzy. We can help you regain your balance. We can even offer you a hand to pull you out of the water. But if you don’t accept it, if you let yourself fall even farther in … then saving you from drowning? That’s beyond any of our abilities.”
* * *
Tucked into the corner of the carriage, the clack of hooves and lacquered wheels steady underneath our seats, I watched the dark depths of the Paris night morph the curtain print into strange, fantastical shapes. A phoenix immolating itself in flames of liquefied gold. A gryphon clawing at the ground, galloping toward me before dissipating into clouds of smoke. As the figure shifted, and the lion’s mouth opened, I squeezed my eyes shut.
“What are you thinking?” Théa’s voice drew me back with a lurch. Four sets of eyes, all on me.
Papa’s ring glowed warm and solid and I pressed my hand to my chest so it was over my heart. Tania, Tania, Tania, beating in perfect time, my own heart a call to arms. “Planning how to catch a killer.”
Théa squeezed my hand. I imagined my feelings turning off. Lights fading. Candles being extinguished.
There was no more upset, no more shame, no more yearning. Only Papa on the side of the road and my blistering, furious heartbeat.
The carriage went under a bridge. We were plunged into darkness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
ENTERING THE ROYAL palace the second time should’ve been like the first—I’d seen all the splendor before. And yet it wasn’t. The monstrous gates, the colossal columns, the hedges sculpted into terrifying mythical beasts, the crystal chandeliers and wallpaper adorned with gold leaf like the inside of the Dowager Queen’s jewelry box—these were all the same. The mirror-laden walls reflected back every version of you, even the ones you tried to hide. But now I knew the extravagance was a distraction from the secrets that whispered on the air with every flick of a mademoiselle’s fan.
Madame de Treville went to announce our arrival. Théa found the Comte and left us quietly, but not without a look back over her shoulder and a glimmer in her eyes. She could feel it, too. We were close.
When our mentor returned, she insisted on finding the man Étienne introduced me to that night at the theater—he was Aria’s target. The pair disappeared into clouds of embroidered damask and feathery lace. Portia linked our arms, drew me a few steps away to point out a figure. “Ah, there’s my target. Monsieur Janvier.”
I nodded. “I recognize him from Madame de Treville’s lesson cards.” The curling blond mustache, the wide gesticulations punctuating his words, the velvet cuffs catching the chandelier light.
Portia’s smile was genuine. “Well done, Tania. Do you remember the rest?”
I paused, mind whirring, sweat and spice heavy on the air. “His grand Paris residence was a casualty during La Fronde. He never recovered his wealth or standing.”
Portia nodded along, her voice a whisper under the strain of music and laughter. “Although his appearance has undergone a dramatic shift. As if he’s suddenly acquired beaucoup d’argent, n’est-ce pas? Or perhaps that fabric you found on the ship had further uses than mere musket coverings.”
We split off, Portia ingratiating herself with Monsieur Janvier’s group while I watched the throng of couples. Waiting for the sight of my target, Lord DuVerlac—the man I’d use to make Étienne jealous.
“They let anyone into these parties now.”
My eyes drifted, my body tilted toward the main expanse of the ballroom. A man and woman stood side by side, observing Portia with thinly veiled disgust as she simpered and batted her eyelashes at something the messieurs said.
It couldn’t be … the last time I’d seen this man, he was barking orders to dockhands. Was his companion here, too? The one I’d left bleeding, slumped against a wall—the crush of salt water, the thick of night. Pretending to be engrossed with the spectacle of dancing couples, I stepped back and to the side, then trained my ears on their muttered exchange.
“It’s a shame to see the palace polluted in such a way,” he said. Closing my eyes tight against the rush of anger, I opened them to the bright golden sway of lights and air so heady with perfume and alcohol I could hardly tell which scent was which. “Things will be righted soon; eventually the King will understand ces bricons do not deserve his generosity. Fools, the lot of them.”
Maybe the King would understand … if said understanding were reliant on being buried in la Basilique Cathédrale de Saint-Denis.
“One can hope,” the woman said with a sniff. “I noticed your wife didn’t attend my gathering this week?” Her tone was casual, but her eyes glinted dangerously.
“She was sorry to have missed it.”
“Is that so? You know, it is time-consuming, custom ordering fans. I had hers waiting. I thought she might appreciate the style; I know all the other ladies did. If she’s changed her mind, however, I’d be happy to return it to the éventailliste if she no longer approves of the craftsmanship.”
“N-No,” the man stuttered. “She was—she was unwell, and—”
“Busy. Interesting.”
“She’ll retrieve it tomorrow. You have my word.”
“That won’t be necessary.” The woman opened one of her tie-on pockets and pulled out a gilded fan. “I assume I can pass on your appreciation of the detailing to the appropriate party?”
The man pulled at his collar. “I’d like nothing more.”
The woman twirled her own fan, an extravagant thing of filigreed paper and lace, over in her left hand. Ice licked up my spine. Madame de Treville had tested us on every minute movement. Every intricate tilt of the instrument, every coy smile that meant anything but. A fan in a lady’s left hand, turned over … We’re being watched.
Her eyes belied nothing. His, however, darted to Portia. “I’m quite parched,” the woman declared. “Go fetch me a drink before you return to your wife? Doubtless she’s missing your comfort during her convalescence.”
The man balked and started in the direction of the drinks. I tried to get Portia’s attention, but she was too busy charming Monsieur Janvier. Squaring my shoulders, I took a deep breath. Timed my movements so that, as the man strode purposefully across my path, I thrust myself forward.
We collided with a crunch. And then I was falling. Back to the main square, back to fiery skinned palms and skirts strewn with eggshell and yolk and Marguerite’s laugh seared into my brain. But then a hand gripped my elbow. Portia.
“Oh, pardonnez-moi!” I exclaimed.
He looked down at me, at Portia, at the feigned apology plastered on our faces. He blinked, his face all scrunched. And then, a sneer. No hint of recognition. To him, we were silly girls in pretty dresses. As he reached down I caught a glimpse of the open fan. A true work of art. Fine calligraphy letters, gold and delicate and folded between the fan’s ribs and floral lace … wait a moment. Letters? No … words.
“Racaille,” he muttered. I shifted over, trying to get a look under his hat. His voice was different from the masked intruder’s—then again, hadn’t it sounded like the intruder was altering his voice?
“Qu’est-ce que vous avez dit?” Portia inquired, all sugar and silk. “What did you say? I must have misheard you.”
He bowed curtly as he tucked the ornate fan into his jacket. “C’est de ma faute. Excusez-moi.” He followed his apology with a grimace.
I fought against the crashing gray waves, the scramble of my heartbeat. His partner brushed past, presenting us with a frosty look before they both disappeared into the crowd.
“He was with the Comtesse de Gramont?” Portia asked.
“That was the Comtesse?”
“Bien sûr. And one of the gentlemen from the docks. Was that why you bumped into him?” Her dark irises blazed. “At first I thought you were dizzy—”
“She gave him a fan, Portia. A fan. For his wife.”
A whisper of a breath escaped her lips. “What do you think it all means?”
I thought back to that very first day in the parlor, how Madame de Treville had chastised Portia for stepping on a target’s foot, how snide the Comtesse de Gramont had been … “but sleeping with the éventailliste, now that’s an unnecessarily extreme course of action—”
“Perhaps the affair with the éventailliste wasn’t about fashion after all.” I lowered my voice, ready to tell her about the letters.
“Excusez-moi.” A man interrupted us and bowed low, the sleeve of his jacket almost brushing the floor. He bounced up on the balls of his feet. “I wanted to inquire after your hand. For the next dance.” He nodded to the couples milling about as they awaited music—the performers were taking a short break. “I have it on good authority you’re an excellent dancer. Madame de Treville informed me you were looking forward to the gavotte this evening.”
I placed my hand in his. “I’d be honored…”
His free hand met his forehead and left an uncomfortably bright red mark. “You must think me so rude! Lord DuVerlac, at your service.”
I smiled my best smile and fluttered my lashes. Ah, there. There was that familiar sharp intake of breath as our gazes found each other. If only Maman could see me now. “My name is Tania. And I assure you, the pleasure is all mine.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
LORD DuVERLAC WAS more of a gentleman than most. His hands strayed no lower than what propriety dictated. He even listened when I responded to his occasional question. His only sin was being a tad dull—then again, that was likely why Madame de Treville chose him: enough of a presence to make Étienne feel threatened, but easy for me to manage and navigate.
“And are you enjoying the season?” As he spoke, my focus drifted to Étienne. He’d arrived almost an hour after the ballroom opened, and spoke to the theater investor, but Aria was quick to draw the latter away and into the throng of dancers. Étienne had stood there, his eyes roaming around the room. Was he looking for me?
He was with a group of other young nobles now. There was a woman, too, whispering to him, hand covering her mouth from sight. Heat surged under my skin. But as if he sensed it, he glanced up, hazel gaze intent on me. Her hand touching his arm, her smiling at him and him smiling back—the vision shifted so I was in her place. No intrigue, no deception. The two of us under the twinkling lights refracting through crystal …
“Mademoiselle?” Lord DuVerlac asked.
I pulled my focus back to my partner and forced a placid expression. “It appears I’m still a bit overcome … by the general splendor, you know.”
DuVerlac nodded sympathetically. “It took me many seasons to grow accustomed to it. Quite a shock, at first.”
“May I cut in?” Étienne stood at Lord DuVerlac’s shoulder, a flickering flame that sucked all the air out of the room. DuVerlac wasn’t just a member of the noblesse, but also a gentleman—despite the interruption, he wouldn’t refuse the request, even for a lower-ranking noble.
“Monsieur Verdon.” I stumbled over his name. Étienne took hold of my hand. I started at the sudden contact, at the feel of his skin, at the crackle of heat that passed from his fingertips to mine. “What do you think you’re doing?” I asked.
“You still owe me a dance. Truly, a travesty of epic proportion.” As we spoke, he urged me forward, until we were in the rows of dancers. “And you seem to be feeling better.”
Annoyance shot through me—he hadn’t asked; had just assumed based on how I looked. But then he didn’t know that I could look fine but feel anything but, even if he were kind when I nearly fainted. I couldn’t be frustrated with him for things he didn’t know.
“I thought you’d be dancing with that mademoiselle,” I said sweetly. She sneered over at us; irritation clung to her like perfume.
His laughter reverberated in his hand. In my hand. “Why? Are you jealous?” His gaze lingered on mine, searching. And I stared back, felt myself leaning forward, pulled by some invisible thread, only to blink and right myself at the last second.
“No,” I retorted, “merely surprised. I was in the middle of a conversation.”
“With DuVerlac? You’d have a better time conversing with a brick wall. The man is uncommonly tedious.”
He couldn’t fool me, not anymore. The blatant arrogance was a show for la noblesse. I knew the Étienne who checked to make sure a sick girl was safe. “On the contrary,” I said, “the conversation was stimulating. Perhaps his wit requires an adequate partner to flourish.” His hand tightened on mine. As the candlelight shifted, hazel darkened to deep brown with a hint of green. “Jealous?” I parroted back.
“Jealous? Of DuVerlac? Hardly.” His hand dipped to my waist, and I jerked. “It’s the dance,” he explained. “A new style from Italy. Look.” To my dismay, each man placed his hand flat on his partner’s back. There was more than a foot between them, but still.
“I … well, th-then…,” I stammered as his palm found the small of my back. We’d walked side by side and sat next to each other at the theater, but this was different. From here I could see his chest expand with each breath he took, could feel his arm curled around me. Could sense his chin near the top of my head, the warmth radiating onto my scalp.
Like a statue, I was still. Even when the music started. I couldn’t do this. Not with him. It was a ruse, I knew that, but my heart was racing at a breakneck pace. The world was whirling, fast, fast, fast, and nothing I could do would slow it down.
“Tania.” He said my name tenderly, encouragingly. As if he were coaxing me out of the shadows. We were closer than the dance required. Madame de Treville’s teachings echoed in my ears. But then his hand flexed on my bodice, only a few layers of silk and petticoats and boning between his skin and mine. “I won’t let you fall.”
And then we were dancing. For so long, I thought I’d never experience the sensation of flying, that I couldn’t—my body would never let me flunge. That I’d have to be satisfied watching others complete a flying lunge, gliding through the air, goddesses of the wind.
Yet, I was flying. And the dizziness was there, but so was his hand at my waist. His strong nose, a hairline crooked. His fingers grasping mine. The steps were unfamiliar, but the way he led wasn’t. When he pulled me into a twirl I laughed, kept laughing even as the gray waves across my vision crashed and blurred. Even as my legs threatened to give way.
“Tania?” I stopped short, my cheek below his shoulder. Not now. Not again. Tears pooled at the corners of my eyes, my surroundings spinning so I couldn’t tell the dancers from the room, Étienne from the dancers. “Here,” he murmured. My feet no longer supported my weight. Movement, a cool wash of air, solid arms enclosed around me.
Time, slow, and then: The world righted itself. A balcony, a stone bench beneath me, fragrant, sweet-smelling winter pansies budding around stone pillars. My skin welcomed the rush of wind. Étienne knelt and captured both my hands in his.
“Étienne, please, think of how this must look.” Any passerby would see how close we were. It wasn’t like before, that first time we were alone, when he maintained his distance in the shadowed half-light through ballroom windows. The calluses on my thumbs knew the feel of his skin now—achingly familiar.
“We’re the only ones here.” He was right; the balcony was empty, the partygoers’ laughter muted by marble and glass. The only other sound was the occasional gust of frigid wind singing through branches. He moved to sit on the bench next to me. A less compromising position, but now his arm brushed against mine. Frustration coursed through me at him for not listening, at myself for not being stronger; Aria’s warnings: for me to protect myself, to protect my heart. But wasn’t this what Madame de Treville wanted? For Étienne to open up? For us to assure his father’s involvement in the plot?
“You said my name,” he observed, facing me, knees grazing my skirts.
“What?” Remnants of dizziness clouded my mind. My words weren’t catching on my tongue because of him. My thoughts weren’t languid and slow because of his proximity. It was the dizziness. Only the dizziness.
“You … it’s nothing. Are you all right?” His expression transformed in worry. “You seemed unwell, like you are sometimes. So I brought you out here.” He studied the empty balcony overlooking the grounds, dark green hills black under the moonlight. The anticipation of approaching snow thickened the air. “But it is cold.”
“I’m not cold,” I said.
“You’re sure, ma tourterelle?” Blood rushed in my ears. As his thumb traced patterns on my palm, I shivered. “You’re shaking,” he murmured, the tips of our noses brushing together. His other hand cupped my cheek.
“Not cold.” I was going to say something else. Should say something else. But the words were lost before they began. Lost in the exhale of breath as his lips met mine, soft at first, his thumb featherlight across my jaw. One of us sighed. In the next moment his hand drifted from my face to tangle in my hair, his other arm looped low around my waist. He drew me closer, breathed me in, his lips burning against the cold air, a low noise escaping the back of his throat.
I was wrong, before. This was flying.
The minute our chests crushed together, the minute two heartbeats pounded in sync, I wrenched away, took a gasping breath. He bent to press kisses along my jaw.
