A Gentleman's Guide to Scandal (13 page)

Elinor's rescuer was far less enthusiastic about depositing her behind Madame Lavigne's town house, but she assured him that she was safe, and he departed reluctantly, unwilling to challenge her. She knocked on the rear door and was greeted by a grim-looking housekeeper who shooed her along the hall, past an eclectic collection of furniture that ranged from roughshod and splintering to polished mahogany.

At last they reached a room illuminated with warm lamplight and lined with paintings of smiling nudes. Filmy white curtains would let in the light during the day without letting out the view, making it the perfect room for a discreet encounter. Elinor paused at the doorway. Reclining on a settee, her rich blue skirts draped becomingly around her, was a woman of astonishing beauty. Raven hair fell in ringlets around her shoulders, and her skin was a light, flawless brown. A dark mole marked her cheek, lending the one mortal flaw that rendered her beauty approachable.

“
Bonjour
,” the woman said, curving her cupid's bow mouth into a smile. “You are Elinor, then?”

Elinor regarded her with fascination. If she had not known, thanks to Joan, that Madame Lavigne was in fact a barkeep's daughter, she would have been entirely taken in
by the woman's accent. She could better imagine the woman as a gem, even a lesser gem, of the French court of the previous century than scurrying about the streets of London.

“And you are Madame Lavigne,” Elinor said. “I apologize. I had not expected . . .”

“You are startled by the shade of my skin. Don't apologize; I rely on that. Do you know how hard it is for a poor London girl to be exotic and unexpected?” Her accent fell away in degrees. “My grandmother came from a sugar plantation on Barbados. My grandfather didn't care enough to free her, but he brought my mother home to England with him. Three generations from slave to this. Not bad, don't you think?”

“That is impressive,” Elinor said.

Lavigne shrugged. “Some might say I am as owned by men as my grandmother was.”

“You don't think so,” Elinor said. Madame Lavigne exuded a confidence few of those at the Copeland ball could hope to claim. She was the furthest thing from
owned
.

The woman inclined her head. “No, I don't. I think that people who say that have never been to Barbados, and stood in my grandmother's place. I think they have not even bothered to imagine standing in mine. But you're not here for my history.” She still had not risen. Elinor shifted, wondering if she should take a seat. Was this normal for courtesans?

“You said that there was a problem,” she said.

“I'm afraid so,” Lavigne said, and drew up her skirts.

It was not for stage effect that she had refused to rise. Her leg was bound and splinted, propped up on a silk pillow, the tassels hanging down on either side with an air of wilted apology. “I'm afraid I took a nasty fall yesterday. I've sent Joanie a letter, but apparently word hasn't gotten back to you yet.”

“I'm so sorry,” Elinor said, cursing inwardly. They could not exactly send Madame Lavigne hobbling her way to Beauchene's party on crutches.

“I can give you a few names,” Lavigne said. “If you need someone else.”

Elinor considered, then shook her head. “That won't be
necessary,” Elinor said. “Joan has faith in you, and I have no doubt those you recommend would serve us well, but we simply cannot take the chance, when it is not only our trust that might be broken.” The consequences of indiscretion were too great. She cursed inwardly again. Was it really going to fall apart here, in this room, with no more than a whimper?

First Lord Farleigh and then this. It might not be the most disastrous evening she had experienced, but it was certainly vying for a trophy.

“I thought that would be your answer,” the courtesan said, and sighed. “On the other hand, a broken leg is great for sympathy. My Robert was down on his knee this morning. Wants to make an exclusive arrangement.”

“Ah,” Elinor said, not certain what the etiquette was in this situation. “Will you accept?”

A smile played across Lavigne's lips. “I think I will,” she said. “He's the sweetest man. His wife, too. We haven't met, of course, but she knows about me, and I think she's been after him for a while to make things . . . well, not official, but you know.”

Elinor choked. “His
wife
wants him to have a mistress?” she asked.

Lavigne laughed. Elinor colored. It was not a laugh of condescension, precisely, but one that prodded at Elinor's naiveté. “She has absolutely no interest in sex, I'm afraid. Which is utterly impossible for me to understand, but then, I enjoy it more than most. She appreciates when I distract the man, so he will leave her to her gardening. It's quite common, dear, though few wives are so pragmatic in their solutions, I admit.” She adjusted herself, stuffing a pillow behind her so she could sit up more fully. She settled back with a sigh. “So what's this Foyle done, anyway? Joanie was frightfully vague.”

“It's not my place to say,” Elinor said.

“All right, that's fair,” Lavigne said. “If you do find someone else, they can take my place. My token's over there.” She nodded toward a petite table at the side of the room, on which rested a small, carved stone object. Elinor crossed to the table.

The object proved to be a cat, sitting with its tail wrapped over its feet. The token was small enough to fit in the palm of her hand, and while the carving was more suggestive of the form than representative, it had an oddly smug look. It looked, Elinor decided, rather like Lavigne herself.

“A token,” Elinor repeated.

“For entry into the party,” Lavigne said. “And on the first night, your sign of interest. If you should fancy a man, or should he make advances you wish to accept, you press that into his palm. I am told some men keep them, afterward, and brag of their collections.”

Elinor ran a thumb over the rough curves of the cat. If
you
should fancy a man, Lavigne had said, and Elinor could not help but imagine it. A room full of the smells of smoke and alcohol, bodies milling about, her gaze constrained by the holes in a mask. A man across the room. Perhaps she would be struck by the firm set of his shoulders, the tapering of his strong torso, or the sound of his voice. She would steal to his side, and press the little cat into his palm. He would turn, surprised—

She blinked, clearing the image before she saw his face. He was no man in particular, she told herself; there was no face to see. Certainly not Lord Farleigh's. Damn him.

Her heart twisted at that thought, and she felt the fresh sting of tears in her eyes.

“Lady Elinor?” Lavigne asked. She sounded concerned this time. Elinor flushed.

“I'm afraid I am a bit of a disaster this evening,” Elinor said.

“Oh, darling. You're far too put together for a disaster. A tribulation, perhaps; that has the proper gravitas.” Madame Lavigne gestured to the seat opposite her. “Sit down. I insist. You must have tea, and tell me everything that is wrong.”

“I couldn't,” Elinor said.

“Of course you can. Most of my job is tea and sympathy, with a few naughty bits thrown in for variety.” Her eyes sparkled, and Elinor smiled despite herself. She lowered herself into the seat, still turning the cat over in her hands.

“I kissed someone tonight,” Elinor confessed. “My brother's best friend.”

“And I am guessing it was less delicious than it sounds.”

Elinor chuckled bitterly. “You might say that. I'm afraid I've gone and done something foolish. I've never liked him, you see. I still don't like him.”

“But you want him.” Madame Lavigne laughed at Elinor's blush. “Are you sure you don't like him?”

“Yes!”

“He annoys you, then.”

“Very much.”

“Hm. You strike me as a very composed woman,” Lavigne said. “Difficult to ruffle. People describe you as aloof, don't they? Cold, even. They're wrong, but it's the impression you give. You guard yourself. You are very difficult to annoy. And he manages it. You are annoyed by him because he can annoy you.”

“Circular logic,” Elinor said.

“So much of love is,” Madame Lavigne said, and Elinor choked. “Does he annoy you intentionally?”

“Yes! No. Maybe? I cannot tell how much of it is that he is an ass, and how much is that he is utterly ignorant of what he's saying,” Elinor said. She rose from her seat and began to pace. It was a poor show of manners, but it seemed impossible to sit still while talking about Lord Farleigh. “It's as if the instant he sees me, the most awful thing possible pops out of his mouth.”

“If you were one of my friends, I'd say you should sleep with him and get it out of your system,” Madame Lavigne said.

Elinor halted, staring at her. “I cannot sleep with Lord Farleigh,” she said flatly.

“Lord Farleigh, really?” Madame Lavigne whistled. “You have refined taste.”

“You know him?” Elinor tried not to look too interested. Or too relieved when Madame Lavigne answered.

“I've heard of him. Not every woman is as disinclined to gossip as I am, dear. I heard he was perfectly civilized,
if a tad blunt. If he's an ass around you, it's probably because he's nervous.”

Elinor shook her head. “Lord Farleigh does not get nervous.”

“Oh, really.”

Elinor sighed, settling back into her seat and letting her face drop to her hands momentarily. “I might have thought he was merely nervous, or that I was more sensitive because of some unacknowledged interest on my part or his. But he was engaged, and he did not tell me, and he kissed me. He told me I was beautiful and I believed him, and then he told me that he was marrying someone else, and I felt as if I had shattered. It has not even been an hour. I am still shattered.”

“There's being an ass, and there's being a brute,” Madame Lavigne said. “This is most certainly the latter case, and I retract all my previous banter on the subject. There is only one thing to do. Forget him entirely. Ideally, in the arms of a virile young man, but I suppose you wouldn't be interested in such a solution.”

“Oh, I have
interest
.” What was the point in lying to a woman who made her
living
in the arms of virile young men?

“Unlike wine, virginity does not grow more enjoyable with age,” Madame Lavigne observed.

“Virginity is not my problem,” Elinor said, and Madame Lavigne gave a delighted smile. She sat up as best she could, leaning forward slightly.

“How refreshing,” she said. “The man in question?”

“My fiancé. Late fiancé,” Elinor said, meeting Madame Lavigne's gaze. It was a great deal easier admitting that to Madame Lavigne than Phoebe and Maddy. She could be assured of no judgment coming from
this
quarter, at least, and saying it aloud was somehow a relief. “It was very nice,” she said.

“Oh, dear. Very nice is a fine start but a terrible finale. You can't possibly leave it there,” Madame Lavigne said.

“I'm afraid I'm unlikely to have the opportunity,” Elinor said. “I have put entirely too much effort into solidifying my reputation as unmarriageable.”

“I didn't say anything about marriage,” Madame Lavigne said.

“I remain young enough to suffer scandal,” Elinor said with a regretful shrug. “It is an awkward in-between stage, but I am assured it lasts no longer than a decade or two.”

“Oh, but there is a way to avoid detection,” Madame Lavigne said. “And perhaps it will even get this annoying Lord Farleigh out of your system, as well.”

Elinor arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Do you really wish to give up on dealing with this Foyle fellow?”

“No, of course not,” Elinor said. “If there were any way . . .” She stopped. “You're joking.”

“There would be no risk of being recognized. The masks are quite effective. You would be free to have whatever amount of fun you wish, and gather whatever information you can manage.”

Elinor laughed. “Can you imagine that? Me, pretending to be a courtesan?”

“Can you?”

Elinor's laughter died in her throat. She stood, started to pace. “I couldn't.”

“You could. You don't have to, but you could.”

“I shouldn't.”

“Obviously.”

Elinor bit her lip. There was no way they would find another trustworthy woman in time to replace Madame Lavigne. Joan was out of the question—even if she were willing to put that kind of strain on her marriage, her pregnancy made it impossible. Phoebe would jump at the chance, up until she thought it through, which would probably be halfway to Beauchene's estate.

It was down to Elinor, or no one at all.

She could not give up now. Not after how far they'd come. And—oh, hell. She
wanted
to. She wanted to have a day, just one day, without consequences, without her reputation hanging around her neck. She wanted to be something other than solid and dependable, quiet and expected.