Glamorous Illusions (20 page)

Will noticed that Lillian and Nell were casting surreptitious, coy glances at a couple of finely dressed gentlemen who smelled of money, from the tops of their bowler hats to the tips of their perfectly polished boots. Frowning, Will moved into the girls' line of vision, forcing them to return their attention to his uncle. He well knew that American girls were a prize for European men, who considered them deliciously naive and relished the idea of educating them…and not in the way their fathers had hoped when they sent them off on the Grand Tour.

Once word got out that these young women were copper-king heiresses, they'd be all the more alluring. Europe was rife with old titles but empty coffers. Young, rich brides were in short supply, and America was proving to be a lovely new mine shaft for such gold. Will's goal, as his uncle oft reminded him, was to make sure the young ladies' dance cards were full, that they had the opportunity to flirt and converse with men—and yet return home thoroughly single. It was part of the art of the tour—to dip in, become a part of the immediate environs and society, but then to extricate their clients before they were too entwined.

Lillian's face twisted in confusion as he blocked her from the men. Will had to stifle a smile when her eyes met his and she knew her coquettish ways had been discovered. But his smile quickly faded when he discovered that one of the gentlemen had slipped around the group and now was offering a note to Cora, with a bow.

He could feel the heat under his collar, as well as his uncle's angry, concerned gaze upon him.

Cora took the note from the handsome gentleman and nodded gracefully while the two younger girls shared a look of seething frustration.

And as the man moved off with his companion, and Cora waited for his uncle to move on with the lesson, Will acknowledged that he knew something of what the girls were feeling.

Jealousy
.

CHAPTER 24

~Cora~

“I fear I must ask for the note,” the old bear said, drawing near.

“For what reason?” I asked, folding my arms. I hadn't even had a chance to open it.

“To be certain that he has not compromised your character by asking anything untoward of you.”

I almost laughed. But I sobered as Will and Antonio joined our circle. “I'm certain that I can keep my own character in check, thank you. If I find I am in need of counsel, I shall seek you out. Until then, kindly make way.” I waited with a polite but firm smile upon my face as my mama had taught me. Eventually, the older man grumbled and glanced Will's way as if to ask for help, but Will only stared back at him, not at me, clearly unwilling to enter the fray.

“Very well,” the old man said. “Do as you wish.” He turned to the side and gestured me forward.

“Thank you,” I said, moving past him and down the deck. Heavens, we were hardly in the Victorian age. I had a sudden urge to march with the suffragettes, be a part of change that might bring women more power, more respect.

After I'd gained a little distance, I pulled the card from its fine envelope and studied the elegant script. It was nothing but a name:
I am Pierre de Richelieu, Esquire.

“You see, mademoiselle,” said a man from over my shoulder, “we hadn't yet been introduced.” He gestured toward the note card. “So I had my friend give this to you.”

I smiled and turned toward him, laughing inwardly at his clever method of introduction.

“I see,” I said. He was frightfully handsome, but not in the rugged manner of Will. Elegant, slim, with a face that was almost pretty. Just a couple of inches taller than I, with sandy hair and the most beautiful green eyes.

“And so you now know that my name is Pierre de Richelieu,” he said, drawing a hand to his chest. He cocked his head and flashed me a smile. “But may I ask yours?”

“Certainly. It's Cora…Kensington.” I felt myself blush at my hesitation over saying my last name. It still sounded so wrong in my mind, a lie on the tongue. But the man would think I didn't know my own name.

He offered his hand, and I placed my gloved one in it. He lifted it to his lips and kissed my knuckles. I could feel the heat of his lips and breath through the cloth. A shiver of delight ran up my arm and down my back. His eyes had laugh lines at the corners. And he arched a brow up as though he had all kinds of secrets he was more than ready to share. He rose and gestured to the bow of the ship. “Care to stroll the deck with me?”

“Certainly.”

“I understand that you and your companions are on the Grand Tour,” he said, tucking his hands behind his back while staying right beside me.

“Indeed.” Apparently, it didn't take all that much to find out about the other forty passengers aboard. Who'd told him? The captain?

“Most delightful,” he said. “I think you shall find France to be an intriguing country to explore.”

“I hope so.”

“Is this your first time on the Continent?”

“Yes.”

He clasped his hands together in excitement. “Then I must show you and your friends about!”

“Oh, I think our guides have our plans in order.”

His face fell as we continued to walk. “There is no time to include new plans? I thought we might take a picnic along the Seine. Your whole party is welcome, of course,” he added hurriedly. A slow smile spread on his face, and he dropped his voice. “Though I confess it's you that I wish to get to know best.”

“A little forward, aren't you, friend?” Will asked, placing a hand on Pierre's shoulder. We stopped strolling.

“Will, really,” I said, embarrassed at his tone.

“I beg your pardon,” Pierre said, bowing in deference to Will. “I have overstepped my bounds?”

“I don't know,” Will said. “Have you?”

“I don't believe so,” Pierre said. His green eyes slipped from Will to me and back again. “You two are not…entwined?”

“Entwined?” I asked in confusion, even as understanding dawned. He was asking if we were involved. Engaged, even. Both of us answered together, shaking our heads in surprise. Last night I'd wondered, but after this morning, Will had made it more than clear that I was nothing to him but a client.

“I am Will McCabe, her guide, as well as one of her protectors,” Will said, nodding over his shoulder at Antonio.

But Pierre was clearly unperturbed. “And I am Pierre de Richelieu.” He reached out a hand, and Will reluctantly shook it. “I have no objection to your playing nursemaid, Mr. McCabe,” Pierre said easily. He smiled over at me. “With women in your company as beautiful as Miss Kensington, it is most wise.”

Will's jaw muscles tightened. I couldn't quite tell whether Pierre was referring to Will in the role of an elderly aunt as a means of dismissing him or honoring him.

“Please, walk with us,” Pierre invited. He had the air of a man who had nothing to hide. But this time he offered me his arm, and in a sudden surge of rebellion, I took it. We fell into step again, and after an awkward hesitation, I heard Will follow behind us.

“As I was saying,” Pierre said, speaking over his shoulder as much to Will as to me, “it would be lovely if you—and your companions—joined me and mine for a picnic along the Seine tomorrow. Would your schedule accommodate such a venture?”

“I don't know,” I said. I glanced back at Will. “Do we have time in our schedule?”

He shook his head. “No. Tomorrow is scheduled from morning until night.” Was that a hint of smug satisfaction around his mouth?

“Oh,” Pierre said sadly. “How about the next?”

Again, Will shook his head.

“When shall you be free?” Pierre asked, turning sideways in order to face him. But his expression was carefully inquisitive, not challenging. His hand rested on mine, atop his arm, the pressure calm but constant, as if he didn't want me to pull away.

I had to be honest with myself; I found him quite self-assured. And charming. The way he spoke, the way he held himself…

“I don't know,” Will said. “We are conducting a Grand Tour and hope to make the most of every moment in France.”

“As I have heard,” Pierre said, again clasping his hands before him in excitement again, his face alight. “I might be of great assistance to you. I am well connected in Paris. Where would you like to go? To the top of the Eiffel Tower? The Louvre, after hours? Would you like to eat in the finest restaurant in Paris? I can get you in anywhere.” He flicked out his fingers with the word
anywhere
, then drew them back, knuckles under chin, waiting on Will.

Will stopped, plainly surprised. How could a tour guide turn down such an offer? “You…you can gain us entry to the top of the Eiffel?” Will had told us that the second and third observation decks had been closed since the year before, when an Austrian tailor had died trying to jump off the tower with a homemade parachute.

“Oui. But first,” he said, holding up his index finger in warning, “you must be my guests at my home. I have a lovely view that will make your visit all the more glorious.”

“That would be most generous of you,” Will said. One eyebrow lifted. “But our party numbers eighteen, including servants. Most find such numbers too large to accommodate.”

Pierre smiled again and let out a little breathy laugh. “That shall not be a problem at my chateau. You will find your accommodations spacious. And I, in turn, would greatly enjoy the distraction of new friends to show about.” His eyes shifted to me.

“Yes, well,” Will said, “perhaps I can persuade my uncle to modify our plans for tomorrow evening and we can sup with you. Consider staying on for a night or two? I cannot promise that—”

“Marvelous,” Pierre said, taking my hand and tucking it firmly around his arm. We immediately set off on our walk again. I glanced back at Will, who frowned at our new host's interruption.

“So, Monsieur Richelieu,” I said, “tell me what it's like to grow up in such a fascinating city as Paris.”

“Please, my friend. Call me Pierre.”

“Thank you. And you may refer to me as Cora.”

“Cora, a lovely name,” he said. “And Paris…she's lovely too. Truly the finest in all of Europe,” he said, genuine devotion in his eyes. “And what is it you asked? Grow up?”

“Growing up. What was your childhood like, in Paris?”

“Ah, yes. My English is decent but far from perfect.
Growing up
,” he said, as if trying out the words. “I confess I did not have the most innocent of childhoods. Always into mischief.”

“Oh?” I said, curious. “Give me an example.”

He smiled and cocked his head, as if a little guilty about the memory. “As boys, my friends and I were convinced we must seek out the holy relics—see them for ourselves.”

“Holy relics?” I said, blinking.

“Oui,” he said, peering at me strangely, as if he wondered if he was using the wrong English word for something I should know about. “The crown of thorns and the drop of Christ's blood that was Sainte-Chappelle's prize until the revolution? A piece of the cross or a nail of the Passion? All in Notre Dame's treasury.”

“And you were not permitted to see them?”

“No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “The priests are most possessive of their treasures. They like to brag about having them but then won't share them with the world!”

“Perhaps they fear they will be damaged or stolen,” I said.

He made a dismissive sound and waved his hand. “Then put them under glass, and under guard, as they do in museums. Don't make boys sneak into your church in the middle of the night to see them.”

I gasped and laughed at the same time, bringing a hand to my lips. “You did not!”

He grinned, clearly proud of himself. “We did. But I cannot tell you any more of it, or the priests will unleash holy wrath upon me.”

The bear had told us to expect such things ahead of us. Unlike our American churches, the great cathedrals and basilicas of Europe had long competed for stature, fame, and power through grand architecture, beautiful artwork, and housing the crypts of the famous—be they political, artistic, or religious figures. But the “relics”—bodies and body parts, as well as the cross, the nails, the crown? This was new to me.

“The most difficult to see was the crown of thorns. The old priest slept with the key under his pillow.”

I knew my eyes must have been wide when I asked, “And you dared to sneak it from him?”

Pierre simply smiled and tapped his lips. “Perhaps.”

“So did you see the crown, in the box? What did it look like?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Sure, sure. It was very old, very brittle.” He cast me a wise sideways glance. “But is it
the
crown of thorns? Could such a thing be preserved for thousands of years? That is somewhat suspect. But such traditions give my city a deeply mysterious layer.” He smiled. “Which, I confess, I enjoy.”

“I can only imagine. What is your work, if I may be so bold?”

“Ah, I am engaged in many things. My real business is in banking. But that's a rather dull way to spend every day, is it not? Money is money. People are far more entertaining.” He glanced over at me. “How is it that you came to take the Grand Tour, Cora?”

I felt the back of my neck heat up, as if Will's stare were boring straight through me, wondering how I would explain it. “My father and his business partner have long planned to send their children on a tour, to both experience and understand culture, art, and history in some of the finest countries of the world. They believe it is vital for us to learn of these things to better prepare us for our future.”

“Ah, they are wise men, then,” he said, waiting a moment before continuing. “I have been to your country.”

“You have?”

“Yes, to New York, last year. I find Americans to be lovely, open people. But rather, uh, how do you say it? Innocent. Simple.” He pronounced it as
seemple
. And while some might have been offended, I thought I understood what he meant.

“We're a young country. Which leads to a certain measure of idealism, I suppose. We haven't had the time to become as jaded as the French.”

Pierre's eyebrows shot up, and then he threw back his head and laughed. “Are you certain you have not yet set foot in my country?”

I laughed with him and lost myself in more of his tales, gradually recognizing that Will had left us when Antonio began watching from farther off, my guardians apparently satisfied that my attention was on Pierre and that he was up to nothing nefarious, at least at the moment. He was so different from any other man I'd met…so refined and gorgeous that I wanted to look at him all day. And he seemed equally intrigued by me.

He continued to entertain me all the way to Paris. As we neared the docks, he groaned as if lamenting that our time was at an end, and then he kissed my hand, holding it between his. “Forgive me. I've spoken far too long of myself. I wish to know more of you. Tomorrow, you must convince me that you are a woman and not the angel you appear. You shall send me word on how to reach you?”

I laughed. “I shall. And I can
assure
you that I am far from an angel.”

He covered his heart. “I am not yet convinced,” he said, studying me intently. “Our meeting has delighted me.”

“And me as well,” I said.

He deposited me beside Antonio and left. I saw that the others were gathered again, the younger girls staring in our direction, the others pretending not to look but glancing anyway.

“Be careful, Miss Cora,” Antonio whispered.

I looked up at him from the corner of my eyes.

“Only one sort of man is worse than an Italian when it comes to their appetite for women.”