Glamorous Illusions (24 page)

I'd only read of caviar and was eager to try it. I put a spoonful of the black shiny eggs atop a slice of cheese and bit in. And almost immediately wished I could spit it out. I looked around, but knew there was no way for me to tactfully do so. Steeling myself, I took a swig of champagne to wash it down and then another to wash away the taste. With my tongue still shriveling in my mouth from the residue of brine, I finished off my champagne and handed the empty glass to a servant.

Despite my disappointment over the caviar, I was feeling freer and lighter by the minute, most likely the effects of my swiftly consumed champagne. The music had begun and people were assembling at the center of the ballroom's parquet floor, but it did not appear as if they were ready to dance. Others joined behind them, and still more, so I did the same, still eager to blend in. Trumpets sounded then, and a loud voice announced Lord de Richelieu, with a most impressive list of his titles.
So he's not only handsome and rich, he's from nobility, too.
I didn't know why that surprised me. Perhaps it was because he was a man who chose to travel the English Channel with others when he could obviously afford his own vessel.

Two women were announced, and Pierre walked the human aisle, his hands raised as he held the women's hands on either side of him. I felt an arrow of jealousy. Were they sisters? Cousins? Or romantic interests? I chided myself for the sting that ran through my body, as well as for thinking that I might have truly held his attention. If I were a grateful sort of girl, I'd be thankful for the invitation to his lovely estate, if nothing else. That he housed us and clothed us for his ball, rather than tossing us aside when I told him who—and what—I was.
Help me to be grateful, Lord
,
I prayed. But as they passed me, another stinging shiver ran through me.

“Found you,” said a voice in my ear.

Startled, I took a staggering step to the side. He caught my arm, and I knew him then. “Will?”

He gave me a curious smile and bowed, dropping his mask and my arm. “Indeed, mademoiselle. Why did you not join the others?”

“I'm sorry. I only…I was hoping for a night of…anonymity.”

He studied me for a moment. “Your secret is safe with me. I shall watch over you, but from afar.”

“Thank you,” I managed to say. But it was the last thing I wanted—anyone watching me at all.

“Take care,” he whispered, and then he left my side. I didn't watch him go, hoping none of my other companions had seen him speaking to me. Was I so easy to pick out in the crowd? Perhaps my identity was not nearly as secure as I had envisioned. Or perhaps Will was especially good at detecting what he sought out.

I took another glass of champagne. At the front, upon a dais, Pierre lifted his glass in a toast and ended it with “vive la France.”
To France.

“To France,” the crowd shouted back to him, glasses high. Then they drank them all down. Eyes wide, I took a big sip but could not manage more. I handed my mostly full glass to a waiter, who looked back at me with disdain for wasting the precious liquid, but I knew if I wasn't careful, I'd soon end up tipsier than I cared to be.

“Puis-je avoir de l'eau?”
I hoped I remembered that right—I was in need of water.

The waiter's nose wrinkled up further, but he nodded once. “Oui, mademoiselle.” He left me then, collecting more glasses before disappearing among the crowd. I stayed where I was so he could find me again and then heard the orchestra tuning up for their first song.

The ballroom floor cleared, and Pierre and his two ladies paraded to the center. After the introduction of the song, they began the most fascinating dance I'd ever seen, with Pierre focused on one woman and then the other, as if flirting with both in turns. The crowd laughed and clapped as Pierre tried to kiss one, and she slipped away, and then the other, and she escaped him too. Two men approached, one from either end, walking in a sort of skip-hop in time with the music, until they reached the trio. Then, as the music reached a crescendo, each woman left Pierre.

He pantomimed his sorrow, and the crowd moaned in mock grief with him as the music came to an end.

Then a lone violinist rose and walked toward Pierre, playing a haunting, hopeful tune. Our host, obviously relishing his role, perked up, turning and following the violinist to the crowd, as if the musician were his pied piper, pulling him along by a string. The violinist, still playing, nodded toward a girl in blue, and Pierre nodded in turn. He took her hand, and the orchestra played perhaps twelve measures of the song as he led her about the dance floor and then returned her to her place with a regal bow of thanks. The girl curtsied deeply. The violinist continued along our side of the crowd, and the process was repeated, again, with a girl in blue. I understood then; Pierre was seeking me. As the second girl was returned to her companions, I looked behind me, hoping to edge toward the back again. But the crowd was thick, and they pressed forward, waiting to see whom he would pick next.

The music was coming closer, and my heart pounded. I turned and had to press my arm between two ladies to get them to part and make way for me. They muttered and gasped in dismay, but then our host drew their attention again. The hair on the back of my neck rose as I continued to make my way back in the crowd, knowing the violinist and Pierre were directly behind me. I had to be fairly invisible by now, hidden by the sea of people. I dared to turn and glance behind me—and saw Pierre staring right at me, a grin on his face.
“Elle essaie de s'échapper de la danse!”

I decided he'd shouted something about me trying to escape, judging by the laughter and gasps he elicited from the crowd.

People surged around me, and helpful hands urged me forward. There was no way out. Reluctantly, I stepped forward, head down. He took my hand and kissed it, then drew me out onto the dance floor.

As we danced a delicate waltz, his smile grew, and he raised his arm. The crowd cheered at his signal. I wondered what it meant until the music continued and others joined us on the dance floor for the rest of the song. Apparently, the lord had found his preferred dance companion.

He took a turn past me, and his eyes narrowed as he studied me. “Why so glum, Cora?” he asked. “Surely it is not the worst thing, to be chosen out of so many.”

“On an evening in which I wished to be anonymous, it is.”

His chin rose, and he appraised me as we continued the dance. “I see. It wears thin, does it not? The mantle of a family name, even if you are new to it?”

I smiled back at him. He, more than anyone, would understand such a weight. He'd obviously been living with it—and escaping it on occasion—all his life.

“Is it only you, Pierre? You have no kin? No brothers or sisters?”

“It is only I here. My father and mother are dead, my sister happily married in Provence. I lumber about this great house, wishing only for the right bride to help me fill it with many children.”

I glanced back at him, surprised by the meaningful tone of his words. Was he testing the waters to see if I was interested? Or was it merely his most convenient line, an easy lure for women seeking their handsome prince?

But he stared back at me with a calm, steady look. He was serious. And of the right age for such a quest—probably twenty-five or so.

The dance ended, but Pierre did not drop my hand. Instead, he led me to the center of the floor, where couples lined up from one end to the other. “Now we shall dance the favorite of the peasants who gave their very lives, so that others might dance in the years to come.”

Bastille Day
, I thought. Like our American Independence Day, remembering those who fought for freedom…and those who died. Hugh and Felix wouldn't likely be showing off their tango skills this night—this ball was all about hearkening
back
in time. The tango was too modern.

“Follow my lead,” Pierre said. “It is rather simple but elegant.” He pulled me closer. “Back right, back left, right, right, right,” he said, his breath warm in my ear. And then we moved, one of his hands firmly holding mine, the other at my waist. He repeated, in a whisper, the steps as we went through them, but my mind was on his hand, warm and so at ease at my back. I had the feeling he would be able to catch me if I stumbled and would make it look like it was a part of the dance. “Now forward left, forward right, left, left, left,” he finished, lifting my arm and urging me under it and then around him as he waited for me to return to his other side.

We repeated the steps, but this time, he circled me. His proximity and manner sent a delicious shiver down my back. Could it be that he was truly interested in me? Of all the women at his disposal? I could feel the chill in the room, pointed toward me.
Who's the newcomer? Why her?
But warding it off was the warmth of Pierre's passionate attention, the heat in his eyes.

I was reminded of Antonio's warning about Frenchmen and their tendencies toward romance. And in school, I'd seen the handsomest boy in the county go after the most reluctant girls, ignoring all those who hovered near. I was nothing but a challenge to Pierre, something different in a sea of the same. So after the dance ended, I curtsied and said I needed some fresh air.

“I will escort you.”

“No, please, monsieur. Stay with your guests. I…I shall find you later.”

A stunned flash passed through his eyes, and then a hint of anger. I'd offended him. When was the last time a woman had turned down the handsome young lord? “Very well,” he said crisply.

I turned to go.

“I shall be watching for my lady in blue.”

I rewarded him with a smile and small curtsy. “I sincerely hope so, monsieur.”

His expression softened, and I felt as if I had been dismissed with his blessing. I hurried off the dance floor, and the crowd parted, all eyeing me with curiosity. I moved directly to the far doors, which were open to the gardens, and down the steps to a place I could finally be alone again, away from any prying eyes. I breathed deeply and slowly, waiting for my hands to stop trembling.

CHAPTER 28

~William~

“Truly?” Vivian asked. “Was it not enough that she had to embarrass us all with her public proclamation to Lord de Richelieu—now she envisions herself as Cinderella at the ball? Honestly,” she said, taking another glass of champagne and swigging a gulp down as she surveyed the crowd. “Now she's disappeared again!”

“Perhaps she's left behind a glass slipper,” Hugh said, one eyebrow raised. He searched the crowd, his attention as piqued as Richelieu's, apparently. Will stifled a sigh. He'd much rather trail Cora about than spend time with his other clients, but he and Antonio had just traded posts. Even now, Antonio made his way out the door to follow Cora from afar to make sure she did not encounter any trouble.

The younger girls were chattering in excitement about the dance, practically standing on tiptoes as they waited for someone to come and invite them to the floor. Hugh was drifting away, ogling an elegant, slender young woman in a dusty-rose gown, while Felix was chatting up a young gentleman, probably inquiring about the next available gambling opportunity.

Will purposefully avoided the champagne, as did Uncle Stuart and Antonio, because their clients were counting on them to keep clear heads.
Like a shepherd to the sheep
,
he thought morosely. For once, he wished he could let loose, swallow his own flute of champagne, and ask anyone he wanted to dance. He didn't blame Cora for her hunger to fade into the welcome folds of the crowd. He felt the same desire. To not be looked to for guidance, to not have to keep count. Every autumn, as they said farewell to their clients, it was the single best pleasure for Will—to no longer be responsible for anyone but himself.

Two young gents came near and invited the youngest girls to dance. Andrew asked Vivian to join him on the floor. That suited Will; if they were dancing, they weren't likely to get into too much difficulty. Others surrounded Uncle Stuart as word spread that this was the group of Americans Richelieu had chosen to host, and among them was the girl in blue he had specifically sought out to honor with his first dance, the one who had abruptly left him.

So much for keeping our identity a secret.

Will had stifled a laugh at the expression on the young nobleman's powdered face. It was clear their host had rarely encountered a woman like Cora. Will looked for Richelieu and found him chatting with a group, making them laugh—but his eyes kept shifting beyond them. He was looking for her. And that was not a good thing.

Will felt his uncle edge near, his eyes in the same direction. “I see it,” Will said, before the bear could speak.

“It happens quickly,” Stuart said.

“I know.” Will knew the story well. In all of his uncle's years as a guide, only once had he had an affair get out of hand; it had ended in nuptials in Spain and a divorce in Portugal. Such matters were devastating to a tour guide's reputation, and he was determined to never allow it to happen again. Uncle Stuart left it to Will to see through, of course. He moved on, busily chatting, secure in the knowledge that Will and Antonio were on task. Will sighed, resisting the urge to rub the tension from his temples despite his ridiculous white wig.

He eased to the right and neared a man who'd been chatting with Felix's new friend a moment before, intent on finding out if he was right—that a poker game was at hand. Gambling was an acceptable enterprise among most of their clients and their fathers, but it grated on Will to see thousands of dollars lost at cards when there were far better ways to invest one's money.
Such as a poor man's education
, he thought bitterly.

Uncle Stuart took pride in teaching the young men they guided how to win at cards four out of five times—“four to save your father's money, but losing once to leave behind no enemies.” On the fifth, losing hand, they were to bow out, every time. No negotiations. It was as strict a rule as no fraternization with the clients was for Will. Fortunately, the gentlemen didn't seem to mind the rule since they became experts at the game.

However, the trick was to not let the young gents become involved with games run by sharks; professional gamblers tended to frequent such events as this ball, seeking out gullible, rich young targets. And their clients, often young and green, were some of these sharks' favorite “opportunities.”

Will struck up a conversation with the man near Felix and exchanged pleasantries until he offered him the bait. “Word has it there's to be game of cards later on,” Will said.

The man, in his forties and relatively handsome, gave him a sly smile. “I've heard the same.”

“Any chance a bloke like me could join you?”

“Certainly, certainly,” he said. “If need be, we'll gather others for a second.”

A second table. That wouldn't do. He had to be at the first, with Felix, to keep track of him. The heady draw of a good table—or the challenge of a bad one—had bankrupted more than one rich young man. “That's all right,” he said, lifting his hands in surrender. “Best for me to keep clear of it anyway. I'm not feeling luck blowing on the wind.”

“No, no,” said the nobleman. “Don't back out now. Some of the finest men in the room will be at that table.”

“Which table? The first or the second?”

He gave Will another smile, realizing he'd been pushed into a corner. “The first, then. I'll see that you are seated with them.”

“Thank you, monsieur,” Will said with a polite nod. He walked off a few paces to take a cup of punch. Uncle Stuart always gave him a stipend to enter card games when he felt it necessary; Will pocketed 10 percent of any winnings. If he lost, he had to pay Stuart back 5 percent after what his uncle deemed “acceptable losses.” But he never lost. His ability with numbers would one day serve him well in business. One day. When he was finally through following around young men chasing new whims and could concentrate on his own.

There were eight at the table in the magnificent library. Will, Felix, a Brit, and five Frenchmen.

“What are the stakes?” Felix asked.

“We are at a French table, friend,” said the dealer. “On the brink of Bastille Day, we speak only French. If you are not able to say what you need in French, we require you to drink a shot of whiskey.” He nodded toward a small glass in front of Felix as a woman bent over him to fill it.

Felix smiled and downed the liquid.
“Même si je parle français, je peux boire?”
May I drink even if I do speak French?

The others around the table laughed. The dealer shrugged. “If your French is impeccable, then you may do as you like,” he said in French.

The maid filled the Frenchmen's glasses, and the dealer raised an eyebrow and gestured to Will and the Brit, Kipling, to see if they cared for a shot.

Kipling agreed, but Will waved off the invitation.

The others drank their shots. The dealer shuffled a couple more times, passed the deck to his neighbor on the right, who cut it and then began to deal the cards.
“Cent francs minimum. Par main. Les as sont élevé, messieurs.”

It was a hundred francs per hand to play, and that was on top of the ten thousand they had to bring to the table to purchase chips. Aces were high.

“Jacks are wild?” Felix asked, studying his cards.

The dealer motioned toward his glass.
Again
. “And no, jacks are not wild,” he said in French.

Felix acted surprised, then rueful. He tossed back his second shot.

Will cut his eyes to his old friend. Was he doing this on purpose? Felix was as lazy as they came, but he was never stupid. Did he want to lull them into a sense of complacency, thinking he was an easy mark? Or did he hope to drink them under the table, making them, in turn, the marks? He studied his cards and chose two, placing them facedown on the table, as did the others.

The dealer dealt them each two more cards. Will studied his hand, making a rapid decision so he could study the others' faces. The Brit and one of the Frenchmen were frowning over their hands. Another Frenchmen was moaning and groaning, clearly bluffing that he had a terrible hand—the question was, was that to make them think he had a terrific hand when he did not? The remaining two Frenchmen were quiet, polite as they waited.

The dealer nodded to the man at his right, the Brit. The young, blond man took five hundred in chips and tossed them to the center. The next two followed suit. The moaning Frenchman folded. It was Felix's turn. Will tried to look uninterested as his friend took ten chips and pushed them into the stack.
That would pay for a whole semester of tuition right there…

A devilish thought came to him. If Felix were to lose, would it not be best if Will was the one to beat him? He could claim he was teaching his friend how to play cards well, and give Felix a bit of comeuppance at the same time. Let him know what it felt like to be the loser for once. He shoved in his own pile of ten chips, the equivalent of about a hundred dollars. As did the man to his left. The dealer paused, then stacked twenty and shoved them in.

Will kept his expression steady as he studied his cards. Could he truly win the hand with three kings? Moreover, could he really risk two hundred dollars of his uncle's money? Two hundred dollars at all?

Felix flashed him a wise, superior smile. Irritated, Will ducked his head, picked off ten more chips, and tossed them in.

The dealer laid out his cards. Full house.

Felix had three jacks.

And the man to his left had a pair of aces.

They'd all lost out to the dealer. Will nodded at the dealer, and the man hauled in the mound of chips, casually stacking them. “So, you are the Americans hailing from the wilds of Montana,” said a man to his right, in French.

“You would be surprised to find out how civilized it is,” Will returned in French.

“Tell us of the girl—the one Lord de Richelieu picked out of the crowd tonight.”

Will clenched his teeth and pretended to be studying his cards. It would be best if Felix answered. In fact, Will was rather curious to find out what he would say.

“
C'est ma sœur,
” Felix said.
She is my sister.
He set down two cards.

“Ah, your
sister
,” said the man, with an odd inflection in his voice. Felix and Will looked across the table at him. “To your sister,” he said, saluting Felix with his shot glass. The Frenchmen all drank their round. Felix and Will did too, each still watching the man across from them.

“She is most beautiful. She is not spoken for?”

“No, she is not,” Will said. “And that is how her father wishes her returned to him.” He offered a smile. “Pure. Not with a Frenchman in tow.”

The Frenchmen roared in approval, and they all nodded and smiled, the two nearest patting Will on the back.

“You do your work, little bear,” said the leader. “And keep the sheep safely in their pen. Oh, but look!” he said with mock surprise. “One has escaped to our lovely green.” He rubbed the soft felt of the table between them.

“I am no lamb,” Felix said.

“I hope you are not,” said another. “With beautiful sisters in your company, you shall likely need to be a wolf to chase away our countrymen.”

The conversation was distracting Will. He'd thrown away one of the cards he needed. Stifling a sigh, he set down two others and waited for the bidding to begin. It remained rather flat until it reached Kipling, who put in twenty chips, straight out. Felix and the moaning Frenchman—who was now leading and conspicuously quiet—saw his raise.

The Brit took the hand with four queens, but Will entered the next hand with more confidence. He was convinced the moaner was bluffing, and he'd make his bold move with this hand or the next. Three of the Frenchmen were straightforward card players, in it as idle distraction or as an excuse so they wouldn't have to dance with their wives. The real contenders were the Frenchman with the most chips, the moaner, and Felix.

Will thought he could take them all.