To Love a Wicked Lord (15 page)

“It is not my decision,” he said carefully. “But I must remind you, my lady, that my services were engaged only for when you were searching for the errant Mr. Nicholson. I have no other business with you and could not follow you on your farther journeys.”

Lady Carstairs opened her lips but before she could speak, he raised a slender hand. “And surely,” he said, “you would not go alone. Certainly, you are far too wise to trust any chance-met characters who would offer you escort through foreign parts.”

“‘Chance met'?” she retorted. “Hardly. I have friends here, my lord. Respectable, worthy gentlepersons who can give me the direction of suitable escorts.”

“But Grandmamma,” Pippa said worriedly, “we haven't met any of them yet. Remember?”

“Of course,” her grandmother snapped. “I'm not in my dotage. But we've scarcely got here and haven't gone out on the Town. Even so, look—” she said in triumph, pulling a handful of cards from her lap. “I was just going over these invitations that were delivered this morning. We are invited everywhere. Every night. Some are from old friends, and some from persons I don't even recall. But I am not nothing, my love,” she added proudly. “I am remembered!”

“Congratulations, my lady,” Maxwell said dryly. “But as I am still, in a way, in your employ, may I look over your invitations? Doubtless I'll have no trepidations about your old friends, but when you say you've been invited places by people you don't
recall, it becomes my duty to ensure none of them are unsuitable.”

“Of course,” Lady Carstairs said graciously, handing him the cards. “One doesn't like to put a foot wrong. But why anyone would want to harm us, I cannot say.”

“You have wealth, and your husband has a certain renown,” Maxwell said softly as he flipped through the invitations. He nodded at some, smiled at others, and then his face became expressionless. He gave a low whistle.

“My lady,” he said, handing the card back to Lady Carstairs, “do you know these people?”

She pulled a lorgnette out of her pocket, raised it, and squinted at the card. “Can't say as I do. Are they
comme il fault
?”

“Extremely,” he said thoughtfully. “Have you any idea who might have recommended you to these hosts?”

“None,” Lady Carstairs said, visibly preening. “But I imagine they have heard of me. Our name is not nothing, you know.”

“Why do you ask?” Pippa asked Maxwell.

“This is a grand ball,” he answered. “In all probability the First Consul himself will make an appearance.”

Lady Carstairs drew in her breath, as did her granddaughter.

“His lady, Josephine,” Maxwell went on, “is connected to this Comte Deauville and his lady. Everyone, as you say, will be there. Perhaps you can solve the mystery of your invitation when you get there. Congratulations. You'll see Paris in a new light: amongst the stars of the new regime.”

Pippa's eyes widened. “Really?”

“Really,” he said, smiling.

“Then we must get new gowns,” Lady Carstairs said. “No expense must be spared. I shall send to my friends immediately to get the name of a decent modiste! Let me think who to consult with.”

Pippa grinned. “Imagine, hobnobbing with Napoleon himself? Truly?” she asked Maxwell again.

“Truly,” he said. “Though you'd best not try any hobnobbing.”

Pippa grinned, but her smile soon faded. She leaned toward him. “But I really do wonder why they would invite us.”

“It's likely as your grandmother said,” he said. “Your grandfather has a certain renown and the French are eager to show the world their new world. Nothing for you to fear.”

She bit her lip. “My lord,” she asked softly, glancing at her grandmother to be sure she wasn't listening, “will you be there?”

“Assuredly,” he said. “I have entree everywhere.”

She smiled. “Then I have nothing to fear.” She lowered her voice. “Except for you, of course.”

“Of course,” he answered on a chuckle.

N
ow this is Paris, we've been to teas and receptions, but nothing like this,” Lady Carstairs said with great satisfaction.

She, Pippa, and Maxwell stood at the top of a grand stair, looking down into the ballroom of an elegant, ancient town house. They stood in back of other guests, waiting to be announced.

The ballroom was vast, with high vaulted ceilings decorated with soaring and floating cherubs smiling down at the assembly through golden clouds. Satin draperies covered tall windows. In the center of the room, an enormous glowing candle-filled multi-tiered chandelier dripped faceted prisms of glass. Two identical but smaller chandeliers hung to each side at the farther ends of the room. Mirrors were everywhere, magnifying the brightness, size, and magnificence of the room. The walls were covered with expensive floral-patterned
stretched papers and, to complement them, blooming floral arrangements that looked like planted gardens occupying every niche. Exotic perfumes, not only from the flowers, drifted in the air.

The babble of conversation that drifted to their ears was obviously foreign. Pippa was well educated and spoke French, of course. But she was too far away to make out a single word.

The guests, in blossom bright garb, their hair, necks, chests, cravats, and fingers crusted with faceted jewels, made the room a whirling, sparkling kaleidoscope of color.

“I thought that after their Revolution there would be no more places or parties like this,” Pippa whispered in wonderment to Maxwell.

“This isn't like any assembly before the Glorious Revolution,” he said softly into her ear. “The hosts and guests are citizens now, not aristocrats.”

She gave him a curious look.

“Not everything was destroyed during the time of Terrors,” he added, his warm breath making her hair lift and her spine tingle. “Except, of course, for the aristos. Now they're dead and gone and their gilded palaces have passed to the common man, so all's well.”

“But not every common man,” Pippa protested. “I've seen as many beggars in the streets here as
there are in London, even more, and you yourself refuse to take me to so many historic districts because you say they're squalid and dangerous.”

“Hush,” he whispered low in her ear, the sibilance making her senses riot. “That's traitorous talk. The Revolution is still fresh, less than a decade past. Tonight: no thinking. Just smile and enjoy yourself. This is no place for politics. Especially not from an Englishwoman.”

She changed the subject at once. “The fashions must be the latest. I've never seen such a display. Even the men are more like peacocks than any gentlemen I've ever seen in England. At home, simplicity is the rule: you fellows wear black and white to formal occasions, but it's your unmentionables that are black and linen that's white, with color only in your waistcoats. But here! So many men are wearing white satin breeches and long coats of every color, and look at all the ribbons, medals, and jewels they're sporting! They're almost as spectacularly dressed as their ladies, but no one could be that.”

He smiled. “I see you've adopted the latest fashion as well.”

She tried not to blush, though she felt her cheeks grow warm. It was true her gown was cut so low that she was afraid to bow. And every time she looked down, she saw two naked white swellings
bulging over the top of her gown's neckline.

But the modiste, one of the greatest in Paris, had told her, ”Not to fret yourself, mademoiselle. Let your neckline be. If you look down and see a bit of pink showing above the material, you may adjust your gown. Otherwise, the more flesh you show, the better. It is the fashion this year.”

It was, Pippa now saw. But that didn't mean she felt more comfortable. “It's what I was told to wear,” she said in defense.

His smile grew broader. “I wasn't complaining. And, of course, I should have remembered, you always do what you're told.”

She bit her lower lip, seeing he was dressed in sober formal black and white, with a high starched neckcloth and white linen without so much as a smidgeon of lace at the sleeve.

“But you, my lord,” she said a shade too sweetly, “obviously don't give a rap about fashion. You're not wearing any colors, ruffles, or jewels, and although I now see that white satin breeches are both elegant and flattering, you still cling to the old ways.”

“Me?” he asked, raising a dark brow. “But everyone knows I'm just an Englishman who shouldn't be trusted. I'd shock them and maybe endanger myself if I suddenly became fashionable here in
Paris. And by the by, you didn't hear me complain about your gown, did you? I never would. Not when I can see you have such…ahm,” he said on a cough, looking down at her with a wickedly tilted grin, “delightfully good points.”

She glanced down at herself to see what he was looking at and felt it before she saw it. It was cool and breezy at the top of the stair and her gown was made of thin satin. As the double meaning of his words sank in Pippa wanted to slap him, but he'd turned his head to speak to her grandmother.

She fumed. Her gown was lovely. Light violet, with green at the neckline and hem, it was simple except for a soft pink scarf tied beneath her breasts in the Empire style, and the outline of beautiful violets traced on the front of her gown. Real flowers to match were braided into her fair hair to form a coronet. With a simple string of pearls about her neck, she'd felt like the spirit of spring.

Now she felt like a wanton. And yet she didn't entirely regret it. She was wearing a French gown designed in Paris and she was in Paris. She'd never wear the gown again, in spite of how costly it had been. Tonight would be something to remember.

Her grandmother's neckline was low too, perhaps lower. But there was so much more to her and her costume that her overflowing bosom
was scarcely noticeable. Her little round form was draped in a silver net gown. She had a web of diamonds at her neck and some at her wrists and on her plump fingers. An ornate silver coronet sat atop the dandelion shape of her newly poufed bright yellow hair.

Their names were announced before Pippa could think of anything sufficiently blighting to say to Maxwell. Instead, she held her head higher, took one of his arms as her grandmother took the other, and in as stately a fashion as she could, descended the stair, hoping no one was behind her because of what she realized they'd see if they looked down at her and her fashionable neckline.

When they touched down on the ballroom floor, they were immediately surrounded by guests.

Pippa hadn't realized they'd be so popular.

But no one spoke to them. The crowd milled around them, not noticing them any more than they'd notice servants. Lady Carstairs went red, and Pippa looked puzzled.

“There isn't enough room for more people and more people keep streaming in,” Maxwell explained. “It isn't because you're not popular. I know you have friends here,” he told Lady Carstairs, “but how to find them? As I'm tallest, I'll crane my neck to see if there's anyone I know.”

But after a few minutes, there was nothing for it but that Maxwell had to act like a human shield, and let them follow his broad back into the center of the crowd. It was obviously the right thing to do because none of the guests seemed to mind or even notice being pushed aside.

“Stand your ground,” Maxwell told Lady Carstairs and Pippa in a voice loud enough to carry over the general babble. “And hold on to me. We'll stay in the middle of things until someone hails us.”

Pippa doubted they'd see any of her grandmother's friends. The ones they'd visited so far were too decrepit to socialize much, and, she'd swear, none of them were socially connected in France. They were all English, and she believed they stayed in Paris due to inertia or misfortune at home.

But suddenly, they were greeted. The fair young gentleman Maxwell had spoken to on the packet before they'd left for France hailed them. The crowd made way for him. Pippa doubted they had any choice.

“What ho!” he cried as he came toward them. “Lord Montrose, as I live and can scarcely breathe! What are you doing in this crush?”

“Cyril!” Maxwell said in return as the two men bowed to each other. “What are you doing here? I thought you were staying in England.”

“So did I,” Cyril said, his lips twisting in a rueful mile. “But plans change, eh? Our mutual friend, Talwin, had other plans for me.”

“You remember the delightful Lady Carstairs and her lovely granddaughter, Phillipa? They were on the packet with me. We were invited. How did you get in?”

“Ha!” Cyril said. “It was arranged. Good evening ladies. And so it will be, or at least, it will be interesting. The rumor is that the First Consul and his lady will be dropping by later. Hence: the crush, and the guards at all the entrances and exits. It's supposed to be a ball, but the only dancing that can be done would be on the other guests' heads.”

Pippa hadn't noticed the guards before. But now that she looked around she thought she could see glimpses of uniformed men at the fringes of the crowd. This was the most peculiar ball she'd ever attended. She'd hoped to meet some famous French persons so she could tell her grandfather about them later, but she couldn't even see past her escort. For that matter, she'd worn a hideously expensive and lovely gown, she knew she couldn't be seen either. The crowd was too thick and getting thicker. Conversation had been babble before. Now there was such a roar her head was beginning to ache.

She didn't know what the guests were supposed
to do. If there was scarcely any room to move, were they expected to just stand there and chatter all night?

An orchestra had been sawing away somewhere in the background. Pippa only realized it because suddenly it fell still. So, strangely enough, did the crowd. Two trumpeters stood up and blared an ornate fanfare. The crowd began to part.

As though they'd rehearsed it, the crowd separated, half of the guests forming a line to one side of the room, the other half going to face them from the other side. Maxwell and his friend escorted Lady Carstairs and Pippa to the right side. They stood facing the center of the room and waited as all the other guests were doing.

The fanfare flourished once more and then went still; strings took up the music. The crowd stirred, but silently. All eyes were on the grand stair.

At first, brightly dressed soldiers and naval personnel descended in their full regalia and carrying their arms.

The crowd applauded and cheered as they came down the stair in waves, as though the ballroom was being invaded.

Then some elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen came down the stair. They weren't announced, but the crowd surely knew them. There was more
applause as they ringed the crowd and stationed themselves along the walls.

And then, after a silence in which Pippa would swear no one breathed, two figures descended. An elegantly dressed female in a rose-colored gown, carrying a long-stemmed red rose, wearing a golden tiara on her curly brown hair. She wasn't beautiful, or particularly elegant, having a short figure and sallow skin. But her dark eyes were luminous and she bore herself with the air of a woman of some importance.

She held her head high, and walked slowly down the stair on the arm of a much-decorated swarthy gentleman wearing black breeches and a heavily decorated red-and-gold jacket, his chest covered with medals. His dark hair was brushed forward à la Brutus; his eyes were dark and serious, his nose was long, and his brow low. He wasn't handsome so much as rivetingly interesting, Pippa thought.

She took in a breath as she realized that this, then, had to be Napoleon Bonaparte, First Consul of France. She'd seen the pictures in the magazines; she'd seen the caricatures. As he descended she could see that he was definitely England's famous enemy and now friend, General Bonaparte, and ruler of France, whatever he called himself.

The crowd bowed down like Mandarins greeting their emperor as he reached their level.

And then the First Consul strolled to one end of the long lines. Preceded by his guard, and followed by members of his party, he and his lady then made their stately way down the center of the path the crowd had made for him. Their progress was slow as they nodded at some guests, smiled at others, and stopped every so often to exchange a few words with some along the route.

The guests began to whisper to each other as he passed them, and soon a soft susurration began to be heard as they did.

The First Consul was far from where Pippa stood when she broke from her silence, rose on her tiptoes, raised her head, and whispered to Maxwell. “He's not so short!” she breathed in obvious surprise.

“Shh,” Maxwell whispered. “Later. For now, just be charming.”

Pippa stood waiting as the Consul's party leisurely made its way down the lines of guests. She watched as Napoleon and his lady stopped to chat with a lady here, or a gentleman there. And when they came abreast of her party, Napoleon stopped.

Pippa could feel Maxwell suck in a breath as
his body tensed. His friend Cyril straightened and stood taller. Lady Carstairs visibly swelled with pride and shot a triumphant look at Pippa. Pippa was impressed, if puzzled. Her grandmother had spent days chirping about her old friends and never mentioned that one of them was Napoleon Bonaparte himself?

But the first Consul's dark eyes were fastened on Pippa. So were his lady's. Pippa was shocked to see that his eyes were on a higher level than her own. He was taller than she was!

“Charming,” he said in French. “You see?” he asked his lady. “English by the look of her, and yet she wears our symbol.”

“But of course,” his wife said smiling, and tapping her lips with her red rose. “Who would not?”

“Well done,” Napoleon told Pippa. “And your name, little one?”

Pippa curtsied low in spite of her neckline. But she remembered it as she did. She wondered if that was the reason he was staring at her and shot up quickly, pink faced. “Phillipa Carstairs…” She paused. Was he a “my lord” or “Sir” or…”…Your Excellency,” she finally said.