Page 30 of Angel’s Flight (The Phantom Saga #4)
“I hated them in France because they took everything they wanted and left nothing but grief in their wake,” Erik hissed.
“Maybe they’re better here,” Christine said gently, stroking his arm and reminding him that he had made a promise to behave.
“Oh no, they’re not. Mostly,” Howard smirked. “But they’re English, so they’re quite polite about it all. The people you’re about to meet though aren’t for all that – the manners and decorum and propriety of our dear queen. We’ve made our own little Bohemia.”
“Where a man in a mask won’t stand out?” Erik asked tersely.
“You’ll be the least interesting person there,” Howard assured him, but what truly calmed Erik was Christine entwining her fingers with his.
The manor they arrived at wasn’t ostentatious, but it was still grand, with walls of white stone and dozens of windows shining with light.
Erik braced himself for stares as they entered, giving their coats to a footman.
He had no idea what he had been expecting – perhaps a formal supper or ball – but that was not what awaited.
The best way to describe what they walked into was a salon.
There were groups of people filling the parlors, taking food from laden tables, and engaging in idle conversation and debate.
But there was more than that. A woman was doing a painting of a man holding a monkey in a corner.
Two men who were clearly a couple were draped together across a divan, laughing with a woman in silken robes with ebony skin.
In another room, a professorial character stood in the corner with a turbaned Sikh.
People laughed and mingled, and no one gave Erik and Christine more than a lingering look.
Erik... did not hate it. Christine smiled next to him, her arm entwined with his, and it occurred to Erik that they had never done anything like this.
“Let me introduce you to our host. Or hosts,” Howard said in French, and led them to the largest parlor. There was a small man there lying on a chaise longue with his head in a beautiful woman’s lap as she fed him grapes. “Dear God, Bernard, you’re going to choke eating that way,” Howard remarked.
“Is that Howard Ashe back from the continent?” the little man exclaimed, scrambling to sit up and blinking at Howard. The woman who had been feeding him laughed warmly and handed the man a pair of thick spectacles. As soon as they were on his face, he grinned. “It is! How are you, old chap?”
“A little worse for wear, like all of us,” Howard replied.
“Speak for yourself, Sir,” the woman purred.
She was more than buxom, with breasts so robust her neckline could scarcely contain them.
Her hair was blonde, styled in a mass of beautiful curls, and decorated with bangles that didn’t look like real jewels.
A character if ever Erik had seen one. “Some of us are thriving.”
“My dearest Letitia, you are Venus herself descended to earth,” Howard said as he took the woman’s hand and bowed to kiss it. She smiled like a gracious queen.
“Introduce me to our new friends,” the blonde commanded.
“Voilà,” Howard replied, waving Erik and Christine forward. He spoke in French: “New acquaintances, discovered in the most delightful corners of Florence. Erik and Christine Gilbride: musicians, among other things. This is Lord Bernard Chumley and Letitia Trumbull.”
“Delighted to meet you,” Letitia said in perfect French, rising to embrace Christine and kiss her swiftly on the cheeks.
“I love musicians. Have you been to the Opera at Covent Garden yet? I have a lover with a wonderful box who took me the other day to see their new production of Don Carlo. Their Eboli was a revelation.”
“What are they saying?” the Lord whined in English. “Howard, I do hate it when you do this.”
“We have only arrived today,” Christine replied in French with a smile. “Is Lord Chumley here not your lover?”
“Oh, he is, but I have many. My Lord here keeps me the most comfortable, but the affections of a woman such as I can’t be exclusive.” Letitia gave a provocative wink.
“You’re in the presence of one of the great courtesans of London,” Howard explained, and Chumley gave an annoyed huff.
“Do you really use that word?” Erik asked and noted the way both the Lord and lady of the night looked at him when he spoke, and how they finally took in his mask. Erik switched to English. “Do not worry, sir, we have not said anything about you.”
“Whatever you want to say, keep saying it, my dear,” Letitia replied and reached for Erik with fascination on her face. “What a voice you have. What sort of musician are you?”
“Any kind I like,” Erik replied, letting his pride puff out his chest a bit, even as he shied away from the woman’s touch.
“His skills are unmatched,” Christine said proudly.
“Will you play for us later?” Letitia asked. “After you have some refreshments and enjoy the night, of course. I wouldn’t put you to work so quickly.”
“Perhaps I can be persuaded,” Erik murmured.
“Tell us more of the Opera here first,” Christine went on cheerfully. “It has been a long time since I have attended. Who was this Eboli you saw? Perhaps we know her name.”
“Adèle Valerius. She was transformative,” Letitia answered.
Christine jumped in excitement, gripping Erik’s arm. “Adèle is in London! I have to see her!” Christine cried and turned to Letitia. “She is an old friend. One of my dearest.”
“Is she? I have an appointment to call on her tomorrow. You must join me,” Letitia replied. “I'm desperate to add her to my circle.”
“Oh, I would love that,” Christine sighed.
“Would that be wise?” Erik asked softly and received a truly chilling glare in response. “Never mind. I won’t attempt to keep you from your friend.”
“And I can’t keep you two from the crowd much longer,” Howard interjected. “I think more people would like to meet you.”
Erik sighed and allowed himself to be led away from the hosts, giving them a bow as Christine promised she would return.
Howard introduced them to a professor, a poet, and several other interesting sorts that soon overwhelmed Erik with conversation and questions.
It was a relief to lean into Christine and translate for her, as well as a pleasure to watch her practice her English with new partners.
However, Erik was more than relieved when he finally found the music room. There was a lovely piano, inlaid with floral designs of lacquered wood, and next to it, a case of instruments, including a violin.
“Use anything you like.” Erik turned to see that Letitia had entered, with Chumley trailing behind her like a loyal pet. “I can tell you want to.”
“Can you, now?” Erik asked.
“In my profession, it is imperative to be able to see what people want,” Letitia said with a shrug that made her décolletage ripple. “Go ahead.”
“I’ll accompany you. We’ll play the piece you were working on before we left Florence,” Christine suggested brightly.
It would be easy to forget, given his wife’s operatic skill, that she was also accomplished at the piano.
Erik’s heart swelled with pride to stand beside her as she tested the instrument.
The room quieted as they began to play, sweeping the crowd of strangers into the embrace of melody. The violin and piano danced together, trading phrases and unspoken stories as easily as lovers would trade kisses, and it filled Erik with the same delight.
Their audience didn’t know exactly what their entertainers were thinking or feeling as they played, but they knew what the music made them feel, and that was nearly as intimate.
It reminded Erik of why he loved her – how special a thing it was to be able to share this secret language with his wife – he could tell them through the notes from his bow how he needed and adored her.
The thrill of playing with her carried Erik through the rest of the night – beyond conversations and pleasantries and promises to meet again – all the way back to their rooms, where he was finally granted his reward and lost himself in the pleasures of the flesh as easily as those of music.
He hoped the walls were not too thin here, for the performance they gave was far more vocal.
Paris
M eg very much liked being a spy. This surprised her, given that she had always been bad at lying – or assumed she was.
Now, she was on her way to her greatest test of subterfuge yet, sneaking along the Boulevard Haussmann to meet a master detective, and she was more excited than frightened.
Who would ever have thought it of little Meg?
Meg had managed to fool even her mother into thinking she wasn’t up to anything out of the ordinary, thanks to her tutor in deception and detection.
Shaya had given her the simple advice to say something true that was somehow also a lie.
She had told her mother she was helping a new friend with errands at the Opéra – and that had been true! She had helped.
In the week since entering the Persian’s employ, Meg had prevented another attack.
Or at least delayed it. She had seen Monsieur Goncourt drunk and stumbling out of the Opéra alone after watching his dancer reject him after a performance.
The man had been a prime target, but Meg had saved him in the best way she could: by sweetly encouraging Monsieur d’Amboise to take care of his ailing friend.
Meg had not liked that part – d’Amboise had continued to pay too much attention to her, but the man had reported the next day that a shadow had followed them into the street but fled away.
He had not called it a ghost. Why would he?
It had been a man of unknown purpose. Thinking about it made Meg shiver even in the waning warmth of the day.
It was what they didn’t know about this new phantom that Shaya thought was most dangerous.
The man who had worn the mask before – the one Shaya assured her was dead now – had been dangerous, but his purpose had been known. Now they knew so little.