Chapter Eight
S hadows danced across the walls, the black and white patterns mimicking the sinuous swirl of the colored silks. Laughter, bright and brittle as cut glass, echoed off the crystal chandeliers. Candles flared as the waltz spun to a crescendo.
Valencia slanted a glance at the dancefloor, feeling as though a thousand little tongues of fire were lapping against her flesh. She had forgotten the heat and the heady thrum of excitement that pulsed through the ballrooms of the haute monde. English or French, it was all the same. Power and privilege had a language all its own.
“Would you care for another glass of champagne?” murmured Lynsley, his own glass barely touched.
She demurred, fearing any more wine would go straight to her head. The heat of the ballroom was already having an intoxicating effect, intensifying the smoky spice of the cheroots and the sultry sweetness of the lush perfumes, including her own. Feminine florals and spice mingled with an earthier, masculine musk.
The effect was exotic, enticing.
It had been a long time since she had drunk it all in.
“A prudent course,” he agreed, edging around the refreshment table. After passing an arrangement of potted palms, the marquess drew her into a shadowed alcove, from which they could observe the other guests. “You have merely to sparkle and laugh often. Everyone will assume your effervescence is due to the champagne.”
Valencia nodded, aware of what role she was to play. Even at the height of her powers, she had been more of a huntress than a temptress. She hoped the lack of practice in her seduction skills would not be too glaringly evident. Breaking up tavern fights did not require much poise or polish.
“I am looking for Levalier,” said Lynsley as he paused to scan the crowd. “He will be our entrée into society. Not only he is hoping to make an advantageous trade agreement for his country with me, but he has the look of man who likes beautiful women. I’ve told him about you, and he is quite anxious to make your acquaintance.”
She watched the dancing, grateful that her maid was a wizard with a curling iron and hairpins. Her raven-dark hair, which she usually wore in a simple plait, was gathered in a stylish topknot and fell in a graceful tumble of ringlets. A threading of tiny seed pearls added lustrous highlights, complementing the costly necklace at her throat. Compared to the other ladies, she decided that she didn’t appear a country crow . . .
Angling her gaze, she saw that Lynsley was studying her profile. “You are looking very lovely tonight,” he murmured.
“Your operatives are quite good at their jobs,” she replied obliquely.
His face remained expressionless.
“And I was fortunate that Madame Violette had a ballgown made up for a client who decided that the color did not suit,” she continued. “It required little alteration to meet Madame’s exacting standards.”
Lynsley’s gaze flicked from her face to her bodice and back again. “The fit is perfect. As is the color. I trust that the modiste suggested a palette of sea greens and smoky jades to complement your eyes.”
To her surprise, a flush began to steal up from her bosom to her bare shoulders.
Damn. She must remember that his praise was not personal. She was merely a means to an end.
“Far too many shades, if you ask me,” replied Valencia with a light laugh. “As I said, it was not a pleasant experience to be poked with pins for hours on end.”
The marquess smiled. “I am sure you endured far worse from Da Rimini in your fencing classes.”
“ Il Lupino would draw blood if he was in a foul mood.” She sighed. “How is the wily old wolf?”
“Getting a bit long in the tooth, though his blade still carries a wicked bite,” said Lynsley. “These days, he has an assistant who handles many of the daily duties.”
“Another Italian?”
His lips twitched. “ Si .”
“God help the girls. I am not sure that is the sort of swordsmanship the students should be exposed to. Perhaps you ought to hire a German. Or a monk. The Jesuits have a tradition of martial?—”
Lynsley placed a hand on her arm, cutting off their banter. “Do you see the man entering the ballroom? The one with the oiled sidewhiskers and brocade waistcoat? That is Levalier.”
Before she could respond, the marquess drew her out of the shadows and called loudly to a passing servant for more champagne. “The stage is set. Time to assume our roles,” he added in a soft whisper.
Valencia felt a surge of excitement. She had not realized just how much she had missed the glittering lights, the action, the challenge of putting on a perfect performance. She had spent years learning her lines.
She must trust that she knew them by heart.
“Ah, Monsieur Dagget! There you are!” Levalier made his way through the crowd, accompanied by another man.
“And this must be your wife.” Inclining a flourishing bow, he took her hand and brought it to his lips. “ Enchante , madame. Your husband’s praise did not do you justice.”
“ Merci, monsieur ,” she answered.
“Allow me to introduce Mr. Levalier, my dear,” said Lynsley. “He is the gentleman with whom I am to negotiate a trade agreement for our country.”
“La, do not allow your talks to go too smoothly, monsieur.” she said with a coy smile. “I am hoping for a long stay here in Paris.”
“ Bon! ” He turned to his companion and winked. “You heard the lady, Jean-Michel. We must make things just a little hard on her husband.”
Lynsley’s lips took on a sardonic curl. “You must be Noilly, from the Maritime Ministry,” he said brusquely. “Have we set a time to meet?”
“All business and no pleasure, Monsieur Daggett?” Levalier exaggerated a sigh. “Come, you are in Paris, sir. It would be a shame not to sample some of its sumptuous delights.”
“Really, Thomas. Mr. Levalier is right,” said Valencia. It was the first time she had used his given name, but it came out smoothly enough. “You must learn to relax and show some . . . joie de vivre .”
“Precisely, madame. I see you already understand the Gallic spirit.”
“You speak our language as well?” asked Noilly.
“Just a little schoolgirl French,” she replied. “But I look forward to learning much more while I am here.”
“Your accent is delightful, and as for your vocabulary, I am sure we can see to it that your knowledge of our language is greatly expanded. Indeed . . .” Levalier offered her his arm. “While Noilly discusses the schedule of talks with your husband, allow me to begin introducing you to our circle of friends.”
“Why, thank you.” She set her glove on his sleeve. “I would like that very much.”
Lynsley drained his glass. “See that you don’t lead my wife astray, Levalier.”
What a consummate actor , thought Valencia. His voice held an edge of possessiveness.
The minister made a face, a gesture she didn’t miss.
“A jealous husband?” he asked. Softly as they moved away
She shrugged. “He may be American but he has very English notions about how a wife should behave.”
Levalier chuckled. “And Les Anglaise can be so very strict about such things.”
“True,” she replied. “They tend to have no sense of adventure.”
His eyes took on a speculative gleam.
Deciding not to push her flirtations too far, Valencia quickly changed the subject. “How is it that Parisians always appear so fashionable?”
“Perhaps it is because we have a flair for the dramatic.” He laughed. “Even during the tumultuous days of the Revolution, before Napoleon took command, Paris was always on the cutting edge of style.”
She raised a brow.
“Take, for example, the styles during the days when the Directoires were in change. They were quite outrageous,” said Levalier. “Vestal dresses, high waisted Minerva tunics, curled wigs in every color of the rainbow—purple was a particular favorite of Therese Tallien. Some of the ladies wore fabrics so transparent that nothing was left to the imagination. Many went barefoot, with golden rings flashing on each of their toes.”
“Surely you exaggerate.”
“ Mais non, I assure you I don’t.” He led her along the colonnaded length of the ballroom and paused beneath one of the arches. “Our former empress, Josephine, and her friends Therese Tallien and Juliette Recamier were legendary for their daring sense of dress. Indeed, one evening Madame Tallien wagered a man that her entire outfit, including her bracelets and boots, weighed less than two six-franc gold coins.”
“And how did they resolve the bet?” asked Valencia. “There would appear to be some difficulties in coming to an accurate measure.”
“Not really. She called for a scale and stripped.” Levalier bared his teeth in a smile. “And won.”
“They sound like females who were not afraid to flaunt their individuality,” mused Valencia.
“Ah. An interesting way of seeing it, Madame Daggett.” Levalier took a sip of his wine. “So you believe a lady should be allowed a certain amount of freedom?”
“Like you, sir, we Americans fought a war to break away from the strictures of the past.” She leaned in closer. “Why should men get to have all the fun?”
The minister wet his lips. “Why, indeed?”
Valencia turned her attention to the movements taking form on the ballroom floor. “Dancing appears quite fashionable as well.”
“ Oui , Parisians love to dance. It is more than a fashion, it is an obsession. Right after the Terror, there were balls everywhere—in former convents, in the Elysee Palace. Even in the graveyards. In St. Sulpice cemetery, the people laid boards over the headstones and danced until dawn.” He gave a glance at the waltzing couples. “Perhaps you would care to take a turn in the next set, madame?”
“I would rather see some of the other rooms,” she replied. “I don’t move very well on the dance floor.”
“Forgive me if I have touched on a sore subject.” He gave a delicate cough. “I could not help but note that your leg appears to trouble you.”
“An old riding accident,” said Valencia. “I hardly notice it anymore. However, some people are put off by a limp.”
“Rest assured, it does nothing to diminish your loveliness.”
She tapped her fan lightly against his arm. “La, I see the Gallic reputation for gallantry has not been exaggerated.”
He gave a mock grimace. “It is impossible to speak too highly of your charms, madame.”
The exchange of pleasantries continued as they moved from the ballroom to the adjoining salon. Keeping a smile on her face, Valencia pretended to give the minister her full attention. Her eyes, however, were making a surreptitious study of her surroundings.
Liberte. Egalite. Fraternite. As far as she could see, the grand slogan of the Revolution had effected little change in human nature. Hereditary titles might have been abolished, but the rich and powerful still set themselves above the masses. The sparkle of precious jewels, the rustle of lush silks, the bubbling of costly champagne—the haute monde of Paris lived very well indeed.
Her gaze lingered on a gilt framed paining on the far wall. “A Da Vinci?” she remarked.
“Yes. Our host served for a time in Lombardy, where he oversaw the talks which worked out the financial settlements involved in ending the armed conflict.”
“And when he returned, he brought back a collection of art,” she said dryly.
“The spoils of war,” said Levalier with a small smile. “It is a fact of life. And I like to think that we French are pragmatic as well as poetic.”
“A practical combination.” Valencia looked to a circle of men and women gathered near the marble fireplace. “But let us not talk of this interminable war, sir. It is so very depressing, and I wish to enjoy my stay here in your splendid city.”
“But of course. A lady should not be subject to such a topic. Come, I will introduce you to some of my friends, who will see that you never have a dull moment in Paris.”
Levalier drew her into the center of the group and made a show of announcing her arrival. “While I discuss affairs of state with the lady’s illustrious husband, I am counting on you, mes amis , to show Mrs. Daggett all the pleasures of Paris.”
Valencia carefully noted each name as the gentlemen bowed over her hand. Dumont, Hillaire, Mersault . . . Not that she needed any introduction to the man she and Lynsley sought. She would recognize Pierre Rochambert the instant those amber-gold eyes turned her way.
The ladies were not quite as effusive in their welcome. Still, she soon had a number of invitations for the next few days. Tea at the Pavilion of Hanover on boulevard des Italiennes, a stroll in the Tulleries gardens, shopping in rue St. Honore, a visit to the Louvre Museum.
“And you and your husband must come to the Comedie Francaise on Thursday evening,” said Madame Gervaise, a petite blonde who had been introduced as the wife of merchant. A very wealthy merchant, judging by the size of the sapphire nestle in her cleavage. “We have a box, and the great Joseph Talma is performing.”
“Thank you,” she murmured. “I adore the theatre.”
“And you must come as my guests to a small supper afterward,” added Monsieur Mersault. “My friend Rochambert keeps the best chef in town and his entertainments are known for the sumptuous spread of delicacies.”
The champagne was like a thousand little swordpoints prickling against her tongue at the mention of their quarry’s name. Valencia swallowed her excitement and smiled. “What a treat! How could Thomas and I say no.”
Lynsley slanted a look to the archway at the far end of the ballroom. Valencia had been gone for some time. There was no cause for concern, he reminded himself. It was not as if he were letting a lamb loose among wolves. She was trained to deal with dangerous predators.
Yet he couldn’t help remembering that for all her formidable skills, she had fallen prey to a vicious attack. Not for any weakness on her part. The marquess felt his jaw tighten. The fault was his . He should have anticipated the trap. He should have had someone watching her back.
“An interesting suggestion, Mr. Noilly, and one that we will certainly discuss in greater detail once Levalier sets a time for our talks,” he said abruptly. “But now, if you will excuse me, I think I shall go find my wife.”
Circling around the perimeter of the ballroom floor, Lynsley was aware of the curious stares following his movement. A subtle reminder of just how delicate a dance he and Valencia must perform here in Paris. They must be in perfect harmony to pull it off—the slightest misstep and their demise would be swift and sure.
He paused for a moment to watch the kaleidoscope blur of colors crescendo into the last spinning figures of the waltz, then slipped into the shadowed corridor.
In the side salon, several gentlemen surrounded Valencia, The wine had brought a rosy glow to her cheeks, and the fire- gold candlelight caught the brilliance of her emerald eyes. She looked . . . magnificent. No wonder the men appeared to be hanging on her every word.
“Ah, here you are, my dear,” he murmured, bringing his hand to rest at the small of her back.
She stiffened slightly at his touch, then relaxed.
“Alas, it seems Monsieur Daggett has come to claim his lovely wife,” said Levalier, exaggerating a sigh. “Must you take her away so soon? The night is still young.”
“It was a long and tiring trip from Normandy,” replied Lynsley. “I am sure she is a trifle fatigued.”
“As you see, sirs, my husband seems to feel he must look out for me, though in truth I am not so fragile as he seems to think.” Valencia regarded him through the sable fringe of her lashes. He couldn’t tell whether she was amused or annoyed. “Really, Thomas, you will give these gentlemen the wrong impression.”
“Who could blame your husband for being a bit protective?” murmured Dumont. “I, too, would wish to see to your well-being, Madame Daggett.”
Valencia favored the man with a coy smile. “How very reassuring to know that I am surrounded by such gallant chevaliers.”
The Frenchmen exchanged smug looks. No doubt imagining that the cabbage-mannered American would soon be a cuckolded dolt, thought Lynsley. He had no trouble assuming a slight scowl.
“But perhaps you are right, Thomas,” she went on. “I suppose it would be best to take an early leave tonight, seeing as I have accepted a number of invitations for us the coming week.” A whisper of silk sounded as she shifted a step closer to him. “Including a visit to the Comedie Francais —and you know how I adore the theatre. Monsieur Mersault was also kind enough to ask us to a supper engagement afterward. His friend is a noted connoisseur of fine wine and superb cuisine, so I took the liberty of saying yes. It sounded like an evening too good to miss.”
Despite her air of nonchalance, Lynsley sensed the quickening of her pulse as she placed her hand on his sleeve. “Indeed?” he drawled, feigning a look of indifference. “I shall leave our social schedule to you, my dear. I trust you to choose whatever pleases you, and I shall follow along.”
“How very amiable of you,” observed Levalier.
Lynsley smiled. “In marriage, one learns quickly that there are certain battles a man never wins.”
“It seems the same truths hold sway on either side of the Atlantic,” said Hillaire with a chuckle.
“ Bon soir , Madame Daggett.” Levalier pressed a kiss to her glove. “I look forward to seeing a great deal of you in the coming weeks.”
As the minister’s gaze met his, Lynsley fixed him with a cool stare before taking leave of the group with a curt nod. He waited until they were in the privacy of their coach before remarking, “I take it you have something of interest to report.”
“Yes.” Wrapping her shawl a bit tighter around her shoulders, Valencia leaned back again the squabs. “ Our host for the apres-theatre supper will be Pierre Rochambert.”
The low flicker of the carriage lamp did not reach her face. Through the wisps of smoke and shadow he saw only the ghostly shimmer of her bare shoulders and throat. Pale and perfect as porcelain.
And oh so vulnerable.
Damn. The marquess turned his gaze to the glass panes, and took a moment to watch the muddle of lights roll by. “Good work,” he replied evenly, once he had forced the clench of his jaw to relax. “I had not expected to make such quick progress.”
“You don’t sound overly happy about it.” Her voice was muffled by the gloom.
“On the contrary. Every moment we spend in Paris is fraught with danger. The sooner we get the job done, the better.”