By this time, they had followed the gravel path around the north side of the gardens, and then looped back to approach their starting point.
Lutin stopped sniffing. In fact, he stopped altogether, planting his fluffy bottom on a patch of grass, ears pricked up at his mistress, waiting expectantly. Emilie was not paying attention—thanks to the distracting English Duke—and jerked back when the lead pulled taut.
“Oh, mon dieu—toi petit diable!” she said, rebuking her furry companion, then remembering, she said, “Of course—you want your biscuit.”
She turned to the Duke. “Please may I have them? It is another little routine—he always gets a biscuit halfway round the gardens.”
“But of course—feed le petit diable.” The English noble bowed deeply towards Lutin before rising and retrieving the biscuits from his pocket.
She had to stop herself from laughing. Taking the parcel, she undid the string and drew out one of the canine delights within, requesting her little dog beg for the biscuit before she handed it over.
“Do you often frequent Madame Pertuis’ salons with the Comte?”
Emilie straightened—Lutin having wolfed down a whole biscuit by then—and batted her skirts back into submission before touching a hand to her hat to ensure it was still in place.
“Oui.”
“She appears a popular lady in Paris,” the Duke said. “She told me she has held no less than thirty salons this year alone.”
“Mais oui,” Emilie said, keeping her voice level despite her dislike of the woman rising to the surface. “Madame Pertuis enjoys being the host.” She stopped short of what she really wanted to say.
“So she told me… several times.”
Emilie glanced up at him to see what expression went with his words. There was the veriest gleam in his brown eyes.
“I have no doubt,” she said, an answering curve on her full lips.
Madame Pertuis truly drew out the worst in Emilie. If there was one thing she couldn’t stand, it was self-absorption. It was not that she herself proclaimed immunity from such an affliction, it was part of the human condition, but while some tried to curb the trait, Madame Pertuis appeared to nurture it.
“She also told me about her charitable efforts—estimable, indeed.”
This time Emilie bit her tongue. She had no wish to be bitter, and the fact Madame Pertuis gave to the poor in order to talk about it did not negate the good her generosity did.
“I have never been so over faced by another’s virtues, nor so well-informed about a new acquaintance, in the space of a single evening.”
Emilie began to giggle.
“Ah, I see you are no more fool than I, then. I do not believe I left her establishment with her knowing any more than the name I came with—whilst I can recite her philanthropic endeavours for the past year.”
She finally gave into full-blown laughter.
“I am surprised the Comte de Vergelles does not find the same.”
The Duke’s sudden change in focus did not go unnoticed.
“How long have you and he been going to Madame Pertuis’ soirées?”
“I cannot remember,” Emilie said, the brief bridge of affability built between them severed by her vagueness.
The Duke either did not notice her sudden frostiness or chose to ignore it.
“And when you are not at the salon—what does Mademoiselle Cadeaux and her master like to do?”
Her master? The blunt description hit Emilie hard.
“Oh, please do not be offended,” he said, in reply to her altered expression. “We may be frank—while I do not choose to partake in such activities myself, I understand the arrangement. Being the paid companion of a Comte must have its advantages. There is surely a world of amusement open to you.”
He understood the arrangement. Paid companion. He took no pains to hide the fiscal nature of the situation he assumed was in place. He spoke with such certain cold detachment, and with such obvious distaste, that Emilie felt a sudden rebellious desire not to correct him.
He thought her already mistress to the Comte, not being courted by him for the role, and Tremaine assumed she was brazen enough to discuss it like a business transaction. She wished in that moment she had a thicker skin. She wished that the years of making her way in this difficult world, climbing up from the gutters of Paris to an independent and self-sufficient position, had numbed her to judgement from others. Alas, it had not.
“The theatre—Mademoiselle Saint-Val Cadette’s plays,” she responded, omitting the correction she could have given in that moment. Let him think what he wanted and judge her accordingly. What did his good opinion matter to her?
Any warmth she had felt towards this man in his amusing moments disintegrated. To the Comte she was an object for his pleasure—to this Duke, a fallen woman.
“Indeed? I have not seen her on the stage yet, but I hear great things.”
“Well, you must while you’re in Paris,” Emilie replied, all serene politeness, the raw emotions he had provoked pushed deep below the surface.
“And where is the Comte today? He does not accompany you to purchase Lutin’s biscuits?”
Finally, she saw it. The Duke of Tremaine was not interested in her, who he assumed was a common mistress, a woman who he clearly disdained. No, he was interested in who she was connected to. The Duke was interested in Lucien.
She should have known his seemingly kind and misguided gesture to purchase Lutin’s biscuits had an ulterior motive.
“The Comte de Vergelles does not like animals. I believe he is in the Café Procope. I am to meet him shortly, so if you will excuse me, I shall take my leave. Thank you for the biscuits.” She placed the remainder of the biscuits in their brown paper in her pocket and drew in Lutin’s lead, beckoning the wispy little creature towards her. “Bonjour, Your Grace.”
Emilie curtseyed and turned on her heel before he could reply.
