Lit by the myriad of candles was a series of grand portraits hung around the top of the room which Emilie took to be the ancestors of their hosts. These solemn figures from bygone ages stared down upon the multitude, the painted figures clad in silk suits with deep-fronted bodices, red heeled shoes and great cascading periwigs.
Yet for all the illumination and ancestral observants, the crowd below remained anonymous. Emilie walked through a sea of strangers in masks of all kinds. Gentlemen and ladies obscured their identities with anything from simple eye coverings to theatrical creations and, as was the purpose, the mystery provoked a feverish glee.
Some, Emilie knew, would enjoy their identity being a secret for the night and give nothing away, using the opportunity to say things they’d otherwise keep to themselves, or flirt with someone they desired. Others would be too easily recognised, and yet others would have no patience for such games and within moments introduce themselves or pull up their masks to reveal their identities.
Emilie remained behind her mask, happy for the protection it provided in this unknown environment. Despite the amusement palpable in the gathering, she found Lord and Lady Peregrine’s event far more austere than what she was used to.
Aside from the gilt candleholders and crystal chandeliers, the decor was simpler, with muted tones and neoclassical decoration. The people were equally as different. Aside from their masks, they were far more staid than their French counterparts. Despite wearing a new gown from an English dressmaker, Emilie felt out of place with her bright silk and rouged face.
The mask Dartois had chosen for her covered only her eyes, and so the powder, rouge and patch she wore were on display. She noticed several women staring openly at her, clearly not recognising her from their usual Societal circles, and she saw the judgement in their eyes.
Emilie and Dartois moved from one reception room into another, the crowds only growing, and Emilie’s discomfort with it. She knew her place in Paris. She was considered a mistress, but that was accepted. Here she was… what? An alien.
The idea of escaping into the city with the funds from selling her old clothes suddenly felt stupid. How could she manage it when everything about her was so different?
Her breathing grew shallow, her palms slick inside her gloves, her heartbeat speeding. What if she couldn’t escape? What if giving in to Dartois was all she could do?
The sound of the crowd grew louder. Someone laughed in her ear, the noise piercing. Another hailed Dartois, and the Marquis walked off through the masses to greet them.
Emilie was left alone, the people swirling around her. The thought of giving into Dartois caused bile to rise in her throat. Nausea followed close behind. The feeling swelled. She was going to vomit. People pressed in around her. She was going to vomit right here in Lord and Lady Peregrine’s ballroom. She was going to—
“Good evening, Mademoiselle Cadeaux.”
That voice.
Her brow furrowed and her eyes welled with tears.
That familiar voice.
She almost whispered his name, her eyes darting up from the floor and meeting those unmistakable hooded brown eyes behind a black mask.
The Duke of Tremaine.
How? How was he here? How had he survived that shot? She didn’t care. He was here.
“Your Grace.” Her voice was barely audible above the crowds.
“I trust I find you well?” he asked, those eyes of his, which had so often displayed bored indifference, were now full of earnest concern.
Emilie swallowed, blinking back the tears, then turned away to suck in a breath, trying her hardest to calm the emotions which stormed within her. “I thought you were…” She trailed off, unable to finish that horrible sentence.
In the melee of the crowds, the Duke reached out and touched her arm, his gaze containing such gentleness. She wanted to grab hold of that hand, to hold it to her chest, to cry with relief that all she had feared was not true.
“I am—I am well,” she finally replied. “But how are you here?”
“I might ask you the same question,” Tremaine said, his tone gentler than his words.
“I thought you were… ” She raised a hand, touching his shoulder lightly and then dropping it again before anyone noticed.
“I was—a souvenir from the Marquis. But only winged. I have the generosity of your fellow countrywoman to thank for my salvation.”
Emilie wanted to hear everything, but the jostle of the crowd reminded her they were not alone, and they did not have much time.
“I am only angry at myself for putting you in such a position with my arrogance. I thought I knew the state of play, but I was wrong. Mademoiselle Cadeaux—Emilie—I am so very sorry.” His voice cracked over those last words and suddenly the crowd around them melted away from consciousness and it was just them alone.
That was the first time he had used her Christian name. She hadn’t realised he even knew it. It sounded so right on his lips, it was spoken with such kindness and care.
“I am only thankful for your quick wit in leaving me that note hidden in your letters. Once I found your apartments it was the only reason I was able to find out where you were at all.”
She remembered scrawling that letter. The interruption. Hoping she had said enough. Hiding it quickly among the letters she had piled up to send and the horrible feeling of having to leave—
“Lutin!” she blurted out, her eyes dropping to the floor, hoping the small shadow might magically appear.
“He’s all right.” Again the Duke touched her arm lightly, the connection soothing. “He’s safe and well.”
“Oh.” She felt the tears welling in her eyes again. “Leaving him was the most dreadful thing. To think of him an ocean away is just—”
“Then I may bring some comfort. I brought him with me to England. He is with my valet at present.”
Emilie’s eyes widened in surprise and then a delighted smile took over her lips.
“It was a mutual dislike at first,” the Duke explained. “Your petit diable did the unmentionable in one of my best pairs of dancing pumps. I’m pleased to report, though, since that bumpy start, they’ve become quite civil—friendly even. I believe Lutin prefers his company to mine now. Traitor.”
His words flowed light-heartedly, but she could see the humour did not fully touch his eyes. The funning was for her. He was trying to calm her. When he removed his hand from her arm again, she felt the loss acutely.
“I am so happy,” she whispered. A tear finally escaped her rapid blinking and traced through her powder.
Tremaine drew a handkerchief from his pocket and passed it discreetly to her.
“Please,” he said in a low tone, “do not worry—not about Lutin, nor about… I shall not see you harmed.”
She could not speak. The lump that had formed in her throat at his arrival would not move and it had grown. His words—those kind and caring words—they undid her.
“Tell me you are well?”
It was a question and yet it was spoken as a demand. As though he could bear no other response than a positive one.
“At least physically,” he said by way of concession. “Has he—”
She could see Tremaine was not able to finish the question. The implication hung between them, all manner of endings to that question horribly present.
Again she remained silent, not through choice, but because the care shining from his eyes was something she had never expected, nor could she fully understand it. This man had taken a bullet trying to save her. He had gone down with it, and yet here he was, coming for her again. The emotions such thoughts evoked were so strong she could barely control them. Even if she had wanted to, she could not have spoken, for how could someone respond to such kindness?
“Bonsoir, Your Grace.”
Dartois’ greeting came from behind her. She saw the Duke’s whole frame tense. His jaw clenched, and his hands formed fists at his side. Catching his gaze again, she willed him with her eyes not to react.
“Or,” said Dartois, coming around to stand between them, “is it Lord Avers? I confess I have never been good with names. But then, I do not know many gentlemen who go by a different name in Paris to that which they bear in London.”
