“Yes, I think so. They’re really quite pretty and by some of the best dressmakers in Paris.”
“As you wish, Mademoiselle.” There was a blankness in the maid’s face. Either she was short on wit, or she was being purposefully unhelpful.
“Yes, I do wish it,” said Emilie. “Can you find somewhere to sell them for me?”
“I can certainly—”
At that moment the door opened, and though Emilie had been doing a credible job of making the conversation seem as inconsequential as she wanted it to appear, she coloured a little when she realised it was Dartois who was entering the room.
“Mademoiselle Cadeaux,” he said, coming in and bowing.
He had been like this since coming to London. All courtesy and gentlemanliness. No hint of the knife he had held at her throat in Cherbourg. If anything it made Emilie more on edge. He played the part of villain and the part of gentleman with such ease—and switched between them without pause—she couldn’t tell which was the truth. Nor could she be sure whether it would be the former or the latter she would encounter whenever she entered his presence.
“We are to attend Lord Peregrine’s masquerade ball this evening,” he announced.
“We are?”
“We are.” He raised his chin and stared down his nose at her in a measuring way. “I have friends attending that we would do well to meet. Friends interested in what I can offer them.”
He had stopped hiding his intentions from Emilie since taking her from Paris. He seemed convinced, for some reason unknown to her, that she would come around to his way of thinking and would partner with him in his illicit endeavours. Every time he made these assumptions and spoke this freely, she remained silent and the satisfied look on his face grew. He believed, thanks to her lack of protest, that he was winning her over.
“The new dresses I bade you order on our first day in London should arrive shortly. I paid double for the woman to have them ready in time. And you will find a matching mask has been provided as well.”
Emilie thanked God for Dartois’ words. They would go a long way to convince the maid of her story about needing to sell clothes. Hopefully it wouldn’t be long before Emilie could increase her savings by those sales and then she could devise a plan for escape.
“Very well, my Lord,” Emilie said, rising to leave. “I’ll get ready.”
On her way to the door, she passed the Marquis and her skin prickled. A few more steps and she would be free from his presence for a time. But before she could escape, her tormentor reached out, grasping her arm and making her jump in the process.
His touch did not feel the same as when he had threatened her on the dock in Cherbourg. Somehow that made it worse. Now his touch was intimate, almost tender, and the sensation made her sick to her stomach. Not for the first time since he had taken her from the Comte’s possession, he leant in and breathed in her scent, his face mere inches from her own.
Emilie recoiled from him, turning her head away, her expression one of distaste.
“I grow impatient, Emilie,” he murmured against her cheek, his breath hot on her skin.
It was the first time he had used her Christian name. The action felt like a violation. It took everything within her not to yank her arm from his grasp and run to the door.
But she knew, she felt it in her gut, that had she done so, she would have sent him over the edge. This man was unpredictable. There was no telling how far his temper would flare, nor how much he would scorch those nearby. She must not react. She must bide her time—if she wished to survive.
Inhaling slowly through her nose she willed the nausea to subside and waited for the fear to ebb. In and out. In and out.
“Forgive me, my Lord,” she murmured, her fear transforming quickly into anger at having to placate this brute.
He did not remove his grip from her arm and his stare did not abate. She racked her brains for something more to say, something which might help her to escape from this moment. Glancing around her, Emilie realised with sudden panic that the maid had disappeared from the room.
“You are forgiven,” Dartois said at last, his tone thick with desire. “Be ready for seven o’clock.”
Then he released her.
Emilie left. The sick feeling followed her, as did the imprint of his fingers on her arm, both sensations making her want to get in a copper tub and scrub herself clean. She wanted to be rid of this man, but at the moment, she could not see her way out.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Emilie guessed there were at least two hundred people attending the Peregrines’ masquerade that evening when she arrived on Dartois’ arm.
All along the painted wall, candles in ornate golden scroll sconces shone out across the crowds, their light reflecting off the polished metal disks that formed the back of the clever lighting fixtures. Above them hung glittering chandeliers, hundreds of candles alight, adding to the heat of the rooms.
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.
