Chapter 11

Basile strolled into the Procope café where he found Grégoire and Armand sitting over coffee and brandy. On his way to their table, M. Necker raised his hand in greeting from where he sat nearby with the philosophes before calling out to him.

"You are the talk of the town, mon cher marquis. You've managed to draw the queen's eye, despite the royal period of mourning, and relieve its monotony with your engagement."

Basile did not quite know how to respond to such…was it praise? He was not given to flowery speech, though it was almost a requirement of the court. He nodded his head in thanks, then took the chair at his friends' table.

"Monsieur Necker is right," Armand said. "We have been hounded with questions from everyone who knows us to be your intimates. What is your objective with this whole affair? I know you had no marital intentions a week ago. Do you mean to marry her in earnest?"

Grégoire sipped his brandy, murmuring wickedly, "I told him you had succumbed at last, although perhaps less to love than a desire to flee La Bordenave."

"But I cannot see how you can announce a betrothal publicly and not go through with it," Armand continued in an urgent undertone. "I will not believe it of you."

Basile lifted his hand to signal a waiter for coffee. "Tell us of your own courtship, Armand. Mine carries so little interest."

Armand creased his brow at the change of subject, but a smile played about his lips. "I have gained an audience with Vivienne's older brother, and he seems pleased by the match, although we have yet to discuss contracts."

"Allow me to congratulate you." Basile reached for the sugar and placed a lump in the cup of coffee that was set before him.

"It seems we are to wish you happy at last," Grégoire added.

"To think that she would notice me." Armand smiled again dreamily, a man clearly smitten. Grégoire told him he was much too modest.

Basile opened his mouth to ask Grégoire if he had sold his hunter, but Armand would not be put off from his earlier interrogation. "However, let us not detract from your engagement. Why did you do it?"

Basile stirred the sugar, contemplating his answer. "It was in both of our best interests to declare a false engagement, for it allowed me to shake off the widow and her to be spared the unwelcome attention of the Englishman, Cholmsley. Trust me, the lady has no intentions of holding me to it," he replied with a confidence he was far from feeling.

"As to La Bordenave," Armand said, "she has been asking many questions regarding your supposed meeting and how your understanding came to be. I do not comprehend how a woman can be so persistent when all hope is lost." He pulled out a box of his snuff and offered it to Grégoire, then Basile. "I believe I answered her questions well, but it was not an easy matter. I repeated that you had known each other in England. That is not true, is it?"

The café was loud and no one nearby paid them any attention, so Basile did not fear answering. He shook his head. "Our little arrangement is merely a means to bring relief to both of us in certain quarters. There will be no harm in ending it when the time comes."

"Not even when the queen is anxious to follow your betrothal and see you wed?" Grégoire asked, sotto voce.

"Not even then. She shall console me on our divergent paths and turn her attention elsewhere," Basile answered hopefully, but the conversation was growing uncomfortable as it forced a truth he would rather not face. Extricating himself from the betrothal might prove more difficult than he'd imagined now that more people were becoming involved.

Another truth slinked into his consciousness that was difficult to face. A part of him wondered if he wished to be freed.

The Duc d'Orleans entered the café and the proprietor set down a tray he was wiping to come and greet him with a bow. "Monsieur, you will perhaps wish to come with me. There is a gentleman who has been asking after you particularly."

"A creditor?" the duke asked.

"None other," the proprietor replied. "Allow me to show you to the back entrance so you may avoid him."

"You are most kind." The duke followed him to a door that led to a small cobblestone passageway in the back. This was one reason the Procope was so popular amongst their set. With a benevolent owner, they were unlikely to be dunned by creditors there, for none could catch them.

Grégoire touched Basile on the arm, pulling his attention back. "You may wish to know that contrary to Armand's belief that he threw La Bordenave off the scent, she has let it be known publicly that she does not believe your betrothal to be true."

Basile shrugged. "It is her problem, is it not?"

"Except that now the queen's former rival, Madame Du Barry, has been cast off, Claudia is working hard to win Marie-Antoinette's favor. If the queen gets wind of the widow's accusations, she might have more questions for you. Questions you will not be able to avoid and will be hard-pressed to answer without deepening your falsehoods. And if she has doubts, she will not rest until she is satisfied with your intentions." Grégoire glanced at Armand, who knew the way of the court better than anyone. "Is that not so?"

"I am in complete agreement." Armand thought for a minute. "Everyone seems to question how thoroughly the Englishwoman has captured your heart and whether your engagement is as fixed as you say it is. I suggest you bring your flirtation with her into the public eye to prove them wrong—a task I trust you will not find too onerous."

No, he would not find it onerous. But how had things come to such a pass where it was he taking love advice from Armand?

Basile hadno difficulty in securing an invitation for Sophie to the following night's soirée at the Lemoines'. He sent it along with a handwritten note explaining that the invitation was for a casual supper followed by drawing room conversation with the most influential of French society. It would be the ideal place, he explained, for them to show Mr. Cholmsley and everyone else how besotted they were with one another if she were of a mind to agree to the farce. There appeared to be some doubt about their betrothal, and it would behoove them to prove the skeptics otherwise. He did not wish to cause her any disquiet, but thought it better that they were agreed upon how to proceed.

Despite telling himself he was doing the right thing in urging her to a more outward display of their supposed affection, he suffered some small anxiety waiting for his footman to return with her response.

Mon cherBasile, it said.

I have not heard from Sheldon Cholmsley in two days, so I do not know if he will be in attendance to witness our display, but I will certainly come and assist you in dispelling those injurious rumors. Je t'embrasse, Sophie.

He smiled at her teasing tone about the injurious rumors, thankful that she was capable of humor. At least, he was fairly certain she was being humorous. But then she had closed with, "I kiss you" in his own language, as though they were indeed friends. The words went straight to his heart despite the careful barricades he had put around it. He imagined placing a kiss on one cheek, then turning to the other cheek and kissing her there. Then drawing center…

No. Absolutely not. He could not lead her on a false path of forcing a betrothal that he said would be just for show, only to then toy with her heart by kissing her. That would be most ungentlemanly. Almost as bad as presenting another man with a bill that he himself had promised to honor.

That night, he left off the powder, imagining that Sophie would also appear in more simple attire. He used the excuse of their betrothal to fetch her himself without Zoé. As much as he loved Zoé, she would fill every silence so that he could hardly enjoy Sophie's presence.

As he reached for the knocker to her house, the door of the adjoining house opened, and Cholmsley stepped out. He scowled as soon as he saw Basile.

Basile swallowed the biting words he was tempted to utter and bowed. "A pleasure, Monsieur Cholmsley."

"If you say so," the peacock replied. "I will be calling upon you with a business matter in a day or two, if you would be good enough to give me your direction."

Basile reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and drew out one of his cards. He handed it to him unsmilingly. "You may have it, although I am not in the habit of discussing…business, as you call it, with gentlemen I scarcely know," he replied.

"This business concerns you nearly," Mr. Cholmsley replied before giving a curt nod and striding over to a carriage that was being held for him in front of Basile's chaise.

He watched him drive off and shook his head. For the first time it occurred to him that he could not leave Sophie to return to England on her own, and he certainly couldn't leave her to that man's care. He would have to take her home himself, which would cause tongues to wag unless he were able to do it discreetly. He touched the cold brass knocker and lifted it, pausing. He would not mind the journey in her presence, though. She seemed unlikely to create the sort of fuss that would make such a trip arduous, and it would give him pleasure to extend their acquaintance.

Mary opened the door at his knock, where inside Sophie was waiting for him. Her hair was dressed more simply, the powder scarcely visible, but her gown was new and decidedly French. It was made up of dark gray silk with black embroidery on the stomacher, and the cut of the bodice pulled her shoulders back sharply and nipped in her waist. Her sleeves were lightly puffed with white ribbons at the end, and white lace trimmed the low-cut bodice. If her face was powdered, this, too, was scarcely visible. As much as he'd been impressed by her beauty when she had put effort into wearing Paris fashions, he was struck as he gazed at her naked face now. This was a face he could grow to admire deeply.

He bowed to cover the distraction of these thoughts and held out his arm to assist her out of doors and into the waiting carriage.

"So, Monsieur le Marquis," she said when she had settled herself comfortably, "what is to be our plan? What sort of flirtation are you suggesting?"

From her smile, Sophie did not seem to be worried he meant anything inappropriate. Her faith in him was rather remarkable. She had trusted him enough to pretend to know one another upon a mere glance. She had trusted him when he announced their betrothal to the society at large without having given her warning ahead of time. And even now, she was agreeing to allow him to escort her alone in his carriage so they might discuss plans for a bolder flirtation under public scrutiny. Her expression was full of trust.

Basile smiled at her, his eyes softening at such a display of innocence. "Let us say that I shall permit myself—with your full agreement, of course—to slip my fingers under that charming boucle that hangs down onto your neck." She was again wearing the full curl that Jeannot had coaxed to life the night of the Ranelagh, ball which came down from the left side of her coiffure and rested on her shoulder, spilling over onto her collarbone.

"Touching my neck in the process, I assume," she said, pink with an innocent embarrassment but pluck for the challenge.

"I shall endeavor to restrict my graze of your shoulder to all that is correct," he replied, keeping his tone light, but noticing at the same time a desire to loosen his collar.

"Tickling me and causing the most unattractive goose flesh to erupt over my arms, I suppose. And what else?" she demanded.

He examined her. "I may be called upon to sit directly beside you so that our shoulders and legs are very near." As he said it, his knee grazed hers in the dark of the carriage as though it had a will of its own. "When I am standing, I might lean in close and whisper into your ear."

"Whereupon I laugh most delightedly at what you have just said, proving at once that you are the most diverting man I have ever met and that we share such confidences as to leave no doubt regarding our engagement. You behold in me a woman properly enthralled."

"It is only natural," he replied, his lips curling up of their own accord, "for I am French."

"And therefore a most practiced flirt besides being excessively diverting," she replied. "I see. And what else?"

Basile thought for a moment. "I may be required from time to time to offer a small kiss on your cheek. Perhaps in the area where I placed your patch, there"—he lifted his finger to touch her cheek—"on that dimple next to your mouth."

Sophie's emotions were betrayed in her nervous laugh. "Of course. I shall endeavor to endure it while showing a suitable mix of bashfulness and delight."

"Delight you will be far from feeling, of course," he could not but add in a teasing voice, hoping it were not so.

She met his stare quite frankly. "Oh, I would not go so far as to say that. But Basile?—"

The use of his given name in their intimate setting reminded him of their charade, and he wondered if she was thinking the same thing. She had stopped short, and he was forced to prod her. "What is it?"

Her look grew vulnerable, but she shrugged it off. "'Tis nothing. I am perfectly ready to follow you in this charade, for it suits my own ends. Sheldon has not been by to visit once since I assured him I was serious in my determination to marry you. However, if we are seen to be too affectionate, it might give rise to a different sort of talk—one I would not at all like to have said about me, particularly when I return to England unmarried."

She averted her gaze, entreating softly, "Do not carry the flirtation too far." And although he could not be quite sure of it, he thought he heard her add, "For it will only confuse me."

Basile reached out for her hand and she placed it in his. "I am a gentleman, and I will do nothing to harm your reputation. En plus, you may be sure that I will see you safely returned to England when your time here is finished, although it cannot be until the king has given me leave to quit the territory."

She slipped her hand out of his and clasped hers on her lap. The gesture left him frowning—wondering if he had carried everything too far.

"Tell me again," he said. "Are you certain you can accept that our betrothal is false? I plunged you into a difficult situation by announcing our engagement without first gaining your accord. I must insist that I will do the honorable thing and marry you, even without the pressure of society forcing such a thing by their talk."

She smiled and shook her head, her eyes fixed on her fingers knit together. "I would not wish a marriage for such reasons. As much as I will not marry for convenience, nor will I marry to still gossiping tongues. I merely hope to avoid particularly ruinous slander."

She looked up and smiled at him in the dark of the carriage as it began to slow. The sounds of other carriages and people's voices grew louder, signaling they had arrived at their destination.

"Do you know," she said, "there is a dower house on the edge of my family's property that was bequeathed to me? I believe that I would happily live in the most frugal manner there rather than marry for any reason other than love. The kind of love where?—"

Basile held his breath waiting for the rest. She opened her lips, but the footman had hopped down and opened the door to the carriage, so Basile had no choice but to step out and give his hand to assist her to alight. He would not know the rest—now. But he would find it out, for he'd thought there were only two kinds of love. An unrequited desperate kind or a wedded love in name but entirely devoid of passion. He suspected she had spoken of neither.