Chapter One

Paris, May 1901

After slipping out of the house under the guise of a respectable invitation, Charlotte followed her four giggling housemates down the back steps and along the garden path toward the gate. One by one, as they passed through, the women removed their conservatively cut jackets and stashed them between the iron fence and the lilac bush. As Charlotte placed her coverup under its boughs, the soft petals brushed against the bare skin between her glove and the cap sleeve of her borrowed dress. The air felt cool and electric on her exposed décolletage. It was elegant mauve velvet with a touch of black lace trim, and she'd never worn a dress cut so low. But she'd been in the city for four days, she was going out with her new housemates to her first café concert, and it was time to start dressing like the locals.

From the street, the house stood dark except for Madame's rooms and the staff quarters on the top floor. The thrilling promise of Paris nightlife barely muffled the reality that they'd lied to Madame Tremblay about where they were going.

"Will Madame be mad if she finds out we're not really going to a dinner party?" Charlotte asked. The pension on Rue de Fortuny was a place for respectable, professional women—a point that Madame had emphasized many times since Charlotte wrote to her about getting a room.

"She'll never know," said Nadine, her brown eyes shining confidently. She was an understudy actress at the Comédie-Fran?aise and had lived at the pension for the longest. Although they'd so far not gotten past the introductory details of their lives in the few days Charlotte had been in the city, it was clear that, as far as the ladies of the house were concerned, Nadine was kind of the mother hen who lounged about in flowing tea dresses and silky wrappers. Though now it was clear to Charlotte that perhaps Nadine was more like an auntie hen with a mischievous streak. And, with her feathery hat and stunning dress, she knew how to be seen as well as relax around the house.

"Or she'll pretend not to," said Vanessa, tucking an errant blond curl back into her updo without slowing her walk. She worked in the office of one of the big newspapers and was the only housemate who hadn't come to Charlotte's door to introduce herself the day she moved in. "As long as none of us brings home a man."

"I'll bet my can-can shoes that she's had too much whiskey to notice," said Diane.

"Don't dare, you cow. Those can-can shoes are mine, and you know it," Catherine, Diane's sister shot back. They were Americans who'd come to Paris for a vacation and defied their parents by staying and getting jobs. Their French was decent enough underneath the unmistakable accent, and judging from their finery, they were clearly from a wealthy family. However, they completely lacked the pretension and snobby polish that Charlotte was used to encountering in French wealthy people. Charlotte's English was also decent, though she'd gotten quite lost observing a heated argument over a hairbrush yesterday afternoon where the sisters both slipped into their native tongue. By dinner, they were best friends again.

Once they reached the avenue, Nadine expertly drew a cab from the evening traffic to their service with a little wave and firm stomp of her boot.

"Boulevard de Clichy," Nadine said as they stepped into the fiacre. "The Cabaret des Quat'z'Arts, s'il vous pla?t."

The cab was barely big enough for all five of them. Crammed inside, the women laughed and talked about people and places that sounded so glamorous.

For years, back at home in Vernon, Charlotte had dreamed of living in the city, dreamed of being a writer, and now she was doing it. Everyone at home, including herself, was shocked when payment arrived from the paper for the story she'd sent on a whim. Her father eyed the check suspiciously and sent a telegram to the newspaper editor demanding to know if it was real. He'd received one back, confirming that, yes, they wanted to publish her little story. Charlotte's mother spent the rest of the day kneeling in church. They were more shocked when, days later, an editor from another paper, called La Fronde , wrote to see if she'd be interested in writing something for them, something long enough to serialize. The publisher had read her story, everyone in Paris had, it seemed. And the city was abuzz with a discourse on not only the contents but about the mysterious provincial woman writer. La Fronde believed Charlotte would be the next literary sensation, and the publisher—a woman—wanted to get her under contract.

Charlotte gave half of the money to her parents, bought a one-way train ticket and suitcase, paid for two months' lodging at the house on Rue de Fortuny, and had enough left to live on if she was thrifty. Now her home in Vernon felt like a million miles and a lifetime away, which was a thrilling sensation.

Charlotte had started writing as soon as she arrived, determined to sell something else so she could stay in the city. The only reason she'd agreed to come out tonight was that the first installment of her story had just run in La Fronde that day. She was celebrating, and she wanted to get to know her housemates. Getting there on her own hard work, experiencing this city, knowing these women—Charlotte was becoming the person she most wanted to be. She knew, jammed into that carriage with her housemates, that Paris would make her even if it wouldn't keep her. And she desperately wished that it would.

When the fiacre came to a stop, Charlotte emerged with the other women onto the bustling street. She waited while Nadine paid the driver.

"Apologies, mademoiselles. I would have gotten you closer to the sidewalk, but…" The driver tipped his head toward a shiny carriage that had blocked a large section of the road.

"Isn't it always the fancy ones," Nadine said.

Charlotte thanked him as he pulled off. Then she and Nadine skirted around the ornate carriage to get to the sidewalk. The door of the luxurious ride was emblazoned with some aristocratic family crest, which made it stand out even more in the humble, working-class traffic that surrounded its gilded edges.

"Is this a fancy place?" Charlotte asked.

"Not at all, but it's great fun. Even the fancy people can't resist the temptations of Montmartre."

Her own success, small as it was, demonstrated that the high society people were at least interested in proletarian life. Still, mingling among them in a place her housemates had promised would debauch her provincial sensibilities was a surprise. "Will they have a special box where they can look down on all of us?"

"Ha!" Nadine laughed. "No. They'll be so close you can touch them."

Nadine took Charlotte's hand and pulled her onto the sidewalk. Around them, couples walked with their arms linked and groups of men called to groups of women, everyone on their way to dinner or dancing. On either side of the wide avenue, the apartments rose above the storefronts. Music seeped from the clubs and the street lamps sparkled. Nadine linked one of Charlotte's arms in hers, while Diane linked the other, and their little group made their way inside the crowded, smoky café.

A brass chandelier hung in the center of the room. The walls were crammed with assorted drawings and paintings. They found a table along the wall under a bronze statue of a goddess-like figure and ordered champagne from a passing waiter. He was wearing more makeup than most women there and winked at Charlotte before hurrying away.

"Your mouth is hanging open," Vanessa said.

"I've never seen anything quite like this before."

"They don't have cabarets in Normandy?" Nadine asked. She'd been born in Paris and boasted about the fact that she'd never made it much further north than the edge of Montmartre.

"If they do, I surely wouldn't know," said Charlotte. "But they can't possibly be anything as interesting as this."

On a small stage at the far back of the room, a woman dressed in a man's suit was reciting what seemed to be a dramatic monologue about meeting a beloved's parents and then having a change of heart. The waiter returned with five flutes of bubbly, golden liquid. Charlotte sipped and took in the crowd, which indeed was an eclectic mix, even for Paris.

Women in towering, ornate hats, low-cut dresses, and necks full of jewels hung on the arms of men in fine suits. Seeing them, she remembered how her housemates had described the place to her earlier that day: gentlemen brought their mistresses here, but not their wives. But there were also mixed groups of working-class people and those dressed with an artistic flair who could be painters or musicians or writers, like herself. Then her gaze fell on a man dressed in evening attire watching her from across the smoky room. When their eyes met, he looked away for a second, like she'd caught him. Then he looked back at her and raised an eyebrow.

He had dark hair and a neat mustache that she recognized immediately. Yesterday morning she'd collided with this same man coming out of a flower shop on Rue St. Dominique with a handful of tulips. She'd glimpsed the tower while she was walking, turned for a better look, and bumped into him like a foolish tourist. He'd put a hand on her elbow to steady her, and he'd watched her intently with a curious heat while she apologized all over herself. This had to be the same man sitting across the room from her now. He smiled mischievously, pinning her with his lusty eyes. Then he winked at her and turned his attention to the man sitting next to him.

Charlotte gasped and turned back to her housemates. She rubbed her fingers along the stem of her champagne flute and tried to fight back her growing smile. He'd truly winked at her. What a delight, even if she wasn't interested. Her cheeks, flushed already from the head, reddened. She did not give in to the temptation to look in the gentleman's direction again. The women ordered another round of champagne. They gave up their table to two smartly dressed couples. Then they ventured into other rooms in the cavernous club, where Nadine promised there would be more entertainment. The crowd was growing, and as they pushed into it to get closer to the stage. The group was only just ahead of Charlotte when someone in the crush of people bumped into her from behind. Charlotte paused to keep from spilling her drink, but her friends kept moving.

Lifting onto her tiptoes, she spotted the feather on Nadine's elaborate blue hat and the red of Catherine's dress. She was about to press on to rejoin them when, as if out of nowhere, he was there. The gentleman who'd been watching her, the gentleman with the tulips, was next to her, smiling with that quirked brow again.

He dropped his gaze and took her in.

"You look lovely," he said as if he knew her.

She laughed and playfully made a show of considering him as well. He was trim but sturdy and broad at the same time, standing two or three inches taller than Charlotte. His suit fit well and appeared to be of the finest quality. The rose on his lapel had only just begun to wilt. "You too, monsieur."

He smiled and nodded toward the stage, where a nun marionette was scolding a child marionette. "What do you think of the show?"

"I'm afraid I've missed most of the context, but the spectacle is brilliant."

"What's your name?"

She hesitated for a moment. She didn't know this man and wasn't exactly sure she needed to be meeting men at all. But he was so compelling. She extended her hand. "Charlotte Devereaux. And yours?"

"Antoine de Larminet." He took her gloved hand, kissed it, and then held it and watched her for a long moment before releasing it. His dark eyes gleamed with interest.

"I would ask if you come here often, but you seem to be everywhere lately."

"I was thinking the same thing." Her skin prickled with delight in this handsome stranger's presence. "This is my first time here."

"You were carrying a book the other day."

"I was. How interesting that you remember."

"Well, it's not every day that such a beautiful creature bumps into me."

"I find that hard to believe."

He smiled and a lovely flash of white appeared under his dark mustache. "I was in a hurry, but later I remembered you and wished I'd asked you about it. The book, I mean."

" Claudine in Paris by Willy. Have you read it?"

"I haven't."

Around them, the crowd burst into laughter. She could still see her friends a few paces ahead, but no longer felt the urge to hurry and join them. She sipped her champagne, letting the bubbles burst in her mouth before swallowing it.

"I saw it in a shop window and couldn't resist," she said when the noise died down. "I read the first installment working behind the register at my parents' bookshop. It was so difficult to put down that I gave a man the wrong change."

He ducked his head closer to hers while she spoke, so close she could smell the rose on his lapel. His mustache was trimmed in a thick, neat line over his mouth. For a flicker of a second, Charlotte imagined it brushing along her skin. A man came through the crowd, trying to get past them, and Antoine put a protective hand on her arm so they didn't get separated. The feel of his gloved hand sent a pleasant jolt through Charlotte's middle.

"And where is your parents' bookshop?"

"Vernon."

"Vernon?"

"Yes, it's in Normandy. I've only just arrived in Paris a few days ago."

He seemed to reappraise her. Did she look provincial? Could he see that her dress was borrowed and any sophistication faked? "Ah, well, welcome."

"Thank you."

"Will you stay for long?"

She thought about her room at the house and her meager funds and the promising draft she'd finished that afternoon. "I'd like to."

"Then we must stop meeting at random and do so intentionally." Antoine's gaze was like a thorough caress.

"Must we?"

"Mustn't we?"

She eyed him suspiciously. She'd always been pretty and even back at home, men often flirted. She was used to dodging advances, but something about his felt stickier, almost dangerous. The last thing she needed to find in her first days in Paris was a man this adept at flirtation. "Will you bring me tulips?"

He raised his brow. "Those were for my mother, to clarify. But yes. Absolutely."

"Well, they were very pretty. But, if you don't mind, I'll rejoin my friends now."

"Of course. Though, before you go…" He lifted the rose from his lapel and placed it in her hand. "On behalf of Paris, which is surely more wonderful with you in it."

She thanked him and brought it to her nose because she couldn't help herself. The flower was silvery white and smelled divine. Then her eyes met his.

"Tell me where I can write to you, Charlotte."

Saying yes to this charmer would have been easy. Meeting him twice in two days almost made it feel like fate. But no matter how tempting, she should decline his offer. She needed to work, and a man would only add to the city's countless distractions. Before she could stop herself, she said, "I don't think you should."

His face fell. "Why not?"

"Because…" She wanted to tell him that she wasn't interested but couldn't quite make the words. She shrugged. "Because I'm not a great writer."

With that, she slipped away and didn't stop until she was by Catherine's side. The crowd erupted in another laugh at the scene on the stage, where the nun puppet was now scolding a Marie Antoinette puppet. Catherine smiled and winked at her. Charlotte had only been separated from them for a few minutes. She fingered his rose and ducked her head a little to smell it again, like it was a secret just for her. When she looked up, Nadine was watching her.

"Pretty," she said, eyebrows raised curiously. "Where did you find that?"

"Oh, some flirt gave it to me off his lapel." She dismissed her housemates' questioning looks, even as they oohed and ahhed. But her body still buzzed from the encounter. He could be anyone, though his impeccable dress suggested wealth. She twirled the blunt stem in her fingers, then she tucked the rose in the neckline of her dress and finished her champagne. Wondering if Antoine was still watching her from somewhere in the room, she ventured a look around. But he was gone.

?

Antoine slouched in his velvet wingback chair and set his newspaper aside. He was too distracted to read because his mind kept returning to the woman he'd met the night before. He couldn't stop thinking about the enchanting curve of her neck, her pale décolletage, and the way her wit seemed to be a step ahead of his. He'd recognized her immediately as the bewildered girl from the street. And he hadn't been able to pull his eyes away. But who was she? Not a society lady, though the name sounded vaguely familiar. And, alas, she didn't appear to be the marrying kind. Not that that mattered. He didn't need to look for a wife because his mother was doing that for him.

The light shifted through openings in the heavy brocade window dressings. Soon it would be time for dinner, and it was Thursday, the night his mother regularly hosted guests. So her matchmaking efforts would surely be in full play.

After both his brothers died from the fever, all of his parents' ambitions for continuing the aristocratic tradition fell on him, which primarily meant marrying someone of noble birth. It was an old-fashioned notion; hardly anyone cared about marrying for status these days. Antoine considered himself a modern man, and clinging to aristocratic values was silly in the face of modernity. Although he lived in luxury, he liked the idea of a society built on mobility, ideas, and innovation. But he loved his mother and father, even if they were stuffy aristocrats obsessed with class and legacy.

When his brothers died, it was like all their hopes and dreams died too. His fun-loving parents withdrew into their grief. His mother, who'd been so social, didn't come out of her room for months. Antoine had lost his brothers and his parents too, and when he asked what he could do to ease her pain, his mother said gravely that he was solely responsible for maintaining the family's aristocratic tradition. Antoine, who was a boy at the time, nodded his acceptance fiercely and solemnly. He would have done anything to ease the pain of loss they all suffered, even if it meant marrying someone from a noble family and producing an heir so their outdated ideas of propriety could survive into the twentieth century.

This was a burden Antoine—whose life was otherwise relatively burden-free—had more or less accepted. He could do whatever he wanted, as long as he married a woman who would make his mother proud. And her weekly dinners of late had become increasingly focused on putting him in the same room with women who fit her designs. Today that meant meeting the daughter of Lord and Lady de Montmorency and setting aside any fantasies about Charlotte Devereaux and the expanse of her shoulders exposed by her dress. But why did her name sound so familiar? Antoine was still searching his brain for a memory when the valet, Emile, knocked on the door.

"I can help you dress for dinner, monsieur, if you're ready." Emile was a stout man who'd worked for Antoine's family for over twenty years. They were friendly, but Antoine usually dressed himself. His mother probably sent Emile up to check on him.

Antoine nodded his consent. This wasn't the first time his mother had planned her guest list in hopes of finding him a match, but Antoine didn't expect to fall for the marquis's daughter. Though he should try.

Emile placed Antoine's polished shoes on the floor next to the armoire and began gathering his evening garments. "Madame de Larminet suggested the brocade vest, monsieur, though the wool is clean and ready too."

Antoine laughed. "Better go with the brocade."

Emile nodded and got to work.

An hour later, Antoine was bowing to greet Mademoiselle Louise de Montmorency and her parents, the Marquis and Marquise de Montmorency. When all the guests had arrived, they sat around Antoine's mother's stately mahogany dining table. Thomas and Genevieve Colbert, his parents' snobby friends who were there every week, took their usual seats next to Father. Monsieur Gountaut and his friend Monsieur Canard, who were interesting enough for conversations about music and books, sat opposite Antoine and Louise. There were a lot more empty chairs around the table these days.

His mother's dinner parties used to be energetic and full. But his parents weren't as young as they once were. His father's once commanding presence diminished and stooped further almost every day. Mother's dark hair had turned a dignified silver no less lovely than she'd always been. But she tired easily and napped more than ever. And friends were harder to keep lately. Politics had split society into factions, the aristocracy was aging, and, as Antoine had seen for himself, the most interesting cultural innovations and art were happening in other spaces.

As dinner was served, Antoine played the role of the dutiful son, asking Louise questions and looking for reasons to be interested. She was pretty and well-dressed in an eye-catching green satin gown. She liked playing the piano and riding, something Antoine knew how to do but didn't care for. A true urbanite, he preferred riding about the city enclosed in a carriage with a capable driver at the reins to negotiating huge, unpredictable animals himself. Louise shrugged when he asked if she'd read anything interesting recently. Struggling to find common interests made the conversation dull on their end of the table.

Then Madame Colbert cleared her throat and said to his mother, "I heard your friend, the art collector, is getting married."

Madame Colbert's cheeks were flushed, from either the wine or boldness. Mother nearly dropped her fork. She'd no doubt been hoping that by not inviting Monsieur Swann to dinner, then no one would mention it.

"I'm sure everyone did," Mother said curtly after regaining herself. "It's such an unfortunate turn of events, particularly for someone so charming."

Ever since Monsieur Swann's marriage announcement, it was like the man should be in jail. After the initial shock of hearing the news, Mother, who'd loved Swann's ideas about art and music, refused to see him on his regular visit. She, and probably half of society, shunned him because he was marrying a woman with an unseemly reputation.

"Have you spoken to him about it?" Madame Colbert asked. "The whole thing seems terribly romantic, if you ask me."

"Heavens no. And vulgar is more like it. I happen to know for a fact that his mother wouldn't approve." Monsieur Swann's mother was long dead, but as far as Antoine's mother was concerned, nothing was more essential than a good society marriage. It was even more important than love or happiness. She raised her wine glass to her mouth, but paused before sipping it to add, "He's ruined his life."

"But what if he loves her?" Antoine said. The engagement was only a few weeks old and he was already tired of hearing about it. Antoine had so many warm memories of childhood, of his mother's constant loving presence. And then she said these ungenerous things in front of guests that threw her whole character into question.

"I hardly see how that matters," his father chimed in. As far as he was concerned, love was found in mistresses, not wives.

"Of course, it matters," Antoine argued, heat rising in his chest. This moment needed to be seized. "He has to wake up and face every day in his own life. Why shouldn't he love the person he spends those days with?"

"Because marriage is above all an agreement best entered into by two equally suited parties. People from different classes are too different to ever be fulfilled in something as serious and lasting as marriage." She fanned herself and set down her wine glass. Confrontation flustered Mother, who preferred polite conversation above all else. She cleared her throat and in a softer tone said, "And reputation is important."

"But is it more important than happiness?"

"One doesn't necessarily negate the other," his father said dismissively. He'd already tired of the discussion.

"Who cares what everyone thinks?" Monsieur Canard said, raising his wine glass.

"I agree," Louise chimed in, to Antoine's surprise. "And if his wife doesn't fit in, you'd think that would make her more interesting."

"Interesting is one way to put it," Madame de Larminet said primly. But there was no way she would argue with a guest, let alone the marquis's daughter. "Your mother tells me you've recently gotten a new horse, mademoiselle. Tell me more about it and all this horseback riding you're doing."

Antoine rolled his eyes at his mother's swift change of subject. She didn't care about horses. But it was as clear as ever that his privileged life was something he could enjoy only as long as he followed their rules and traditions.

As they finished dinner and moved to the drawing room, Antoine fixed himself a tumbler of whiskey. Then he settled into an armchair near the fireplace, across from where his mother, Madame Colbert, and Louise were on the settee talking. Antoine swallowed a healthy swig of his drink, steeling himself for another round of dull conversation.

Monsieur Canard, dropping into the other armchair said, most astonishingly, "That Charlotte Devereaux is at it again."

Antoine perked up. "Excuse me, what was that?"

"You know, the story in Le Figaro that everyone was mad about last month. The same writer had another piece in La Fronde yesterday," Monsieur Canard explained. "Part one of a series."

"The women's paper?" Antoine moved to the edge of his seat.

"Indeed," Lord de Montmorency said, nodding his head. "Claire read it over breakfast and wouldn't stop talking about it until I read it myself."

"You said Charlotte Devereaux?"

"I believe that's it. Claire," Lord de Montmorency raised his voice to get the marquise's attention. "Charlotte Devereaux is the writer that's got you in such a tizzy?"

Lady de Montmorency clucked her tongue. "That's the one. Did you see that, Adeline?"

"I saw it," Louise chimed in enthusiastically. "I thought it was quite funny."

"Funny isn't the word I'd use to describe it," Antoine's mother said.

Antoine remembered the story in Le Figaro . It had turned his head upside down. It had been the talk of every salon for days. Was it the same Charlotte Deveraux? Antoine's throat grew tight. "Have we still got a copy of it?"

His mother shrugged and turned her attention back to Lady de Montmorency. "Whoever that woman is, she has some nerve."

Without properly excusing himself, Antoine stood and left the drawing room. Where could he find yesterday's La Fronde ? The staff never left old papers lying around, and it probably wouldn't be in his father's study because it was for women and his father didn't read it. Or did he? On his way to check the study, Antoine nearly collided with Emile.

"Pardon me, monsieur. Is there something I can help you with?"

"Yesterday's La Fronde . Any chance there's a copy still around here somewhere?"

"I'll have a look. The maids often pass them around after Madame has finished."

"Thank you, Emile. If I'm not still in the study, I'll be in my room." Antoine found several papers on his father's desk, but not the one he desperately needed to see. At a loss and relying on Emile, Antoine retreated upstairs.

In his room, Antoine loosened his cravat and slipped out of his shoes. The gears of his mind clicked and whirred, despite the whiskey and wine he'd consumed. There had been something so hypnotic about her. He'd hardly been able to take his eyes off her. And the curls of hair that fell around her delicate ear. He'd smell ed the rose water on her skin when he leaned in to hear her better. So delicious he'd had to resist the urge to taste her. And that quick wit. Had her words—I'm not a great writer—been like a little joke she'd told only herself? No wonder her name sounded familiar. After pacing his room for what felt like ages, Emile's soft knock came at the door.

"Did you find it?" Antoine said in lieu of a polite greeting.

"I did, monsieur. One of the maids had it and has politely requested that she get it back when you're done. Apparently, there's some new series in there that everyone is talking about."

"So I've heard." Antoine took the paper.

"Do you need anything else, monsieur?"

"No, thank you." As soon as Emile was gone, Antoine lit a cigarette, sat in his chair, and unfolded the paper. There, on page two, was her name.

He settled in to read. And from the first sentence, the story gripped him in a subtle and playful way. Every image, every turn of phrase reflected a sharp intellect and wise humor. He laughed out loud. He felt his chest ache with wistfulness and recognition. He was captivated. He was moved. When he reached the end, he took a breath and immediately flipped back to the beginning to read it again.