Chapter Six

As soon as Charlotte's eyes met Antoine's, his smile faltered and his eyes flashed like a hook had been set. And the small longing that had taken up residence in Charlotte's chest unfurled. Antoine was devastatingly handsome in his black suit and white bow tie. His dark hair combed to the side and his brown eyes filled with his compelling humor. Seeing him again was like being in that cab, pressed together in a passion so perfect and consuming. Her body hummed. Whatever was between them had not been extinguished by her nonresponse to his letters. Thinking it could be now seemed like a joke. Charlotte, frozen in the spot where she stood, didn't know what to do.

Madame Durand welcomed Antoine and his friends into the throes of her salon. One of the gentlemen with Antoine introduced the others to Madame and the guests in her vicinity. Antoine seemed to be trying not to look at Charlotte because every time he did, his eyes flicked away. He carried himself with ease and confidence, and everyone seemed eager to meet him. It was because of his social status. Everyone wanted to meet the aristocrat in the room. The man who'd kept her company for hours and kissed her witless was not like other people. He was not like her. She sipped her coffee and turned her back to the scene. She'd established the silence, and so she should maintain it. She needed to get away.

Charlotte found an empty spot on a sideboard for her coffee and set it down. It was delicious, but she couldn't finish it. She needed to find the butler, but if she couldn't, then perhaps she could hail a cab on the street. She'd seen Nadine do it. Then as she turned toward the door, he was there, standing in front of her like he was ready to catch her.

"Charlotte Deveraux." He took her hand, warming it through her glove, and kissed it, eyes locked on hers. "I saw you from across the room, plotting your escape from me."

He said it quietly because curious faces watched them from seemingly everywhere. She bowed when he released her hand and greeted him properly and with as much indignation in her tone as she could muster. "Vicomte de Larminet."

"Indeed." His face fell as her subtle strike hit. But it didn't deter him. He nodded apologetically and looked her in the eyes. His were so dark and pleading. "I'm terribly sorry for any confusion, Mademoiselle Devereaux. But before we talk about that, which I hope we will before the night is over, I want to introduce you to my friends."

Before she could protest, Antoine had drawn her to his companions, who were talking to a small group that included the Patenaudes. When he had their attention, Antoine said, "Guillaume, this is the writer I've been telling you about."

Guillaume, whom Charlotte recognized from that first night at the Quat'z'Arts, smiled at her knowingly and kissed her hand. "It's lovely to meet you, mademoiselle."

"And this is Marquis René de Conradines, who I happen to know is hooked on your series in La Fronde ."

"I'm thrilled to make your acquaintance, mademoiselle. When Madame Durand told me you were writing for her paper, I was hoping I'd get to meet you," René said, kissing Charlotte's hand. Then to Monsieur Patenaude he asked, "Have you met Mademoiselle Deveraux?"

"I have," Monsieur Patenaude said, winking at Charlotte. "She's already promised me a collection."

"You work fast!" René turned his attention back to Charlotte. "So tell me, mademoiselle, are you in Paris now? I thought you were from somewhere up north."

"Yes to both, monsieur. I am from Vernon, but I've been in Paris for a few weeks."

And just like that, Charlotte was swept into a conversation with Antoine's friends about her work and plans. They were friendly and interested, charming like Antoine, who listened and watched intently. The brief disruption their arrival had caused was over, and they'd been fully incorporated into the salon, which seemed to be ramping up instead of slowing down with the hour.

When the conversation shifted away from Charlotte, Antoine, who was still at her side, said close to her ear, "Now that you've changed your mind about leaving the party, let's get you a drink."

Charlotte forgot all about her bed and her book. With a light hand on her back, he led her to the refreshment table and asked for a champagne and a whiskey. When he handed her the delicate flute, his fingers touched hers for a brief, heavenly moment that made her desperately thirsty.

"I suppose I shouldn't be, but I am surprised to see you here," Charlotte said.

"I have been a little worried I'd never see you again." He said it earnestly, and the look in his eyes revealed a desperation that felt so similar to hers. She was both relieved and crushed to see her feelings reflected in him. And why did she still like him so much? She needed to keep in mind that he'd deceived her.

"Is that why you're here, in my publisher's house?"

"No. I promise. Guillaume and René and I had dinner at a restaurant, and René mentioned stopping at a salon when we finished early. I had no idea. Though as soon as I realized, I hoped."

"And here I am, despite all my efforts to avoid you."

"Is that what you're doing, then?"

"Avoiding you?" He was baiting her into a conversation that could get her into trouble. People were watching them. "I'm afraid I barely know you, Monsieur le Vicomte."

His eyebrows shot up. He looked around the room for potential listeners, then he leaned toward her ear and said barely above a whisper, "My dear, Charlotte, you have my deepest apologies for misrepresenting myself. But you must understand that although I may have withheld this single detail of my life, I presented myself honestly in every other way. And I never meant to deceive you."

She looked away. "Deception is deception."

"It is. And I'm sorry. But I didn't mean any harm. I like you Charlotte. Very much. And I wanted you to see me as only me. Not as a title. Just as a man who very much enjoyed spending the day with a woman."

"You know it's not that simple."

"I know."

"I never would have…" She trailed off for a moment but met his gaze. She'd kissed a few men, none of whom she ever considered marrying. But kissing a man who wouldn't marry her because of her class was something different. "If I had known."

Antoine drew his mouth into a line and nodded. "Understood."

"It won't happen again."

"As you wish." He moved a hand like he was going to touch her, but then stopped. "Mademoiselle. Charlotte. Tell me we can still be friends."

"I think acquaintances might be more appropriate."

"My dear, I think we left appropriate somewhere along the Champs-élysées a week ago."

She laughed. She couldn't help it. He was so chastened and seemed so genuine, without losing his lightheartedness. She couldn't resist. "Perhaps we should pretend like the Champs-élysées never happened."

"If that's how you'd like to proceed." Antoine took a deep breath and let it out. His relief endeared him to her even more. He continued, "But for goodness sake, it's the twentieth century. Please don't ever call me Monsieur le Vicomte again. I will inherit the title one day, but it's not mine yet."

She laughed again, but couldn't let him out of trouble so easily. "Acquaintances, then."

"Mademoiselle, you destroy me. Shall we rejoin the group?"

She followed him toward where his friends were talking with Madame Durand and completely forgot about wanting to leave.

?

The fire crackled, and Antoine, who'd set the group loose on the topic of Les Misérables, drank the last swallow of his second whiskey. Madame Durand put on a vigorous salon but lacked in waitstaff. Antoine lamented this now because refreshing his own drink meant getting up from his seat next to Charlotte.

"I read something quite critical of Hugo's relying so heavily on coincidence to further the plot," René said. Antoine, who loved Hugo, had heard him make this same argument before. "That it weakens the novel's power, and I can't say I don't agree."

"I respectfully disagree," Charlotte chimed in, sitting up straighter in the seat. A light flush had risen on her cheeks. Antoine had never seen anyone so marvelously and adorably flustered. "I think the coincidences give the novel an almost magical quality, like the forces of the universe are at work on Jean Valjean. And in a way, it solidifies his character's representation of humanity, as well as Javert as morality and Thénardier as sin."

René, who perked up in the armchair, said, "You know, I never considered it that way. But I see what you mean. It adds a mythic quality to the whole story."

Charlotte nearly jumped from her seat in delight. She had completely charmed his friends with her wit. Guillaume was quite taken with her. Though the old boy kept a respectful distance. Even René, whom Guillaume had described as a snob on more than one occasion, was captivated. She was the rarest sort of woman whose beauty was both physical and infused in her personality. Her laugh was like a little bell ringing. She was well-spoken with the slightest hint of an accent that was pleasant rather than rough. Confident and witty. Well-read. The kind of person you could talk to for the rest of your life and never get bored.

When the conversation lulled, Charlotte announced, "I'm afraid I must be going."

"So soon?" Antoine said. "It's not even midnight."

She smiled and set down her now-empty champagne glass. "Midnight and I haven't been friends in ages."

Charlotte rose from her seat, and all the men rose too. She bowed and extended her hand to Guillaume and René in turn, who expressed their regrets at her departure and hopes that they'd have the chance again.

Then she turned to Antoine and said a benign goodnight.

"I insist we send you home in the carriage."

"Oh, that's not necessary." She stepped away from the group.

"I insist as well," René said, backing up Antoine. "We won't need it before you're done. Please."

Charlotte looked between the two men and acquiesced. "Thank you. That's much appreciated."

"I'll see you out," Antoine said, following her.

"Thank you. Just let me say goodnight to the hostess."

He lingered while Charlotte spoke to Madame Durand, who kissed Charlotte on both cheeks and eyed Antoine suspiciously when he said he was sending Charlotte home in the Marquis René de Conradines's carriage. Charlotte didn't seem to notice. They found the butler in the otherwise deserted foyer. He was reading the evening edition of Le Figaro , which he set aside at their approach . And when he left them alone to call up the carriage, Antoine took Charlotte's hand.

"I'm so happy you were here and that you didn't run from me when you saw me come through the door," he said.

"I will admit I wanted to."

"I deserve that." He tried to catch her eyes, but she was looking down at her hands. "And now?"

"And now we part ways." Finally, she looked at him. "It was a pleasure to see you, Antoine. Thank Marquis de Conradines for me again for the use of his carriage."

The butler returned. The driver was bringing the carriage around now. Antoine desperately wanted to walk her out, kiss her goodbye, or even hop in the carriage and ride with her home. But he hesitated. The butler would see her off, and the gentlemanly thing to do, the thing she wanted him to do, was say goodbye. Antoine nodded and kissed her dainty hand. Then the butler opened the door for her. Charlotte thanked him and passed through, looking back as she walked away. She smiled wistfully at Antoine, and then the door closed and she was gone.

Antoine suppressed the urge to push open the door and follow her. He returned to his friends, refilled his whiskey, and pasted a smile on his face to fake interest for the rest of the evening.

Even later, after the marquis's carriage had returned from Rue de Fortuny and they were all leaving Madame Durand's salon, Antoine was still thinking about Charlotte. Leaving his meetings with her up to chance was no longer an option. Guillaume and René were quieter and more subdued on the ride home than they'd been on the ride there, breaking the silence only to reminisce on a moment or share a bit of gossip. Just before his stop, Antoine suggested to René, as casually as he could, that Charlotte Devereaux would make a delightful addition to the guest list for his upcoming ball.

"That's not a bad idea," René said passively. He was drunk now and probably tired.

Guillaume, on the seat opposite, was looking at Antoine like he'd lost his mind. "Louise de Montmorency is sure to attend. That means your intended fiancée and intended mistress in one ballroom?"

"The marquis and his family are invited," René said to clarify just how sticky a situation Antoine was asking for.

"It's not like that. Charlotte is a friend."

"A lovely friend," René said almost suggestively.

"A lovely friend for me." Antoine scowled.

"Ha. Friend indeed. You look like you're ready to kill me!" René patted Antoine on his knee. "Don't worry. I already have my hands full with my wife and my mistress."

Guillaume, stifling a laugh, turned toward the window. He didn't have mistresses or a wife. Guillaume had petite amies. A long history of girlfriends; some lasted for a weekend, some for several months, but always one at a time. He fell in and out of love like a planet circling the sun, over and over again.

"So you'll invite her then?" Antoine pressed for a definite answer as the carriage rolled to a stop in front of his house.

"I believe I will." René straightened on the bench. The streetlight outside cast a shadow across his face. "And not only because she's lovely and smart, but also because the presence of anyone from the lower classes will scandalize my mother and sisters."

?

Charlotte was reading in her room the next afternoon when Madame called up about a delivery for her. She set her book aside and went down, along with all her housemates who couldn't resist finding out what had been delivered. In the foyer, a young man dressed in a well-worn blue work coat and scuffed boots held a bulky box in his arms. Madame was standing there, arms crossed, regarding it in her characteristic way: with suspicion.

"I have instructions to put it on Mademoiselle Deveraux's desk," the courier said. "That's if she has one, madame."

"What is it?" Madame asked Charlotte.

"Well, I'm not sure."

"It's a typewriter, mademoiselles. A heavy one. Do you mind showing me to your desk?" He bent, obviously straining under the weight.

"Oh, of course," Charlotte said. She started up toward her room, and everyone, including Madame, followed.

Charlotte cleared her notebook and drafts from the center of her desk and the courier placed the box. For a moment, everyone stood there looking at it, unsure what to do.

"Is there a note or a card?" Charlotte asked.

"There is, mademoiselle." He pulled an envelope from the interior pocket of his jacket and passed it to her.

The stationery. Antoine. And here she was with everyone watching her, waiting to see who'd sent this extravagant gift. She said to the courier, "Let me get you a tip."

"Oh, no, thank you, mademoiselle." He held up a broad, boyish hand. "I'm under strict instructions not to accept it. Not to worry, the gentleman has compensated me well. I'll show myself out."

Madame started to follow him and then stopped, watching Charlotte as intently as the others. Everyone was waiting for her to open the gift. So Charlotte set the envelope down and released the hook on the front of the box. She lifted the lid and there was a shiny black typewriter, similar but sleeker and newer than the one at La Fronde . Vanessa gasped like a piece of beautiful art had just been revealed.

Madame clucked her tongue and said, "My goodness, that looks noisy."

Nadine whispered, "Ooh, la la."

"So who's it from?" Catherine asked.

Charlotte hesitated for a breath, then she slid her finger under a corner of the envelope flap and worked it open. She didn't need to read the letter to answer the question, but she unfolded and read it silently while her audience stood there watching.

Charlotte,

The machine is a token of friendship—mine and René's. Your wit and conversation last night were a pleasure. When René learned you were toting your drafts across town to borrow Durand's typewriter, he insisted that would never do. He's right, of course. A writer of your skill and potential deserves the best.

Sincerely,

Antoine de Larminet

"How nice." Charlotte refolded the paper. Her body warmed with the knowledge that they must have talked about her after she left the party. She held the letter against her chest. Her audience gazed at her expectantly. "Last night at the salon, I got into a conversation about my work with two gentlemen who were apparently impressed. They say it's a token of their friendship."

"Impressed and rich, I'll say," Diane said. "Good for you."

After riding in that luxurious carriage, calling them rich almost seemed like an understatement. And now this expensive gift.

"Will you keep it?" Catherine asked, watching Madame, whose scowl hadn't softened.

"Of course she'll keep it, silly," Diane said. "Why wouldn't she?"

"You know how gentlemen can be," Madame said. "An elaborate gift can be a symbol of intentions."

"Oh, no. This was all above board, wasn't it, Charlotte?" Nadine smiled at her encouragingly. "Charlotte's not the kind of girl for funny business."

Perhaps chastened, Madame withdrew her assertion. "Of course, Nadine, I know that. But now that all the fuss is over, I'm going back to my shopping list. Otherwise, there won't be anything to eat all week."

Madame made her way out of the room, followed by the housemates, who had also lost interest. All except Vanessa, who lingered after the others had gone.

"That's an awfully nice present," she said, wanting to know more.

"It is, isn't it?" She wasn't sure what else to say. Nadine was still the only person she'd told about Antoine. She wasn't hiding it from her friends, exactly, but talking about it seemed to make it a bigger deal than she wanted it to be. "You can borrow it anytime you like."

"Thank you," Vanessa said, still lingering. "I should tell you something, though. It's a small thing, something I'd almost forgotten about. But now that this gift has arrived, I feel I should say."

"What is it?"

Vanessa smiled like a cat with a mouse. "Well, by any chance, was this gift from Antoine de Larminet?"

Charlotte took in a sharp breath. "Shit, yes. Why?"

"Let me show you." Vanessa nodded toward the door. Charlotte followed her while Vanessa explained. "It's nothing really. At least it won't look like much to anyone who sees it. I just think you should know."

Vanessa's room had similar furnishings and layout to Charlotte's, but her window faced the back of the house instead of the street. Unlike Nadine and the American sisters, Vanessa had more books and papers than clothes. Charlotte hadn't had a chance to properly look at Vanessa's books, but this probably wasn't the time. Vanessa pulled a paper from the stack next to her bed. She searched the pages for a moment, and then put her finger on whatever it was she wanted Charlotte to see.

"Here." Vanessa passed the paper. "It's the gossip column in Le Petit Parisien ."

There in the text was Charlotte's name. Her eyes found it immediately. She scanned for the beginning of the sentence, passing Antoine's name as she went. Her whole body tingled as she read: "The future vicomte and Paris's favorite aristocrat, Antoine de Larminet, was quite cozy on Madame Durand's settee with the provincial writer Charlotte Devereaux. Whatever story she was telling held him rapt." She kept reading, but everything else amounted to nothing more than a roll call of guests and who was seen with whom. Charlotte hadn't noticed anyone taking notes, but the place was full of journalists after all.

"It's just the two lines," Vanessa said, bringing Charlotte back to the room.

"Yes. But ‘quite cozy'?"

"Not how you would describe it?"

"Not exactly. I've encountered him before, around. He's quite handsome. But we aren't cozy. We're… friends. Acquaintances really."

"I believe you."

"Others may not, though. Do you know the writer?"

"I met her once, but only in passing. He's in line to be a vicomte, so he's often in the papers. Seen here or there with so and so, that sort of thing."

"I'm sure that's the only reason the writer mentioned me. But does it look bad, do you think?"

"Oh, no. That's not why I mentioned it. It doesn't look bad or look good or anything. It just means that people are looking."

"It does." Charlotte nodded and held up the paper. "Do you mind if I keep this?"

"Not at all." Vanessa smiled.

As she walked back to her room, Charlotte read the column from start to finish. The whole thing seemed to be grasping at intrigue that wasn't there. But those two innocuous lines tugged at her like a warning. If she continued a friendship or relationship of any kind with him, people would notice. She tucked the paper onto her bookshelf and ran her hand over the cool metal keys of the typewriter. She opened the desk drawer and thumbed a clean sheet from the stack she kept there. She fed it onto the roller and lined it up. Then she did the one thing she told herself she absolutely wouldn't: she wrote to Antoine.