Chapter Eleven Paint Me a Picture

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Paint Me a Picture

LIRONE WAVES HIS hand in front of my face. "Cleo, are you listening?"

"Keep your voice down," I whisper, hoping the rattling of the carriage will drown out my words.

"What crawled under your skin?" He narrows his eyes. "I snuck in here for you, you know."

"Well, I didn't ask you to do that."

"Yes, you did. When you asked for my help." His voice is rising, and that's the last thing I need with the coachman sitting up front.

I clutch my purse tighter, feeling for Father's book, now hiding inside. It's been two days since the coachman snooped in my room. Two days of utter panic. I have no idea if he saw the book or not. But I no longer feel safe leaving it behind. Luckily, Father made it small so that Anaella and I could carry it around as children—a "pocket version" he called it—so fitting it in my purse was easy enough.

My first instinct was to run to Dahlia and tell her everything—admit that the coachman might suspect me, that he saw me right before I broke into the estate and tried to steal the ruby. And yet I promised Dahlia I wouldn't let her down. Told her I was ready for the job. What would she think of me now if I burdened her with my fears while still having nothing to show for all her efforts?

The mere thought of looking into her angelic face and admitting my faults twists my insides into knots. I cannot deny I fear her anger. But more than that, I cannot bear to imagine the disappointment in her eyes—those beautiful dark eyes that stare into my soul and fill my stomach with fluttering butterflies.

And there's always the possibility that I'm wrong. Surely, if the coachman knew anything, he'd have mentioned something by now. There might be a simple explanation to it all, one that has nothing to do with him attempting to reveal my identity.

And so, moving Father's book as a precaution and keeping my mouth shut seemed like the only logical choice. I need to be certain before making any move.

Next to me, Lirone pulls at the carriage curtain, sneaking a glance outside, the afternoon sun coloring his face momentarily.

"Cut it out!" I grab his hand.

His glare is as sharp as a knife.

"Look, I'm sorry." I let him go. "I just need today to go well."

"Why do you think I'm here?" Lirone leans back in his seat, his fingers tapping on his thigh absentmindedly, as though he were playing the piano. "To the vicomte, you are just a girl from the country. You need to show him that you are at his level."

"I know," I say pointedly. "I'll be the picture of decorum."

"Don't joke. I'm trying to help you."

He's right, of course. Lirone went above and beyond to get information about the vicomte. We've spent last night going over everything in detail. From how the vicomte's family used to work for the Crown generations ago, to their estate matters, and right down to their current daily occupations.

I can't deny my initial surprise when I learned that the vicomte's great Mathematical Talent is being used for something as mundane as being an accountant for the opera house and managing his family fortune. Generations ago those skills were considered a form of art—a tool for military glory.

I wonder if that is the reason the vicomte seems to disdain the opera so much. Does he find his work degrading of his Talent? His family must have orchestrated some of Francia's most glorious wartime victories—nothing less would do if you held the crème de la crème of the Elite Talents.

I can't even imagine how much blood would be needed to transfer such an enormous amount of power. Did the vicomte have to slice both his hands to fuel it? The small scar on my palm is nothing compared to it. Would I need to acquire such an amount of blood from him as well? Just the thought makes me queasy.

Lirone risks another peek out the window. "We're almost there."

On cue, the carriage slows down.

My heart starts beating faster.

"I'll be back tonight for a full report," Lirone says. "And Cleo, don't be rude."

"Look who's talking," I mutter, but a second later he's already jumping onto the busy street side, not waiting for the carriage to stop.

"My lady." The coachman bows his head as he opens the other door, missing Lirone by a split second.

I clutch my purse so tightly my knuckles turn white: did he hear me speaking to Lirone? I search his face for any proof that he suspects me. But there is nothing—not a single twitch in his eye or strain in his mouth.

Putting on a smile, I relax my hold on my purse and take his gloved hand without a word. There's no time for me to focus on the coachman. I need to concentrate on the vicomte—on putting all the information Lirone found to good use. I hate admitting that Lirone is right, yet I know that my rudeness cannot continue. Our plan is simple: be proper, stroke his ego, and get him interested. If I want to succeed, no matter how much the vicomte irritates me today, I need to be a perfect lady. To hold my tongue .

The street we're on is narrow, lined with tall buildings on both sides that flow almost imperceptibly together, creating the feeling of a stone valley. There's no sign pointing to the exhibition, or anything at all that indicates where I have to go. Could Lirone have got the wrong address?

"—nothing like Bussière's detailing! How can you even compare?" A voice draws my attention to two women entering a nearby building.

"I've always appreciated your opinion, Esme, but your lack of understanding of art astonishes me," the other lady answers as they push open a grand red door and disappear behind it.

I trail them to the entrance, not sure if I'm meant to knock. But the door isn't even fully closed, and voices drift from the other side. Taking a deep breath, I push the door open.

The foyer is elegant, with a railed staircase leading to the apartments above, where the source of the lively chatter seems to echo from. I follow it all the way to the second floor. Already in the hallway, gentlemen and ladies sip champagne from tall glasses, utterly unconcerned with the early hour of the afternoon.

I step through the open door of the apartment, smoothing down my dress, the rich lilac velvet soft to my touch. It's one of the fanciest of my new gowns, highlighted with extensive, contrasting gold embroidery. This is my first outing since my debut at the gala merely three days ago, and Pauline insisted I must look my best. But as I glance around, I notice almost all the ladies are in light day dresses of linen, cotton, and silk. It wasn't my intention to stick out.

I push through the crowded corridor and into a large sitting area. This is clearly someone's home, yet every inch of the walls is covered with portraits and vibrant landscapes.

A footman passes by, carrying a tray of champagne. I grab a glass, doing my best to fit in. None of the faces around me look familiar, even though many of them keep glancing my way. I scan the room for the vicomte but he's nowhere to be found. Instead, a blur of orange catches my eye.

Across the room, rich shades of tangerine and crimson cover a small canvas, a million strokes of a rough brush creating a vivid sunset over a bay.

"Look here, mon coeur!" Father's voice brims in my head as though from a lost dream. "Look at the colors. Up close, they are nothing but blurry smudges. But take a step back and they become a work of art!"

"The water looks alive, Papa!"

"How does it feel?"

I wrinkled my brow. "Feel?"

"Every piece of art, from a painting to a song to the dresses we make, is meant to evoke an emotion—to tell a story." Father smiled at the painting. "What does this one say?"

I stared at the painting in silence, watching the beautiful lilies seeming to sway as if wanting to leap off the canvas. "It's . . . happy. Free."

The painting before me now feels the opposite. On the surface, it's peaceful. Serene. But something about it speaks of urgency—of pain. As though the ocean itself is set ablaze.

"Do you like it?"

A tall woman stands beside me wearing an elegant jacquard cream dress, contrasting her dark skin. Her tight curls are collected into a high, rounded bun that curves away from her head. A brooch gleams right below her shoulder, embedded with a polished moonstone.

She stares at me expectantly, her warm brown eyes fixed on my face.

I clear my throat. "It's beautiful, but . . . sad."

"Oh?" She raises a thin eyebrow. "And why is that?"

"I—I'm not sure." I stare at the burning waves a moment longer. "Please forgive me. I don't know much about art."

"One doesn't need knowledge to feel," she says. "Do you come to exhibitions often?"

I chuckle. "My father took us once to Le Centre du Rêve, for my mother's birthday—" I stop myself. Noble families don't celebrate by going to art shows.

But the woman doesn't seem to mind. "Your father has excellent taste. It's one of my favorite galleries. "

"I've only recently moved to the city." I try to recover from my blabbering. Suddenly the book in my purse seems heavier. "I've inherited my cousin's estate."

The woman's face lights up. "Oh, I know. You are—"

"Cleodora, what are you doing here?" Madame's voice startles me.

"Chère, you didn't tell me your protégée would be here today." The tall woman smiles at Madame.

"I wasn't aware the lady had an interest in art," Madame says, and though her words are polite, there's a strange bite to them.

"It's a pleasure to welcome you to our home, Lady Adley." The woman turns back to me. "I'm Lady Brooks, but you can call me Renée."

Our home? Is she the lady of the house?

"Renée," Madame interrupts before I can reply, "it's time for the opening speech. Though it seems many of our guests are preoccupied with staring at Lady Adley. We had better start before they realize it's really her and begin asking for autographs."

My face turns hot. People truly are staring, but not because my dress stands out . . . I didn't realize the effect of the gala would be so quick. These people actually recognize me. Or at least this new version of me as an opera diva—as a star.

Renée chuckles. "I'll probably ask for your autograph myself after the speech. But we had truly better start. Will you excuse me?" She turns away from us both.

"Speech? Is she—?"

"The artist you came to see," Madame says. "Or did you wander here by accident?"

The clink of metal on glass hushes the room. Standing by one of the largest paintings—a dazzling portrayal of a mother and her child—Renée smiles warmly at the guests filing in from the corridor.

"Dear friends, welcome! I cannot begin to tell you how thankful I am that you all decided to join me on this special day. I've been working on this collection for the last few years, and though I've had a few small exhibitions in that time, they were all stepping stones, leading to this day. Un Enfant de L'Océan et du Feu is a tale and a product of love. A love I wish to share with you today." Renée holds up her champagne glass. "Please, enjoy yourselves. Santé!"

"Santé!" the crowd cheers back, with applause, before returning to drinking the bubbly alcohol.

I follow suit, sipping from my glass before turning back to Madame. But she's already gone, talking with a group of old ladies sitting on a massive blue couch by the window.

"I didn't know you were an art lover."

The voice makes the back of my neck tingle. Vicomte Lenoir. I spin around to find him right by my side. How does he keep sneaking up on me? Is this a game?

He's back to his unkempt look today, nothing like the upstanding gentleman persona from the gala—there's a loose button on his mint vest, which is matched yet again with a crooked tie. To make matters worse, his silky hair is messy, as though he didn't even bother to comb it after waking up. For a man with a legacy Talent, he's certainly not acting the way I would expect. Or perhaps his status has made him simply too arrogant to care.

I swallow the rude comments already filling my mind and bow my head. "What a pleasant surprise to see you, my lord."

"Is it?" He cocks an eyebrow. The expression is challenging, daring, and for just a second there's a soft fluttering in my chest. It's almost as though he's expecting me to retaliate. But I won't resort to banter today—I will prove to him I'm a lady.

A sweet smile stretches on my lips as I answer. "Certainly, my lord."

His jaw clenches, but he doesn't reply. I need to keep the conversation going.

"So, what are you doing here?" I regret the question as soon as it leaves my mouth. He's here to look at the exhibition, same as everyone else. Great start to creating the impression of an educated lady .

"Didn't we establish this last time? I'm here for the free drinks."

Again with the snide remarks. I barely hold myself back from telling him he can get champagne at a tavern where the drunks might be more tolerant of his shoddy conversation.

Instead, I sweeten my tone. "Do correct me if I'm wrong, my lord, but I believe you have enough fine drinks back at your manor. In fact, your family's wine cellar has won much praise."

There, that's better. Give him a chance to gloat about his riches.

But the vicomte doesn't even smile. He empties his glass and grabs another from a footman before answering. "I prefer my drinks cheap." I'm taken aback by the sharpness in his voice. For all his jeering, his tone has always stayed at a level of light amusement. The sudden harshness of it makes me startle.

"And what about the art?" I manage.

"What about it?"

"As a patron of the arts, you must go to plenty of exquisite galleries. Do you acquire many paintings from such events?"

He stares at me for a moment, his eyes scanning me from top to bottom, lingering on my gown. Perhaps Pauline was right in choosing an expensive one after all—if not enchanted by my conversational skills, the vicomte might at least find me attractive. My heart beats faster and I hurry to take another sip of champagne.

"If you are looking to acquire art that will match the price of that dress, you are at the wrong exhibition." His words are a slap to my face, but I don't even manage to think of a retort before he nods his head and says, "I believe your fans are getting impatient." He shoots a glance at a group of muttering women clearly waiting for our conversation to be over to surround me. "Now, please excuse me." He turns his back to me, and one of the ladies is already taking a step forward.

I can't let him leave. Not like that. It's too soon.

But my mind draws a blank. All excuses and topics of conversation evaporate into a foggy mess in my head. The lady is closing in on me, and the purse in my hand weighs me down with a dreaded sense of failure.

"Do you think the water is burning?" I end up calling when he's already halfway across the room. The lady halts mid step, and another woman quickly draws her back into the awaiting group.

He stops in his tracks, turning around to face me. "I'm sorry?"

"The . . . the water. In this painting." I turn awkwardly to point at the landscape of the bay behind me. "Do you think it's burning?"

I'm not sure why he even bothers to entertain my foolishness. This is quickly turning into a disaster. How am I supposed to show him I deserve my place in society if I can't even maintain a ladylike discussion?

The vicomte traces his steps back all the way to my side, then cocks his head as he stares at the colorful canvas. "So you are interested in the art?" he finally says. "I assumed you were here just because Hélène invited you."

Hélène. Once again, he demonstrates complete disregard for Madame's social status. Does he really think of himself as so far better than the rest? But I can't show any sign of unease, not when my ability to maintain his attention is so fleeting.

"Why would you think that?" I ask.

"This is her house, after all. Hers and Renée's."

"And what a wonderful surprise seeing you here, my lord." Renée approaches us, and the vicomte offers her a rare genuine smile, no hint of a snicker in sight. "I didn't think you'd come, after you didn't respond to my invitation."

"I wouldn't have missed it." The vicomte kisses her outstretched hand, and all I can do is stare. He is so polite, it's unsettling.

By Renée's side, Madame ogles the vicomte without blinking.

"A marvelous exhibition, as usual," he continues. "You both must be proud."

"I take no credit for Renée's work," Madame says.

But Renée laughs. "You are too modest, chère. You are my muse, after all."

Madame says nothing in response, yet the blush on her cheeks turns a shade deeper. There's an ease to the way Renée looks at her—a mixture of respect and adoration combined with tenderness and intimacy. It's the face of someone in love.

Their shared home is more than a mere arrangement. It's one of those unspoken romances whispered about in secret—a love accepted and welcomed as long as it's out of the spotlight.

The memory of Dahlia's delicate hand brushing against my cheek colors my mind, the depth of her dark irises promising a taste of a forbidden delight. Have our shared looks contained even a fraction of the passion Renée is showing?

"Well." Madame clears her throat, and I pull myself out of my reverie. "We'd better continue our rounds. Lady Adley, I shall see you at the opera house tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"The Maestro has scheduled the first meeting regarding the new production."

"Oh yes, L'Enchanteresse. " The vicomte mulls the name in his mouth as if it were a sweet nougat confection. "I've heard of it so many times over this weekend, I'm already tired of it."

Madame opens her mouth to answer, but Renée beats her to it. "Oh, Nuriel, if I didn't know any better, I'd take every word coming out of your mouth far more seriously."

Nuriel . I repeat the name in my head in wonder.

The vicomte smiles again, revealing one annoyingly charming dimple on his left cheek.

How did they come to be on a first-name basis?

"I hope you stay a bit longer," Renée continues.

"I shall," he answers, as Renée takes Madame by the arm and turns to the next group of visitors .

We stay silent for a moment, my gaze wandering back to the painting. I feel the vicomte's eyes fixed on me and fight the urge to turn back and face him—I cannot let him know that those green irises of his have the power to get under my skin. My breath comes short, catching in my corset, and everything in me is itching to fidget with the hems of my sleeves for a distraction.

"To answer your question . . ." he finally says.

His voice is low and warm—a trap I cannot avoid. I turn to him.

"Yes, I do believe the water is burning."

He walks away, and a moment later I'm surrounded by chattering ladies and their overly excited smiles.