37. Visitors

Chapter thirty-seven

Visitors

A s Louisa entered the house from the side door, she saw more visitors for Josephine's house party arriving in the grand entrance hall. She peeked around the corner of the corridor and saw a plump French matron with an even plumper husband, a few officers with epaulettes and braid, and a tall Englishman who looked decidedly familiar.

Her breath caught.

What is he doing here? Another person to notify your uncle where you are!

"Ah, Monsieur Smythe, enchantée ," said the empress. The lanky, blond Mr. Smythe took her small hand and kissed it.

"I say, I'm enchanted too. Charming chat-o you have here."

Josephine gave a musical laugh and abandoned French for English. "Oh, Monsieur Smythe, you are too droll. You must make yourself at home. I cannot believe you have come all this way just to see me. "

"A duty and a pleasure," said Mr. Smythe. "And of course, I bring you greetings from our mutual friend in England."

"Ah," said Josephine, and Louisa could see a sense of understanding pass between the two of them. "We will talk later. You must be tired, Mr. Smythe. And you must get your rest this afternoon, for tonight is the masquerade ball." The empress began to signal for her footmen to proceed upstairs with Mr. Smythe's things.

Louisa paused at the edge of the corridor and waited. She had no wish to encounter Horatio Smythe in the presence of Empress Josephine. He knew too much about her flight from London.

And what if Gyles encountered him? There was a chance that the two had met in London, and Mr. Smythe might reveal his real identity as an English gentleman. In that case, what possible reason could Gyles give for his domestic pretence? With the war between England and France raging, Josephine might well assume that Louisa's fictitious footman was an English spy, and that would be to no one's benefit.

Even if you're angry with him for interfering, you must warn him to avoid Mr. Smythe. It's in your own best interest as well as his.

Louisa hurried upstairs to where Cosette was laying out her ballgown for the masquerade that night. "When Gyles comes back into the house, tell him I want to speak to him."

" Eh bien , I will tell Gyles ," repeated Cosette, saying the footman's first name with a twinkle in her eye. She shook out a petticoat and laid it across the chaise longue positioned near the wardrobe .

"I mean, Monsieur Pebble," said Louisa, but it was too late to dispel any ideas from Cosette's quick mind. The maid gave a tittering laugh.

"I don't know what you're imagining," Louisa said crossly, "but there's nothing between us other than prior acquaintance. You are welcome to him. You'll soon find out, though, that he's a preux chevalier , not a lover."

"Why, what do you mean, milady?"

Louisa was so annoyed by their recent conversation that her words came out like a cataract. "He's perfectly polite to every woman, and he always comes to the rescue when a lady needs him. But there's no special feeling there other than Christian charity."

Cosette pursed her lips sympathetically. "And you want passion, not charity, milady?"

"Yes, I suppose I do."

"That is because you are French, deep down inside, despite your English face. And we Frenchwomen will not settle for a match without passion." Cosette turned her back and began to rummage around in the wardrobe for slippers that would match the gown and a mask that Louisa could tie over her eyes with silk strings. "Your cousin is a passionate man."

"My cousin is a fool." Louisa sat on the bed. She could not remember ever speaking so frankly to another woman. Her mother had died when she was eight, and she had never had a duenna or governess whom she trusted enough to confide in.

But why should you trust this French maid? She has given you no reason to do so, and for all you know, she may relay your secrets to Gyles Audeley .

Louisa looked at Cosette bleakly, but there was something kindly in her eye that made the words continue despite her better judgement. "The empress thinks I should marry him."

Cosette clucked sympathetically, placing the red slippers on the floor beside the dressing table's chair. She handed Louisa the loo mask. "It would secure your title."

Louisa shuddered. She held the mask up to her face. "It would secure my unhappiness. I don't suffer fools gladly. But it would only be for a short time, says the empress. He would be a stepping-stone to something else."

" Parbleu! The empress is very cold. How will you get rid of him when you are done with him? Poison?"

"I assume she means divorce—that I should divorce the comte as Napoleon divorced her. It is not so frowned upon in France as it is in England." Louisa fastened the strings behind her head to hold the mask flush to her face.

Cosette shrugged. "Perhaps with the aristocracy of the world it is no matter. But me, I should not like to marry someone today and discard him tomorrow like a stale crust of bread. Why not wait to marry until you meet someone who is worthy?"

"That seems like an impossibility." Louisa's eyes flashed beneath the velvet mask, as alive as the black jet beads that were sewn around the edges.

"Does it?" Cosette unrolled a ribbon that matched the gown and laid it on the dressing table. She would lace it through Louisa's hair later. "Are you certain, milady, that you have met no one who is constant and true and kind and courageous?"

Louisa reflected. There was certainly one man who met all those criteria.

But were those the only qualities that mattered in a husband? Everything she had learned from observing her parents and her Uncle Nigel screamed out against settling for the simple gentleman that Cosette was describing.

"Perhaps I have met someone like that. But I'm afraid he's neither rich, nor titled, nor well-connected. And I can't imagine he'd wish to live in London or Paris or spend any time at society events."

Cosette wrinkled her nose. "Is that what you care about?"

Louisa hesitated. She had never really asked herself that question. She had assumed that, like her mother and her father and her uncle, she would live the life expected of a highborn noblewoman—using her impending inheritance to finance her own leisure and gaiety, flitting about from amusement to amusement, seeking diversion to distract from the missing mundanities of friends, family, and home.

You deserve to shine in the highest circles. You deserve to have all of London and Paris at your feet as the Incomparable.

But what if there was something much simpler to be had from life? A house with a garden that was not just for show. A home with a husband who was not just a stepping stone. A heart with desires so completely fulfilled that it did not need society as a distraction.

Louisa took a deep breath. Even if she was willing to settle for a simpler life, that simpler life had not been offered. It was altruism, pure and simple and unsatisfying, that had led Gyles Audeley to follow her to France. He was not in love with her any more than a philanthropist was in love with a charity ward at the workhouse. And she was suddenly aware, with astonishing clarity, that altruism was not enough for her. She wanted more than chivalry. She wanted more than courtesy. She wanted Gyles Audeley's heart—now, tomorrow, and always. And if she could not have that, what else was left but a stepping stone to title and connections and the chance to use her own fortune as she pleased?

A stepping stone should be enough for you.

But it isn't…it isn't!

Louisa looked up from her internal battle and saw that Cosette was watching her face, waiting for an answer. "It doesn't matter what I care about," she said frostily, untying the loo mask and tossing it back onto the dressing table. "I already told you—he's a preux chevalier, not a lover." She clapped her hands to end the conversation. "No need to summon Monsieur Pebble after all. I will give you a message for him, and you can deliver it. And then I will lie down for a while until it is time to dress for dinner. If anyone comes, tell them I'm not to be disturbed."

Louisa unbuttoned her pelisse and presented her back to Cosette to be unlaced. She would alert Gyles about the presence of Mr. Smythe. But the rest of the consternation in her breast she would conceal, as she always did. After all, dissembling was the art of polite society, and she was an Incomparable.