The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue

by Mackenzi Lee

  The freckled buck flags one of the servers for champagne—one for him and Percy each—and I whip around and go in the opposite direction.

  Felicity is on the veranda, valiantly holding up a wall between two Venetian windows, and I swallow my pride and join her, snagging another coupe along the way.

  “You’re looking jaded,” I say as I lean in to the stone.

  “And you’re looking angry. Are you and Percy still quarreling?”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “Well, considering that you’re barely looking at each other, it seemed logical. Where’s the ambassador got to?”

  “Don’t know. I’m hiding from him.”

  “And I’m hiding from his wife. Cheers to being no good at parties.”

  “I’m usually very good at parties. I think it’s the party’s fault.”

  A knot of people pushes past us, the woman in the lead carrying a wineglass in one hand and a chocolate entremets aloft in the other. The train of her dress scrapes over our feet as she passes, and Felicity and I both press closer to the wall. “Who were you and he speaking to?” she asks. “The solid fellow.”

  “The Duke of Bourbon, I think his title is. He’s the charm of an aging Genghis Khan.”

  To my great surprise, Felicity gives a rather genuine snort of laughter. It catches us both off guard—her hand flies to her mouth and we go wide-eyed at each other. Then she shakes her head, with a rueful chuckle. “Aging Genghis Khan. You do make me laugh sometimes.”

  I swallow a mouthful of champagne. The bubbles are making my tongue feel like woven cloth. “Former prime minister to the king, though apparently that former part is still touchy, so don’t go bringing it up. Learned that the hard way.”

  “Is the king here? Isn’t this his party?”

  “He’s ill. Nearly perpetually, from the sound of it.” It strikes me suddenly how very backward it feels to be skirting the edges of a party with my sister while Percy is somewhere on the other side. I take another drink, then ask, just for something to say, “So, where were you sneaking off to the other night?”

  Felicity tips her head back to the wall so she’s staring up at the scrollwork overhanging us. “Nowhere.”

  “You were meeting a boy, weren’t you?”

  “When would I have had time to meet a boy? I’ve hardly been allowed to leave the apartments since we arrived. Lockwood makes me sit still and stitch and play the harpsichord all day and night while you and Percy are traipsing around the city.”

  “Oh, traipse is hardly the word I’d use. Shuffle like prisoners, perhaps?”

  “Well, you’re seeing far more of Paris than I’ve been permitted to.”

  “So, is that where you were? Seeing the sights in the dead of night?”

  “If you must know, I was at that lecture.”

  “What lecture?”

  “The alchemical one. The one you told Lockwood you attended.”

  “Oh.” I had forgotten everything that happened that night except the kiss. I almost look around for Percy again. “Are you . . . interested in alchemy?”

  “Not particularly. I’m disinclined to superstition on the whole, but the idea of creating synthetic panaceas from existing organic substances by altering their resting chemical state . . . I’m sorry, am I boring you?”

  “No, I stopped listening a while ago.” I mean for it to be glib and silly, something that might make her laugh again, but instead a look of rather sincere hurt flits across her face before she covers it with a frown.

  I’m about to apologize, but then she snaps, “If you aren’t interested, don’t ask.”

  My own temper, still raw from Worthington’s telling-off, flares again. “Fine. In future, I’ll refrain.” I raise my glass, which is somehow empty. “Have a good time here by yourself.”

  “Enjoy avoiding the ambassador,” she replies, and I wander off before I can decide whether she was being mean.

  As much as I like crowds and champagne and dancing, I feel like I’m starting to sink into this party and be swallowed by it. A strange panic spawned from all the filigree is sitting right at the edge of my mind. It’s the sort of feeling I would usually combat by sneaking away with Percy and a bottle of gin. But Percy is off somewhere having his arm touched by that lad whose freckles look like a pox, so instead I wander along the veranda, losing tally of how much I’ve had to drink. I stop and rest my elbows upon the rail, surrounded on all sides by rustling satin and a language I can hardly speak and feeling very, very alone.

  Then, from beside me, someone says, “You look lost.”

  I turn. A startlingly pretty young woman is standing behind me, her wide skirt fanned between us like the pages of a book. She has large, dark eyes with a patch in one corner, and skin powdered almost white but for the poppy of rouge upon each cheek. Her stiff blond wig is arranged around sprigs of juniper and an ornament in the likeness of a fox, its ears tipped in the same inky black that lines her lashes. She’s got the most incredible neck I’ve ever seen, and directly below it a truly fantastic set of breasts.

  “Not at all,” I reply, ruffling my hair on instinct. “Simply making a careful choice of the best company. Though I think the search is ended now that you’re here.”

  She laughs, a tiny, pretty sound like a bell that doesn’t strike me as entirely genuine but I’m quite certain I don’t care. “I come highly recommended. Are you on your Tour?”

  “And here I thought I was blending in rather well.”

  “Your scholarly study of the party sets you apart, my lord. Your thinking face is very handsome.”

  And then she touches my arm lightly, same as that lad put his hand on Percy. I fight a sudden urge to look around for him in the crowd, and instead shift my weight along the rail so the entirety of my attention is devoted to this lovely creature who seems very interested in me.

  “Have you a name, my foxy lady?” I ask.

  “Have you?” she counters.

  “Henry Montague.”

  “How simple,” she says, and I realize my error in omitting my title. I’m a bit drunker than I thought if I’m making such careless mistakes. “Your father must be French.”

  “Oui, though you wouldn’t know it from how ghastly my French is.”

  “Should we make things easier?” she says in English, words silk-trimmed by her accent. “Now we’ll understand each other better. So, shall I call you Henry? If we are forgoing formality, you may call me Jeanne.” She tips down her chin and gives me a look through the veil of her eyelashes. Oh dear, it says, now I’m shy. “Acceptable?”

  “Divine.”

  She smiles, then flicks open the ivory fan hanging from her wrist and begins to work it up and down. The breeze flutters the single ringlet trailing down the back of that neck of hers that swans would envy. I have been mentally patting myself on the head for keeping my eyes on her face the whole time we’ve been speaking, but then the bastards betray me suddenly and dive straight down the front of her dress.

  I think for a moment she may not have noticed, but then her mouth twists up and I know she’s seen. But instead of slapping me or calling me a boor and storming off, she says, “My lord, would you like to see . . .” Telling pause. Eyelash flutter. “More of Versailles?”

  “You know, I believe that I would. Though I’m short a guide.”

  “Perhaps you’ll allow me.”

  “But this party seemed to be just picking up speed. I’d hate to drag you away.”

  “Life is filled with sacrifices.”

  “Am I a sacrifice?”

  “One I’m happy to make.”

  Zounds, this girl is fun. And right now, I need a bit of fun. Get my mind off Worthington and the damned duke and Percy and that handsome bastard with the freckles putting his hands all over him. I offer her my arm. “Lead the way, my lady.”

  Jeanne puts her small, perfect hand on my elbow and steers me toward a set of French doors opening into the hall. As we cross the threshold, I let slip my reso
lution for a single second and, like Lott’s wife turned to salt, glance over my shoulder to see if I can spot Percy. He’s right where he was before—on the fringes of the dance floor, but alone now, and looking at me in a way that suggests he’s been doing it for a while. When I catch his eye, he starts and gives a self-conscious tug on his jacket collar. Then he offers me a bit of a disappointed smile, an I’d expect no more from you sort that strikes flint inside me.

  My mind plays a quick roulette of what variety of look in return will most affect him. Perhaps pleading eyes—Save me from this girl dragging me away against my will—and then he’ll come rushing to my rescue. Or perhaps a curled-lip sneer—Jealous? Well, you had your chance with me and you missed it.

  I settle on a shrug paired with an indifferent smirk. That’s fine, it says. You have your fun and I’ll have mine. And perhaps a smidge of I am not even a bit thinking of what transpired between us at the music hall last week.

  And Percy looks away.

  Jeanne knows her way through the gilded labyrinth that is the interior of Versailles, and she drifts along like a cloud of perfume. Every room we wander through is filled with people, and though I enjoy the crowds and the noise and the frescoes the colors of a bowl of ripe fruit, I would much rather find a quiet place to be alone with this winsome girl and her excellent breasts.

  She leads me to a deserted wing I’m certain we aren’t meant to be in, then stops before a painted door and slides her hand into the pocket slit of her skirt, withdrawing a gold key on a black ribbon.

  “Now, where did you get that?” I ask, leaning in as she unlocks the door like I’m interested in it, but really it’s to get a better angle down that dress.

  She smiles. “My position comes with privileges.”

  The room she leads me into looks like a private parlor, the antechamber to someone’s bedroom. Three crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow across the rich red walls and mahogany furnishings. There’s a fireplace so large that it seems rather a small room that can be safely set on fire, and an Oriental rug so thick it makes me feel wobbly in my heels. The window is open onto the grounds, and the music and bright chatter of the party waft in, though they sound muted and far away.

  Jeanne slips her fan from her wrist, then spreads her hands across the felt-topped card table before the fireplace. “This is quieter, non? Versailles can be overwhelming.”

  “Oh, I find it rather whelming.” She laughs, and I give her what I know from experience is a knee-weakening smile. “Quite a scandal to bring a gentleman unaccompanied to your apartments, madam.”

  “How fortunate that these aren’t my apartments. Though you flatter me in thinking I’ve rooms this grand. A friend of mine,” she says, enough of a lilt on friend that I can make the inference. “Louis Henri.”

  “Louis the king?”

  “There is more than one Louis in all of France, you know. This one’s the Duke of Bourbon.”

  “Oh, him.”

  “You sound as though you’ve met.”

  “Yes, we had words.” I don’t mention the particulars of the incident, though the thought of it makes me feel small and shriveled-up again.

  But now here I am in his apartments.

  Retaliation is calling my name.

  My first idea is to piss in his desk drawers, but there’s a lady present. Thievery seems a better choice—something easy enough to get away with but not so obvious as to tie me to the crime. The task is to pick something that will annoy the shit out of him when he finds it missing, but not incite an international incident.

  I wander around the salon, making a show of inventorying the place, a casual thief. I can feel Jeanne watching me, so I keep my chin tipped up, waiting for her to look away so that I can pocket something. Though I’m rather hard to look away from—I’m giving her my finest angle, the sort that belongs on a coin.

  Atop the desk, there’s a set of ivory dice that I consider, and a scent-and-patch case with a clear glass facet and silver screw top. Fine movables—everything here is fine—but too ordinary to achieve the desired level of annoyance. At the writing desk, I flirt briefly with the notion of nicking the inkstand, until I realize it would be beastly inconvenient to carry around for the rest of the night, as it’s full of ink.

  But beside the inkstand there’s a small trinket box, made of slick ebony and a little larger than my fist. The top is set with six opal dials, each inscribed with the alphabet in sequence. When I run my finger along them, they turn, the letters shifting.

  “All right, you’ve seen the room,” Jeanne calls. There’s a rustle of skirts as she settles herself. “Come pay attention to me now.”

  I glance up to see if she’s watching, but she’s already seated at the card table with her back to me.

  Vengeance and a pretty girl—the pair is turning this initially disastrous evening into one of the better parties we’ve been to in Paris. If only Percy and I weren’t quarreling, I think, then squash that thought like a spider underfoot.

  I slip the box into my pocket—consider leaving a ransom note as well, or not so much a ransom note as a three-word statement: You’re a bastard—then slide into the chair across the table from Jeanne. “Are we playing?” I ask as she flicks a deck of cards between her hands.

  Her eyes dart to mine. “What do you play?”

  “Everything. Anything. What do you play, madam?”

  “Well, I find myself partial to a game in which each player is dealt two cards, adds their numbers, and whichever pair is a sum closer to ten and three wins.”

  “Why ten and three?”

  “It’s my lucky number.”

  “I’ve not heard of this game.”

  “That is because, my good lord, I have just now made it up.”

  “And is there to be a wager? Or a consequence for the player with cards less close?”

  “They must sacrifice an article of clothing.”

  Good. Lord. I deserve some sort of medal for the effort it takes not to look down her dress when she says that.

  Jeanne purses her lips, smearing the scarlet paint upon them. “Do you care to play?”

  “Deal me in.” I whip off my coat and toss it onto the sofa.

  “Hold on, we’ve not started yet.”

  “I know. I don’t want to make it too hard for you. I’d hate for you to lose your dignity.”

  “Don’t count on that, my lord.”

  It is an incredibly stupid game. We both know it. We also both know that the true game is not in the cards, but in the coquettish removal of each subsequent article of clothing. Jeanne slides off one of her many rings; I remove my shoes in what can only be described as the most sensual display any man has ever made with his footwear. I’m more liberal with the undressing—by the time I’m in nothing but my breeches, she’s still peeling off jewelry one excruciating piece at a time. Under her powder, her cheeks are pink, but she’s keeping her wits about her admirably. Were our situations reversed, I would have lost my mind by now.

  The lead-up is fun, but I’m starting to grow restless to be done with this, like downing a sour drink fast, which is not the sentiment I’m accustomed to accompanying earthly delights of this variety. Out on the veranda, a bit of a romp seemed like an unbearably magnificent idea, but as I wait for Jeanne to make a theatrical show of flipping her next pair of cards, my mind is stuck on the image of Percy and that lad standing beside the dance floor and wondering what it was that Percy said that made him laugh. And then I am thinking about Percy’s fingers threading through my hair as I leaned in to him and him pressing our mouths together. The flutter of his breath passed between us, a feeling like a pulse point, and I’ll be damned if one stupid kiss with Percy has ruined me.

  The next time Jeanne loses, she removes a single pearl-drop earring and sets it on the table, but I place my hand over hers before she can deal again. “One moment, my lady. Earrings come in pairs.”

  “So?”

  “So they come off in pairs too. No protesting, I took
my shoes off together.”

  “I’m beginning to think it doesn’t take much to get your clothes off.”

  “Well, I don’t want to deprive you.”

  “Thank you, my lord. You are indeed a fine specimen.”

  She touches her top lip with the tip of her tongue and a soft shiver of desire goes through me, chased with relief that Percy has not wrecked me after all. Perhaps this can still be exactly what I intended when I followed her from the gardens, and it is with that hope buoyant in my heart that I lean toward her. “Here, let me help you with that other earring.”

  I reach out. She leans in. Time turns slow and delicious, seconds rolling forward like sun-warmed honey. I put my mouth much closer to her skin than it needs to be as I unclasp the pearl. My fingers trail down her neck—the ghost of a touch—then I waft my lips across her jawline.

  And, as I knew would come to pass, she puts a finger beneath my chin, tips my mouth toward hers, and kisses me.

  But my first thought is not how absolutely gorgeous it is to have this pretty thing at last putting her lips upon mine. It is how much better it was the week previous when it was Percy doing the same.

  I nearly swat the air, like that might clear Percy from my head as though he were a gnat. Instead, I put my hands on those two magnificent breasts that have been staring me down the whole evening and distract myself with the business of freeing them from their casings, and I am not thinking about Percy, not even a bit.