Two Sinful Secrets

by Laurel McKee

  “Almost there,” Sophia whispered, the excitement inside her growing. This was her adventure now; she had only herself to think of here in Paris. It was an exciting thought indeed, but also rather frightening.

  The carriage swung around in a turn in the road and careened down a steep, cobbled slope. Suddenly they were plunged into a darkened labyrinth of narrow streets, the broad country lanes left behind. Stone buildings, tall and packed close together, darkened with age, crowded in around her. The coach slowed amid a crowd of wagons, drays, fine carriages, and street vendors with their push-carts.

  Sophia lowered the window even more and heard the cacophony of voices from outside, the rustle of wheels on cobbles, the laughter and French words. She could smell the mud and muck of the gutters, but also spiced cakes from the vendors, smoke curling up from the chimneys, and flowers creeping up from behind garden walls at the old aristocratic hôtels. The smell of Paris.

  The carriage slowly made its way out of the tangle of old streets and onto the avenues that ran along the river. The sunlight turned the whole city golden as the vista opened up before her. Sophia craned her neck for a view of the long vistas to bridges and turreted palaces, statues and tall gaslights. People hurried along on the walkways: fashionably dressed couples, ladies’ maids in black carrying packages, starched nannies with their little charges who scampered along laughing.

  Sophia almost laughed with them, her spirits suddenly higher than they had been since before Jack died. She was in a new place, a place where almost no one knew her and she could start again. Where she could become anyone she wanted to be.

  As they passed one of the grand bridges, Sophia glimpsed a man standing there leaning lazily against the stone balustrade. Something about him, something familiar, made her turn to look at him. He swept his hat off to bow at two giggling ladies walking by, and the sunlight glinted off pale blond hair, as radiant as the sun itself.

  Sophia remembered Dominic St. Claire kissing her in that dark room, remembered running her fingers through his bright hair as a passion like none she had ever known exploded inside her, and she felt a pang for how long ago that magical night was. How many things had changed. For an instant her heart leaped to think that was him on that bridge, that she could be that innocent girl once more.

  But then she fell back down onto the carriage seat, feeling ridiculously foolish. Dominic St. Claire was far away, and even if he was in Paris she wasn’t likely to run into him. He had never even known that it was her he kissed, and he never would know. That memory was hers alone.

  And she hated feeling like a silly, fluttery schoolgirl every time she thought of him! She had too much to do here in Paris to be daydreaming over a handsome man she would likely never even see again. Once the carriage arrived in Paris, she had to make her way to Camille’s club on the rue Vivienne and learn her new duties. Paris was a new beginning for her. She wanted to make the most of it.

  The coach jolted to a halt on the street outside a busy station, where passengers hurried in and out amid piles of luggage and harried porters. Sophia climbed down and took a deep breath of the Parisian air, glad to be out of the swaying vehicle at last. The city seemed to unfold in front of her, and she wanted to rush out and grab it all.

  Just across the street was a row of shops. She glimpsed a sign in the bow window of an expensive-looking hat shop—Aide Demandé, “help wanted”. It immediately caught her attention. She knew about hats. Surely a hat shop would be slightly more respectable to her family? And a bit more independent than taking advantage of Camille’s friendship. She needed more money to get home properly, as well as more time to plan her approach. But she had hardly had time to contemplate the shop when she heard someone calling her name. She spun around to find Camille hurrying toward her through the crowds. The people seemed to part before her, as if she were a statuesque Parisian goddess in a fashionable green silk walking dress, her red hair shining in the sun.

  “Sophia, chère! You are here at last,” Camille cried. She seized Sophia’s hands and kissed her cheek as Sophia laughed. “And just in time for my new establishment to officially open.”

  Sophia had not known such a welcome in a long time, and it made her even happier to be in Paris. “I’m glad I made it in time.”

  “I will need your help in finishing the arrangements. I remember you had such lovely taste in Baden-Baden,” Camille said, leading Sophia away from the station. Porters leaped to obey her when she gestured for them to gather the bags. “I need your help desperately.”

  “I am happy to help however I can,” Sophia said. “But I do not want to take advantage of your friendship.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I mean I must earn my own way! And not just by playing cards.”

  Camille laughed. “But you were so good at the cards.”

  Sophia sighed. “And that is just the trouble. Hopefully I can make my way back to my family soon, and they will definitely not approve of my livelihood. Also I can’t take advantage of your kindness forever.”

  Camille shot her a puzzled glance as she ushered Sophia to a fine carriage waiting by the walkway. “Your English ways are a puzzle to me, but you must do as you see best. You are welcome to stay at my club as long as you like. I am happy to have someone to keep an eye on the premises when I can’t be there. Now, tell me—what happened in Baden-Baden after I left? I haven’t had so much fun since then…”

  Chapter Four

  It was all even more beautiful than Camille had described.

  Sophia stood on a small balcony high above the main salon of La Reine d’Argent and leaned her lace-gloved hands on the gilded railing as she examined the crowd gathered below her. She had seen the rooms during the day, of course, and had admired their elegance. But at night, with the gaslight casting its ethereal glow, everything looked otherworldly and magical. A haven of fun and elegance that seemed to shut out the rest of the world.

  After ill-fated attempts to find other employment, she had determined to do her best here for her friend’s business and work hard until she found something else she could do. Working had kept her busy—and kept her from dreaming too much.

  Sophia laughed at herself and turned her attention back to the salon below. It was the club’s official opening night, and, despite the rain outside, people had shown up in droves. It seemed Camille’s reputation for being a good hostess had spread far throughout Paris. It looked like an undulating sea of stylish, ruffled gowns in fashionable pastel blues, greens, and pinks, men’s black evening coats, and flashing jewels, all blended together like the indistinct mosaic of a kaleidoscope. Footmen in gold satin livery and powdered wigs in the style of fifty years ago threaded their way through the throng, offering silver trays bearing crystal goblets of champagne and Bordeaux and plates of delicacies.

  The tangle of conversation sounded happy and excited, lighthearted, and it made Sophia feel happy, too. When she first stepped out of her room and smiled, she hadn’t been sure what that feeling was. It had been so long since she remembered anything like happiness. But here in Paris, she felt her sense of fun, so long buried under worries, breaking free again. She had to revel in it now, until she had to go back to her family and try to mend her fences there.

  Despite the troubles the newspapers shrieked about, the unpopularity of King Louis Philippe and the ill-fated Spanish marriages, Paris seemed as eager to embrace fun and merriment as Sophia was herself. That desire for fun felt almost frantic in the air. Camille was smart to seize onto that desire for a good time, and Sophia was glad she was here to be a part of it, if only for a short time.

  The door to the balcony opened behind her, and Camille cried, “Sophie, there you are! What do you think of our opening night?”

  Sophia studied the crowd again. It already seemed to have grown as more and more people squeezed into the salon. “I think you will have a wonderful success.”

  Camille laughed, the diamond stars in her upswept red hair flashing. “Tonight, p
erhaps. They are curious to see what we have here—and to see my mysterious new English friend.”

  Sophia shook her head. “No one knows me here, and that is the way it should be. The way I want it.” She would be leaving Paris soon enough, and the fewer scandals her family knew about the better.

  “But you will not get your wish. Paris loves a beautiful woman, and one who is a mystery is irresistible to them. They wonder who you are.”

  Sophia laughed. “How can they even know I’m here?”

  “Exactement! You have made them wonder. People have probably glimpsed you going to the shops, the beautiful lady in black who hides in Madame Martine’s house, and they want to know your story.” Camille tapped her fan on the railing. “I was at dinner at the Café Anglais last night and met a party of English people visiting Paris, theatrical sorts who are appearing at the Theatre Nationale. Even they had heard of you, and they asked me so many questions. But I told them nothing. I just invited them here tonight.”

  Sophia shook her head again, but secretly she was intrigued. English theatrical types? Could it be…? But surely not. It seemed too unlikely that she would see him again, and it was probably better she didn’t. She didn’t need that sort of trouble, not now. “They will soon lose interest in me when they find out the dull truth.”

  “Then don’t tell them anything! Just let them go on wondering.” Camille studied the throng of guests below. “I do hope those Englishmen come tonight. The men were so very handsome, though one did have some rather fearsome-looking scars on his face. But one of them was very sweet, and seemed rather intrigued by you. And it wouldn’t hurt you to meet more people. Then perhaps you will put aside these silly thoughts of finding another job. You are perfectly suited to this one.”

  “I will certainly do my best while I’m here. And I will meet anyone you like. It’s the least I can do after your kindness to me.”

  Camille smiled happily. “C’est bon! That is all you need to do. And now, we should make our appearance before those ravenous hordes consume all our champagne. We want them happily tipsy, not falling down drunk.”

  Sophia laughed and followed Camille as they made their way down the narrow, winding staircase that led to a secret doorway. The building was an old one that had once belonged to a family awarded it by Louis XIV, and it had been used for all sorts of nefarious purposes in all the upheavals of France since then.

  Camille had refurbished the palace rooms with polished parquet floors, pale silk wallpapers, and new artwork and furniture, but behind the scenes the old place was full of hidden stairs and corridors, and tiny rooms complete with peepholes for keeping an eye on everything that happened there. Sophia loved it; it was the perfect place for secrets.

  But tonight wasn’t one for subtlety and sneaking around. It was a time for having a bit of fun, before she went back to her old life again.

  They stepped through a doorway hidden in the paneling of the foyer, where a stern-looking English butler checked names off the invitation list and maids took the guests’ wraps. Everyone else had already moved into the main salon, and Sophia could hear the clamor of dozens of conversations through the closed double doors.

  “Is everyone here, Makepeace?” Sophia asked the butler as Camille checked her hair in the mirror. Over the last few days, while Camille went out to find new patrons and put the finishing touches on the decor, Sophia had organized the servants. Her mother’s calm, efficient example had served her well for once.

  “Almost everyone, Madame Westman,” Makepeace answered as he showed her the list. “And they all brought guests as well.”

  “I hope our supplies of champagne hold out!” Camille said.

  “Me, too,” Sophia said as she examined herself in the mirror behind Camille. Unlike Camille, who wore a fashionable creation of sea-green silk and tulle with diamonds at her throat and in her hair, Sophia had no choice but to wear one of her black gowns again, and she smoothed her hair back into a simple chignon. But even though the dress was unadorned, with none of the poufs and ruffles so stylish that year, the satin fabric was rich and glossy, and the low neckline showed off her white shoulders. In her ears, she wore her grandmother’s pearl earrings, the one piece of jewelry she had managed to hold on to, and she had bought paste hair-combs with an advance on her salary.

  Not too bad, she thought. If only she didn’t look so pale and thin, so anxious after the last few months. The patrons wouldn’t have any fun if the hostess looked so desperate. Sophia pinched her cheeks to bring some pink to them and gave a bright smile. She had to enjoy all this while she could.

  She spun around as Camille threw open the doors and swept into the salon to welcome her guests.

  “Bon soir, mes amis! Welcome to La Reine d’Argent. A place where there is decidedly no gaming,” Camille said as everyone laughed. “I hope that you will all find something to enjoy here. There is dancing, dining, conversation—anything you might fancy. Please, if there is anything you require, let me or Madame Westman know. And now go, go, have fun! The night is young.”

  Camille gestured to the small orchestra in the corner to begin playing a lively tune, and the crowd surged back into talk and laughter again as the footmen circulated with more wine. Camille disappeared into the crowd and Sophia followed. As she swept through the crowd, she could hear whispers about the “femme mystère” and they made her smile. That was what she wanted to be—the mysterious woman, the one nobody knew anything about.

  As Sophia turned to go through the salon, the doors opened again to admit yet more latecomers. Behind the laughing group, standing alone, was a tall man dressed in a fashionably tailored dark blue evening coat and cream-colored satin waistcoat and cravat. The gaslight gleamed on his pale golden hair, which was brushed back in sleek waves from a face too handsome to be real. It surely belonged on a fallen angel rather than a mere mortal man.

  It was a face she remembered very well. A face she had seen in her mind ever since that night she crept into the Devil’s Fancy and challenged him to a card game—and more. And now he was standing right across the room from her.

  For so long, Dominic St. Claire had been a fantasy figure, a perfectly handsome, perfectly charming dream she could think about when she needed an escape from real life. She had come to think no real person could possibly be as beautiful as her memories. Probably he was older than she remembered, or was clumsy and smelled bad.

  But she saw now there were no flaws. In fact, he was even more handsome than in her memories. The real life was more vivid, more striking, than she could have remembered. And everyone else seemed to agree, as they all turned to stare at him as if they were not sophisticated Parisians at all.

  Sophia felt her cheeks turn hot even as she shivered. Everything suddenly felt strange and unreal, as if the time had fallen away, and she was that headstrong girl again, swept away by her first taste of passion. She had the most powerful urge to run to him, to touch him to see if he was real. Yet she also wanted to run away, to vanish as she once had after he kissed her.

  Instead she stood still, frozen, and watched him. He looked around the room, a half-smile on his lips, his expression unreadable as he looked at the people around him. He was said to be one of the finest actors in England, and Sophia could see why. He was so good at hiding his thoughts as he stood there, as still and quiet as if he was making a stage entrance, but she fancied she could see a flash of some cynicism in his eyes. He seemed very remote from all that was going on around him.

  Yet as she watched him she still couldn’t help but remember that long-ago night when he had kissed her, touched her, in that dark room. She had never felt like that before or since. Did he remember, too? Surely he hadn’t known who she was—at least she hoped he did not. But did he ever think of her, the woman in the mask?

  Or was she merely one of dozens of women who blurred together in his memory?

  She thought of poor Mary Huntington, of her helpless desire for a man who couldn’t care for her the same way, who
wounded and betrayed her. Mary had drowned in her unhappiness, and when Sophia read her words she vowed never to do that to herself. Never to depend on anyone for anything. She did desire Dominic St. Claire, of course—he was so terribly handsome and, as she remembered, so very good at kissing. But that was all.

  It was all it could be.

  Dominic’s brilliant green gaze suddenly turned—and landed on her. She could feel the heat of it even across the room. It felt as if he physically touched her skin, ran his hand over her bare body, and a chill ran up her spine.

  Then his smile widened, but not with humor. It looked like the smile of a wolf spying a helpless rabbit just before he snatched it up. And she wanted desperately to be the prey he sought.

  Oh, she thought with a flash of raw panic. I am really in trouble now…

  It was her again. He had found her.

  When Dominic first stepped into the crowded club and caught a glimpse of the woman’s back, something that had felt long-frozen flickered to life within him. That glossy, black hair pinned in shining, heavy coils atop an elegant head, reminded him of the mystery woman he had once kissed—and who had run away from him. She had been the only woman he ever wanted who eluded him, and the thought that she was within his grasp again awakened the primitive hunter in him.

  He had come to La Reine d’Argent as a respite from working at the theater, from getting the new play ready to open and playing go-between in quarrels between the other actors. He wanted to play some cards, have some fun, and maybe learn something he could take back to the Devil’s Fancy when they returned to London. Camille Martine was a very fine hostess, as they had learned at her dinner at the Café Anglais, and he was sure her club would be a grand one.

  He hadn’t expected to find the woman in black as well.

  Dominic smiled and smoothed the velvet cuffs of his coat as he watched her. She was not very tall, but was slender and delicate-looking in her black satin gown. She talked to a group gathered around her, her lace-gloved hands fluttering in an exuberant gesture. Her head tilted back in laughter, and everyone around her watched her intently, as if caught in an enchanted spell.