She did not allow herself a moment’s hesitation before giving two brisk, precise knocks with the bronze knocker.
A footman opened the door, and a butler arrived swiftly in his wake.
“Good morning, Madame. You must be Madame la Baronne – her ladyship has written us that you are to be our new tenant. I am Duby, the butler,” the man said with the professional efficiency that was such a hallmark of the profession.
“Good morning, Duby. Yes, I am Madame de Gramont, and the lady in the barouche is my cousin, Mademoiselle Cecile Firmin.”
The footman stepped gracefully outside to hold the reins while Cecile descended and a groom arrived to take charge of the barouche.
*
After meeting the rest of the staff, the ladies took tea in the comfortable yellow parlour to which they had been directed by Duby.
“It is such a grand house!” Cecile said to Maggie quietly. “One never quite expected it to be so vast and well-appointed. I own I feel quite out of place here.”
Maggie nodded. “I feel the same. I imagine it is not easy to feel like one belongs under such tall, moulded ceilings. But we must grow accustomed, Cecile – for this is to be our world now. And we will. I just know it in my very heart than things will work out for the best.”
“To grow accustomed to luxury.” Cecile giggled and leaned back in her chair lightly. “Yes, I think that won’t be too much of a trial.”
Maggie giggled too, letting herself get lost in the levity of the moment, because these were the sorts of moments of which friendships and happy memories were made.
Refusing to waste time with sitting about, and needing to stretch their legs after the long journey, they decided to head out once they had changed into more appropriate garments.
It felt like a dream to finally be able to stroll down the avenue, feeling part of the bustling city around them. Cecile looked as delighted as Maggie felt, her eyes sparkling as she took in the sights and sounds of their new home.
“If only mama could see me now,” she breathed in awe. “I am finally here!”
“Yes, I cannot quite believe that it is real – a part of me is scared that I should wake up at any moment and find myself back in Chenefelt, awaiting cousin Kingsley.”
“Oh, no! No, this is real. I think this is the most real place I have ever been,” Cecile said. “Let us first visit the draper’s and then perhaps we ought to see about taking a shop.”
After an impromptu visit to a solicitor dealing with the letting of shops, and flustering his clerk on account of being female and very persistent that a shop was precisely what they wanted, Maggie and Cecile took the lease of a charming little establishment in the very heart of the city.
“It is a little dear,” Maggie said, “But I expect we will make it up very soon. We must set it in order as soon as we may, and then display some of our most recent gowns in the window.”
There would be time to take in the sights of Paris later, she reminded herself as she felt her spirit reaching out longingly towards the bustling streets. Cecile wrote out a list of everything that needed doing and over the next few days they systematically began to organize their shop, ordering fabrics and trim, and writing advertisements to send out to the most popular Parisian ladies’ journals.
Cecile fell into the role of Madame Finette with remarkable ease, as though she had spent her whole life as the city’s most exclusive couturiere. It seemed to Maggie that her friend had truly come into herself the moment she set foot in the shop, sounding the bell over the door for the first time. It hadn’t mattered in the least that the shop had still been empty at the time. Maggie had seen how radiantly hope had illuminated Cecile’s face.
This, she’d thought, was what a person looked like when their dreams suddenly came true.
They spent many long evenings working by candlelight, sketching out their new designs, cutting out gowns and sewing more samples of Madame Finette’s genius, while planning for Maggie’s debut as Madame de Gramont.
True to Lady Strathavon’s word, her friend the Comtesse de St Mercy had written Maggie a very long and very kind letter, welcoming her to Paris and promising to call once she returned from a short visit to the country.
Maggie and Cecile had promptly decided that Maggie would wear some of their most splendid gowns when she launched herself on Paris, the better to show off Madame Finette’s wares.
“There is nothing like the rumour of a secret genius who creates gowns for the city’s most fashionable originals to have grand ladies knocking on our door,” Maggie told her friend as she finished embroidering a border of flying birds on a sash for a visiting gown.
*
It was just over three weeks after Maggie’s flight from her matrimonial future, and Hart was aware of every passing second. He thought irritably that he certainly had to take his hat off to Maggie’s ingenuity.
He’d lost her trail after Dover and had gone on to Paris regardless, as it was evident that she had indeed been headed in that direction. His search of the city had yielded no results, however – it was as though she had vanished into thin air.
Having taken up lodging with his aunt, Marie-Josette, Madame la Comtesse de St Mercy, who was as well connected in Parisian society as it was possible to be, he had still not been able to glimpse hide nor hair of the damned girl. The marquess was almost ready to admit that he had underestimated Miss Margaret Dacre: the girl had certainly made him look the cake.
Soon, he would have to write Frederick and inform him that the search had still not proved the least bit fruitful, and he was determined that it should not come to that. Upon his honour he would find the girl, and he would bring her safely back to London. He had given Frederick his word, and as far as the Marquis of Hartley was concerned, his word was sacrosanct.
His aunt had been vaguely intrigued by his frantic search for a mysterious lady, though she seemed more preoccupied with her own social calendar: since returning to Paris less than three days earlier, she had taken great pains to cart him around to many of her social engagements. The marquess had not the heart to refuse the elderly countess, though he knew that she only put on the airs of a lonely old woman to wrap him around her finger.
Marie-Josette was his mother’s youngest sister and she had always been a force of mischief and fun. It was because of her that he found himself seated in this fashionable chocolate house on the bustling rue Saint-Honoré. He did not care for such establishments.
Hart was awaiting the arrival of the august lady, along with some new friend of hers which she felt he simply had to meet. It was very much like his aunt to be fashionably late: he thought fondly that she was the only person for whom he was prepared to wait for two thirds of an hour.
Finally, he saw his aunt’s elegant carriage drawing up outside the shop. The black lacquered vehicle was emblazoned proudly with her coat of arms and a footman jumped down to help the countess disembark.
The countess was, as ever, a paragon of fashion, dressed with all the splendour of the Restoration. Her gown was a sweeping afternoon dress of rose pink taffeta, trimmed with ruffles along the hem, and a delicate lace fichu. The lady’s coiffeur was completed by a daringly floral straw bonnet. Hartley was once again struck by her resemblance to his late mother. He found that he was utterly pleased to see her, even if she had forced him to wait on her.
Having handed down the countess, the footman turned to assist her companion, and it was then that Hart found himself quite speechless.
The creature that emerged in the wake of his aunt was attired in the first stare of fashion, easily a match for the older woman’s magnificent ensemble. But it was not the merits of her modiste or her milliner that had so caught his attention.
Indeed, it was not even the fashionably daring cut of her gown, revealing a full, pale bosom that could easily drive a swain to distraction. Nor was it the plumed confection that rested atop her rich honeyed locks.
Hart felt a stab of impatience because the resemblance was
unmistakable: the lady was none other than the elusive Miss Margaret Dacre. Surely it was not she whom his aunt had so wished him to meet! The marquess searched his memory for a name and title but came up blank.
But that did not matter in the least: this was Maggie, as he had never seen her before. She was polished and utterly a la mode – every inch a modern Parisian lady. She had all the style of a fashion plate, and all the natural grace of a true arbiter of fashion. She could have effortlessly turned the head of every man in town.
It took Maggie longer to spot Hartley because she was engaged in some amusing discussion with his aunt. She did not glance at him until they had almost reached his table.
If Hart had entertained any doubts concerning coincidental resemblances, he could no longer do so once he’d seen the bewildered flash of panic in her eyes.
It was gone quickly, but not quickly enough.
Hart gave his quarry an indolent smile, before rising to his feet politely.
“Hello, Aunt. I had just about decided that you had thrown me over,” he greeted the older woman with a polite bow, before looking with curious enquiry at her lovely companion.
Maggie did a beautiful job of failing to show the least sign of recognition.
Her hair was different, he thought absently, though he could not for the life of him remember what it had looked like before.
She met his eyes and raised her chin stubbornly. The familiar gesture left him a little breathless.
The countess gave him an amused smile. “Hello Hartley, my boy. Now, really, do stop staring and allow me to present you to my new friend, Madame la Baronne de Gramont.”
An eyebrow shot up. He spoke deliberately in French. “Your servant, Madame. Was I staring? How gauche. I make you my apologies. I mistook you for quite a different lady of my acquaintance. My aunt has spoken to me of her new friend, of course.”
He watched Maggie’s face and was impressed that only the slightest narrowing of her lovely brown eyes betrayed her wariness.
“Not at all,” she answered easily, her own French faultless. She inclined her head with a natural grace he could not recall from before. What was she about?
The countess seemed pleased by the exchange. “I was just telling Marguerite that I thought it would be great fun if she came along to join us tomorrow on our exploration of the city, ” she explained.
“I am sure it will be a pleasure to have Madame join us,” Hart said with perfect gentility. “Will Monsieur le Baron be joining us also?”
The girl had the audacity to look briefly melancholy at the question.
“Alas, no, monsieur. My husband has been dead this past year and seven months. I am only recently out of grey gloves.”
“Most tragic. I find I must beg your pardon again.” He inclined his head solemnly, boldly holding her defiant gaze as he did so. She was clearly set on making a game of him.
“Thank you, but that is quite unnecessary.”
The ladies ordered chocolate and Hart interestedly watched Maggie’s interactions with Marie-Josette. The young woman exuded an air of confidence he would never have previously ascribed to her. The sudden change was remarkable, especially given that she had not even been in Paris a month.
Always before he had always thought of her simply as Maggie, the girl who had followed them around as a child, and the waif who had watched him play battledore with Frederick just last month. Who was this beautiful stranger, and how had she bloomed without his having noticed? He found that he was completely entranced by the minx and her little masquerade.
Well, Hart decided, he would humour her, and maybe even up the stakes.
“In fact, the name de Gramont rings familiar to me. I think perhaps I knew your husband.”
“Perhaps,” she said, non-committedly.
“It is such a small world. My nephew is also only recently come to Paris, my dear,” the countess said. “Just like yourself. He normally stays in England. I believe you were in London for the start of the Season, Hartley? Are you certain you have never been introduced?”
Maggie felt Hartley’s challenging gaze burn into her.
“No I don’t believe we have occasioned to meet before now.”
“Ah, but I believe that we have. Only in passing, though I am very certain that I recall your husband.”
Her shoulders tensed a little. “Yes, it must have been in passing. Very briefly. Do you find that you like it in London, Monsieur?” Maggie asked, taking a sip of her chocolate.
Hart found himself unable to look away from her soft, pink lips.
“Very much,” he murmured. “Though I am certain you’ll agree that it has not quite the liveliness of Paris. Perhaps you will humour me, Madame, but my aunt has never told me how it was that you met? You certainly seem to have become fast cater cousins!”
Marie-Josette laughed. “Why, Madame is a friend of Lady Strathavon. We met for the very first time just two days ago, and took a stroll in the Jardin des Tuileries. Madame was so good as not to take offence when one of my spaniels leapt on her yellow muslin.”
Maggie chuckled at the memory. “Henri is a very dear thing.”
The countess smiled at her. “Yes, I think so too. You know how I am, my dear Hartley – never was one to stand on ceremony. Marguerite has taken beautifully to Parisian society, but she assures me she still has time to humour a lonely old woman.”
“Oh, nonsense,” Maggie laughed. “It is you who are doing me a kindness.”
Ah. Hart smiled wryly as the rest of the pieces fell into place. In the last few days, his aunt had frequently made mention of the young widow and her somewhat reclusive cousin: a pair new to Paris, whom she had taken under her wing. It seemed that the countess had decided to make Maggie her new project, introducing her to all the most deserving members of Parisian society.
He had never thought to connect the wealthy widow with the bookish sister of his closest friend, however. The mind simply boggled.
“Speaking of gowns, I know it is not at all the thing to say so, but I believe everyone is still in raptures over the confection you wore to yesterday’s gala, Marguerite,” his aunt was saying teasingly. “You simply cannot keep the name of your most deserving modiste silent much longer.”
Maggie’s eyes widened. Hart watched with great interest as Maggie flushed, shifting uneasily. A moment later, she seemed to come to a decision.
“Oh, very well. The lady is known as Madame Finette. She has a shop on the Passage des Panoramas,” she confided, with the air of revealing a great secret. “She is a friend to myself and my cousin, and a veritable artist. Furthermore, she has an artist’s reclusive temperament.”
Her eyes sparkled with mischief and Hart could not seem to look away.
“Indeed? What good fortune. It is very sensible of her to pick such a fine location for her shop. A most marvellous place – very modern. One can’t help feeling grateful for the lighting and the paving stones. Some galleries quite ruin one’s gowns. I believe that I shall pay a visit to the establishment.”
“I shall let her know to expect you.”
*
The indomitable Miss Dacre played her part faultlessly for the rest of the afternoon and Hart found that he was almost enjoying the charade. When his aunt regretfully said that she had to return home so that she might be on time to receive a relation she had not seen since her stay in Vienna, Hart decided to get his own back by insisting that he take Madame la Baronne home in his carriage.
The countess was delighted. “What a splendid idea! I am certain you young people have much to talk about, after all.”
Hartley half-expected a fit of the vapours or some such other production, but Maggie held up admirably under the challenge, though she gripped her parasol just a little too tightly.
“I am staying on the avenue de Richelieu,” she informed him with a forced smile.
The lovely baroness pointedly ignored his raised eyebrow. While the avenue was one of the most fashionable locales in Paris, boas
ting beautiful, spacious houses, it was a little fast for an unmarried lady to stay on such a busy street. The very same road also boasted the Comedie, and the Academie de Musique, after all. The avenue was full of an almost constant thoroughfare of carriages and it was lined with shops selling everything from silk flowers to marvellous clocks. Maggie informed the marquess that she adored it, and wouldn’t hear a word said against it.
When his aunt had departed, Hartley turned to the young woman standing unwillingly at his side.
“Well done, my dear baroness. A marvellous performance,” he complimented her in English, with just a touch of vitriol.
‘Baroness’ is much better than ‘magpie’, at least, she thought.
“You are too kind. And now, good day, sir.” Maggie wasted no time spinning on her heel in order to make good her departure.
Having suspected that she would attempt to stalk away in a manner that was reassuringly familiar, he caught her arm.
“Maggie, what are you doing?”
Her eyes blazed up at him unexpectedly and he almost took a step back.
“Let us not bother with charades. We are quite past that, I think. I know perfectly well that you have come to take me back, Lord Hartley. It is certainly no coincidence that you should be here now. I will inform you that you have had a wasted journey. I won’t go back to London, and if you wish to see Kingsley Stanhope married so very much, then you may marry him yourself!”
Passing pedestrians looked at them in some alarm, startled at the unbecoming disturbance.
Maggie felt her cheeks warm.
Moving much closer to her than was strictly proper, Hart glared back at the young woman. “I’m here to make sure you are safe,” he told her in a fervent whisper. Then, his tone softened. “Please, Maggie. I’ve come all this way, let me speak with you for a few minutes in private. I have a message for you from Frederick.”
She hesitated, visibly torn between the desire to hear from her brother and her obvious distrust. At last, she seemed to come to a decision, determined to show him that she was not in any way alarmed at his unexpected appearance in Paris.
Lady Adventuress 02 - The Education of Lord Hartley Page 6
