The Secret of Flirting

by Sabrina Jeffries

  “Grandpapa was half-English,” Monique reminded him. “He made sure I was fluent in it. Though I know I have an accent.”

  “The delegates will expect that.”

  “But it’s not my facility with the language that I’m talking about. There are so many rules of deportment and—”

  “We will teach you all that. And I swear that in most instances, one or the other of us will be around to steer you right or cover your errors.”

  That wasn’t exactly encouraging.

  Something else occurred to her. “Aren’t you the least worried that someone who’s seen me on the stage in Dieppe might recognize me?”

  He waved that concern off with a flick of his bejeweled hand. “You wear wigs, costumes, and stage cosmetics—no one could discern the real you beneath all that. If my spies hadn’t already told me of your resemblance to Aurore, I would never have recognized you from your work on the stage.”

  She blinked. “Spies?”

  His mirthless laugh chilled her. “Come now, girl, did you really think the royal court forgot your branch of the family entirely? We did not, I assure you. One never knows when the heirs to the throne might perish, leaving some distant relation to inherit. As the oldest member of the family, I thought it important to keep track. That’s why I could meet with you so quickly after the princess fell ill. I’ve always known exactly where your family was.”

  Because of his spies. She shivered. All this time, he’d had people watching them!

  Though it seemed rather silly of him, to be honest. She was probably far down the line of succession, given that Grand-maman had been one of four children, all of whom must have had children themselves.

  That actually relieved her. She had no desire to be a Princess of Chanay, forced to marry whomever the family deemed appropriate. She didn’t trust love, but she didn’t trust royal families either. There had to be some balance between marrying for love and marrying whomever was thrust upon you by political convenience.

  “Even if someone could recognize you from Dieppe,” the count went on, “it wouldn’t be anyone you’d encounter at the few public affairs we’ll be attending. Only those of the highest rank or political consequence will be there, and they aren’t the sort to attend a provincial theater.”

  Though she bristled at his condescending tone, he had a point. Most of the foreigners at the theater were merchants and sailors, with the occasional courier thrown in. The highest-ranking gentleman she’d ever met in Dieppe had been . . .

  Lord Fulkham.

  Then again, he’d been only a baron. She knew enough about English peerages to know that a baron was nothing to a duke or a marquess or even an earl.

  She struggled to remember what more Duval had said about the fellow’s connections—and those of his friend—but that had been three years ago, and she’d been too irritated to pay attention. Still, a mere baron couldn’t be anyone of consequence. And as the count had pointed out, her costume, wig, and makeup would have disguised her. Besides, their encounter had been brief.

  Yet you remember him.

  Yes. But that was different. He’d annoyed her. While she had probably barely raised any notice in his arrogant brain.

  “So you will play Princess Aurore for us, then?” Calculation glinted in his eyes. “It’s the role of a lifetime, you realize. If you succeed, it will be a tour de force.”

  True. She could never tell anyone, but still she would know. What actress worth her salt could resist attempting such a daring thing?

  She did have one more concern. “What about when it’s done and you replace me with the princess, assuming she recovers? Surely the people I meet in London will notice the difference between us once she becomes queen of Belgium.”

  “Once she becomes queen, she will be too busy ruling to meet with anyone you might have met through the conference. And I can manage that—only allow access to her for those people I know she didn’t encounter. After a few years, it won’t matter—they’ll assume that any small differences they notice are due to age. And to her being married and having children, one hopes.”

  Poor Princess Aurore. They were already plotting out her future while she lay near death’s door. But that couldn’t concern Monique. She had her own family and future to think of.

  “It will only be a couple of weeks at most,” he went on, obviously sensing her weaken, “and Chanceux is more than happy to look after your grandmother in the meantime. Once it’s done, you and Princess Solange can both travel back to Chanay with us to begin your new life.”

  Her new life. Bound to the royal family. Expected to behave appropriately, marry appropriately, live appropriately.

  Her new life free of worry about Grand-maman.

  That was the important part. Once Grand-maman passed on, Monique could choose to leave, to go back to her old life and do as she pleased. But for now . . .

  “I’ll do it,” she said.

  Two

  There were few things Gregory enjoyed more than royal banquets. Not because of the pomp and circumstance or even the quality of the food and drink, but because they allowed him to root out secrets about those in the highest perches of power. He could learn a great deal from what a man said about his underlings, whether he ate or drank to excess, and how he treated the servants—or his wife.

  Gregory also often gleaned interesting information from the gossip that ran rampant at these events. Some of it was inconsequential or patently absurd, but some of it could change the course of history. The fun came in figuring out which was which.

  And tonight St. James’s Palace was abuzz with discussions about the London Conference to determine the future of Belgium. The event was his bailiwick—his chance to change his own future.

  Because of the recent English elections, the Duke of Wellington would soon be stepping down as prime minister, and Earl Grey would be taking his place. Even Gregory’s superior—the foreign secretary—would be ousted.

  Fortunately, although in most cases the undersecretary of the foreign office would be expected to leave, too, Grey had already asked Gregory to remain in his position. Gregory had made himself too valuable to both parties for either to want to replace him. Indeed, there was talk that if the London Conference went well under Gregory’s management, he might even gain the position of foreign secretary under the new government. No more would he dwell in darkness as a spymaster.

  He’d proved himself capable of moving behind the scenes. Now he wanted to be on the stage, to have a say in the ruling of his country. Fate had put the conference in his hands, and he meant to make the best of it.

  “Look who it is,” a voice came from behind him. “I should have known you’d be here, too.”

  He turned to see Jeremy Keane behind him, accompanied by his wife, Lady Yvette. In the past year, Gregory and the American had become friends, especially since the latter had proved an excellent source of information about his countrymen’s habits. Given Gregory’s present position, he figured it never hurt to be familiar with how an American’s mind worked.

  “What are you doing here, old chap?” Gregory asked Jeremy jovially, pleased to find a fellow member from St. George’s Club in attendance.

  “I had to be in town for Guy Fawkes Day,” Jeremy said. “I’m centering a whole series of paintings around it.”

  Lady Yvette shook her head. “Everyone else in England is avoiding London because of the bonfires and mayhem, but of course my husband must run toward it with great glee.”

  Jeremy grinned at her. “And you love that about me, admit it. My penchant for finding trouble is what drew you to me.”

  “And your dashing good looks,” she said with an indulgent smile.

  The couple exchanged a knowing glance that made Gregory grit his teeth. Nothing was more irritating than the sight of two people hopelessly in love. His parents had been in love once. It hadn’t lasted long, and he doubted that the explosive finale had been worth the little bit of joy they’d gained in the beginning.
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  “I meant, what are you doing at a royal function?” Gregory asked testily. “You’re not even British.”

  Jeremy widened his eyes in mock surprise. “Do you not realize just how famous I am, sir? I’ll have you know that the king himself bought one of my paintings.”

  “That explains why you were invited, but it doesn’t explain why you came. You always profess to find these affairs dull.”

  “Oh, but his wife adores them,” Lady Yvette said brightly as she came up to kiss Gregory on the cheek. “So he puts up with them for my sake.”

  Jeremy chuckled. “I put up with them because of the reward I know I’ll get for it later.”

  Lady Yvette blushed. They’d already been married a year, yet they acted like newlyweds. It was enough to make a bachelor want to slit his wrists.

  And when Warren, the Marquess of Knightford, walked up with his wife, Delia, in tow, Gregory prepared himself for more of the same. But Delia was more interested in sharing gossip than in flirting with her new husband.

  “You’ll never guess who we just saw in Ambassadors’ Court,” Delia said, her eyes bright with excitement. “The Princess de Chanay. And she’s much more beautiful in person than in that awful copy of her portrait they printed in the Lady’s Monthly Museum. I don’t know who they get to paint these things, but my sister-in-law could do far better.”

  Warren smirked at her. “In your opinion, Brilliana could do anything far better. Admit it. You’re biased.”

  Brilliana was Niall’s fiancée. Now that he’d been pardoned and had returned to London, he’d wasted no time in getting himself engaged . . . to Delia’s widowed sister-in-law, of all people. So those two couples were quite cozily interconnected, since Niall was Warren’s cousin.

  Sometimes Gregory felt left out. Which was absurd. Spymasters couldn’t afford the luxury of bosom friends. Too many secrets to keep. Indeed, he kept nearly all of their secrets, too, and not always by choice.

  “Ahem,” Jeremy said loftily. “While I don’t deny that Brilliana does excellent work, I am, after all, the famous—”

  “Artist,” Delia and Yvette said in unison. Then they both laughed.

  “We know, you old bastard,” Warren said. “You remind us often enough.”

  “Well,” Jeremy said, eyes gleaming, “at least I do something useful with my time. All you do is go to parties with Delia.”

  “Since when is art useful?” Warren drawled.

  “Good God,” Gregory snapped, “would you two shut up? I want to hear about this princess, and I honestly don’t give a damn about who would paint her portrait best.” He turned to Delia. “Were you able to speak with the woman? I haven’t met her yet.”

  “That surprises me,” Warren said. “I thought you had taken over for the foreign secretary since he’s laid up with the gout. Isn’t she part of the Chanay delegation to the conference?”

  “She is, but—”

  “Honestly, Warren,” Jeremy interrupted, “doesn’t your wife keep you busy enough not to have to dabble in politics?”

  Delia rolled her eyes. “He reads three newspapers a day from front to back. You might say politics is his hobby.”

  “I thought brothels were his hobby,” Yvette said cheerily. “Isn’t he the one who gave that awful naughty watch to Niall?”

  “Which I got from your brother,” Warren pointed out genially.

  “And which Brilliana hates,” Delia put in. “But not for the naughty activity it portrays, oh no. She disapproves of the quality of the art.”

  Yvette laughed. “Of course she does. She has good taste. Which apparently our husbands do not.”

  “Except in women,” Jeremy said with a wink.

  “Hear, hear!” Warren said, and raised his glass of champagne.

  God, this lot was cloying. And decidedly uninformative. “So, Delia, the Princess de Chanay . . .”

  “Oh, I didn’t get to speak to her. That great-uncle of hers hovers about her every minute. And I gather he only allows people of political importance to come near.”

  “People like you,” Warren said. “Aren’t you one of the people involved in making sure the delegates don’t kill each other while trying to decide the fate of Belgium?” He gestured at Gregory with his glass and spilled some of his champagne on Delia in the process.

  “Warren!” she cried. “This gown is brand-new!”

  “Sorry, love,” he said, not looking remotely repentant, though he did give her his handkerchief. “I’m a bit foxed.”

  “Obviously.” She dabbed at her bodice with the square of linen.

  He took the handkerchief from her to do some dabbing of her gown himself. “You missed a spot.” He grinned as he dabbed all along her bodice. “And another. And this one. You missed a lot of spots.”

  “You are incorrigible, especially when you’re foxed,” she said, but her lips were twitching as if she fought a smile.

  He whispered something in her ear, and she laughed.

  Gregory couldn’t stand it anymore. “Forgive me, but I see someone I must speak to,” he lied, and headed in the direction of the doors to the gardens.

  Clearly he needed more bachelor friends. Thank God Hart had recently taken up permanent residence in town. The chap had bought out his commission so he could work for Gregory infiltrating the foreign community in London. Gregory’s sister-in-law, John’s widow, used to do some of that work for him, but now that she was in love . . .

  Bah. So many damned people in love.

  And Hart wasn’t here tonight, so Gregory was on his own with the happy couples. Ah, well, at least the delegates weren’t all married. The Princess of Chanay wasn’t, nor was her great-uncle, a widower. He would officially meet the princess tomorrow, but he knew the Count de Beaumonde from previous diplomatic situations, so he could probably finagle an introduction to the woman tonight. It wouldn’t hurt to observe her in a less formal setting.

  It didn’t take long for him to spot the count coming in from Ambassadors’ Court with a tall young woman on his arm, who was dressed in a gown of pink silk with cap sleeves that left her arms bare.

  The princess? Probably. And quite a pretty one, too—with voluptuous breasts and a surprisingly slender waist, given her slightly broad shoulders. Despite her height, she walked with grace and didn’t slouch, obviously not the least bothered by the fact that she towered over the shorter men in the room.

  Something about the confidence in her walk nagged at his memory. Had they met before?

  No, it couldn’t be. From what he remembered of his reports, she hadn’t been out in society terribly long, and she was famously reclusive to boot. Yet as they neared him, he realized she didn’t seem as young as he’d initially thought. Mid-twenties, perhaps? If she’d had her debut recently, he would expect her to be younger. But perhaps the people of Chanay didn’t toss their daughters out into the world as early as the English did.

  Still, she looked the part of a debutante otherwise. Her elaborate coiffure—with curls the color of his favorite toffee piled atop her head and punctuated by a glittering tiara—was exactly something a maid on the marriage mart would wear. Oddly enough, the style reminded him of powdered wigs, though he couldn’t imagine why. Those had gone out of fashion decades ago.

  When she came nearer and he saw her face full on, his sense that something was familiar about her deepened. Could he be thinking of the portrait Delia had mentioned? No. Delia had been right—the woman’s looks far exceeded that paltry image. Creamy skin, lush lips, a strong chin . . .

  Her gaze narrowed on him with what he would swear was recognition, and he gave a start. Then she smoothed her features into politeness. It didn’t fool him. He did know her, damn it. And she knew him, too. But from where?

  The count spotted him then. “Ah, just the man I was hoping to see. Lord Fulkham, how are you? You’re looking very well.”

  Bowing slightly, Gregory pasted a broad smile to his lips. “So are you, sir. I hope your accommodations are comfortable?�
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  “Quite so, I assure you. How long has it been since we last met—five years? Ten?”

  “Ten! I’m not as old as all that. I believe we last saw each other in Paris at the Treaty of London, what, three years ago?” That was the trip when Gregory had stopped in at Dieppe to meet with Hart and gone to the theater to see—

  His gaze shot to the woman. Her. Good God, she was Mademoiselle Monique Servais. He would swear it. Despite her bland smile and entirely different attire, he would know her anywhere. The jutting chin, the thick lashes . . . those glorious emerald eyes.

  She certainly wasn’t the princess, so why did Beaumonde have her with him? Was she the old man’s mistress?

  The count caught him staring, and said, “Forgive me, I should have introduced you sooner. Aurore, this is the Baron Fulkham, undersecretary to the foreign office, whose opinion is supremely important in deciding your fate. Lord Fulkham, this is my great-niece, Princess Aurore of Chanay.”

  The words rang in his ears, so discordant and utterly wrong that he burst out with, “The devil you say!” When that made the count start, Gregory caught himself and added lamely, “You don’t look nearly old enough, sir, to have a great-niece.”

  Beaumonde broke into a smile. “Be careful with this one, Aurore,” he joked. “He has a silver tongue.”

  “So they tell me,” he muttered, his mind racing.

  He must have been mistaken about the woman’s identity. Surely the count wasn’t mad enough to pass off a known actress as a princess. Experienced in politics, the man was highly regarded for his fine character. He’d realize that if he was caught proposing an impostor for queen of Belgium, it would be the end of his position of power in his country. Chanay would be made a laughingstock.

  So perhaps it was mere coincidence that this woman looked and acted like the actress. After all, Mademoiselle Servais had been in costume. And three years was a long time. He might not be remembering clearly.

  Then he noted how she was gripping the count’s arm, how she wouldn’t meet his gaze, how false her smile seemed.