He enjoyed watching her. Her malleable features displayed the subtlest of emotions. The characteristic served an actress—and an impostor—well. It made him wonder about the real Monique. He wanted to uncover her, to expose her . . . to explore her.
How reckless was that? She could destroy his entire career. Yet he was fascinated. Because she seemed not to know how dangerous she was, how dangerous was the game she played. That in itself intrigued him.
He glanced up into the gallery and noticed Hart standing there. Hart nodded, a signal that he had information to impart. Gregory looked about, noticed that the other MPs were half-asleep, and decided that he might as well speak with Hart now. She had not been presented yet, after all.
Rising from his chair, he made his way to the gallery and Hart. But as soon as he took a seat beside the fellow, Monique was presented.
Gregory couldn’t take his eyes off her. She wore a demure, elegant gown of fawn silk that shimmered whenever a shaft of sunlight caught it as she moved. Her hair, too, was sedately dressed, no doubt to amplify her regal appearance. But it was her smooth aplomb and measured speech that made her every inch a princess.
Which she wasn’t. She couldn’t be. He refused to believe himself to be so far off the mark.
“You may be right,” Hart said.
“About what?”
“Her being Monique Servais. I can’t be sure, but I’m leaning toward your point of view.”
Perhaps he wasn’t going mad after all. “What did you learn?”
“Apparently, the count made a trip to Dieppe a few days before the Chanay contingent departed from Calais.”
“Does anyone know why?”
“If they do, they’re not saying. But it certainly could be because he was going there to engage Mademoiselle Servais in his scheme.”
“It could.” He listened as she made an impassioned speech about the importance of choosing the proper ruler for Belgium. She was articulate and clever. If she was the real princess, he would champion her no matter what the cost. “Did you learn anything about why he might have wished to engage her?”
“No. That’s the trouble. I tried to find out, but when it came to information of that nature, the servants clammed up.”
“Or they didn’t know anything. The English servants would have been told that she was the princess. They have no reason to believe otherwise. Did you speak to the French ones?”
“There really weren’t any, so no. Have you any theories?”
“None right now. I need to know more.” Gregory paused to watch as she seduced a roomful of men into believing whatever she said. It was astonishing what a pretty, young female could do to further her cause. He refused to let such manipulation affect him.
Right. Because you’re not attracted to her in the least.
He scowled. He could handle Monique Servais. If that was really who she was. “Do you have time to take a trip?” he asked Hart.
“To Dieppe?”
“Exactly. I’d go myself except that I have to be here for the conference, especially with the foreign secretary indisposed.”
“I can go. The steam packets cross from Newhaven to Dieppe in nine hours these days. I could probably be back with a report for you by Friday. What do you want me to find out?”
“Whatever you can about Mademoiselle Servais. See if the count visited her personally, and if so, when. And do some research into her background. I can’t figure out why they would choose her, beyond her facility as an actress. The more you learn, the more I’ll know how to act.”
“Very well. I’ll discover what I can.”
“Excellent.”
They sat in shared silence a moment. Then Hart cleared his throat. “If she is Mademoiselle Servais, she plays the role of princess to perfection.”
“She does, indeed.”
“Are you sure she isn’t—”
“Aren’t you?” Gregory snapped.
Hart cocked his head to listen. “I just can’t be certain. She does have the same dulcet voice. Not to mention that sensual glide of a walk, like a swan on the water . . . or one of the finer French courtesans in the salons of Paris, who knows all the secrets of flirting and uses them to her advantage. It’s something in the way her hips swing ever so slightly, making a man want to reach out and grab—”
“Yes,” Gregory said irritably, “I know what you want to grab.” Randy bastard. “No princess walks like that. Besides, Princess Aurore has never been in Dieppe acting on the stage.”
“So why the masquerade?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
He could feel Hart’s gaze on him as the other man assessed the tension in his face.
“You like her,” Hart said accusingly.
Gregory forced a smile. “I think she’s talented at pretending to be someone else.”
“If that’s what she’s doing. And it’s more than that. You want her.”
He certainly did. But he would never admit that to Hart, of all people. Gregory drew himself up. “Unlike you, I do not fall for the blandishments of actresses.”
Hart uttered a mirthless laugh. “If you say so.” He rose. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”
“Be quick about it, do you hear? The delegates plan to make a decision soon.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Barely aware of Hart slipping from the gallery, Gregory kept his gaze trained on Monique Servais. She did have the practiced grace of a princess. But Hart was right—something lay underneath it, a sensual quality that roused his blood. It called to him as no other woman ever had, made him want to unwind the barely restrained masses of her hair and luxuriate in it.
The effect she had on him made no sense. He was a practical man, well aware of the restrictions of his position. And she tempted him to toss them all to the wind just for another taste of that warm mouth.
He dropped his gaze to her wrist and the glove that covered the mark he’d made. An intense satisfaction coursed through him. At least there she was his.
Yet not his, either. She wasn’t the sort of woman to be owned. Which fascinated him. Most women wanted to adopt the high status of a husband so they could be sure of their place in society. She clearly did not. Or else she was sure enough of her own place to be content.
That gave him pause. Could he have been right the first time? Could she be the count’s mistress, who just happened to look enough like the princess to be her twin? It seemed an odd coincidence. But it would explain why the count had asked her to take Princess Aurore’s place.
Gregory also had to wonder about Princess Aurore. What would make the woman give up her duties to an impostor? Was she merely extremely shy? That would be in keeping with the reclusiveness she was famous for.
Perhaps this whole thing had come about because her people were afraid Aurore couldn’t present herself well enough to secure the position of queen. So they called in a woman who could, knowing that once Aurore was chosen, she could surround herself with sycophants who could keep people at bay.
Though that made sense, it didn’t seem likely. It was too much of a risk. Which left another more disturbing reason—that there was a sinister purpose behind it. Or worse yet, that she really was Princess Aurore and he was utterly wrong about the masquerade.
Damn it, he was tired of thinking about it. Until he had real information, he couldn’t puzzle it out. So he would just have to hope that Hart learned the reason for it in Dieppe. Because otherwise, Gregory would seriously have to improve his game at eliciting secrets from whoever that devilishly fetching creature was.
Seven
Monique trod the carpet in the drawing room of the strange English town house so enthusiastically that she feared she might damage the flimsy soles of her delicate shoes. She’d wanted to wear sturdy half boots, but those wouldn’t do for a fine princess, oh no. The slippers must be kid, the stockings silk, and the gown of the finest green gros de Naples with a line of fussy pink bows and gig
ot sleeves.
Apparently her cousin had a fondness for pink, which was evidenced by her hat—an enormous creation in blossom silk with birds and fake apples that hurt Monique’s head. She hated all of it. It made her wonder at her cousin’s taste. Not to mention the common sense of the person who’d packed Aurore’s attire for autumn in England. Monique had been freezing ever since her arrival!
Still, the ladies here seemed no better off, wearing flimsy satins and silks in the evening. They did have lush velvet cloaks, as did Aurore, but Monique was used to dressing more warmly in Dieppe, to the heavy brocade gowns and the hot lamps of the stage. She envied the English ladies in the streets wearing sensible wool. She preferred warm clothes. Grand-maman had always laughingly told her that she’d inherited the thin blood of some ancient Italian ancestor, and Monique had never believed it more than now.
She swallowed hard. She missed her grandmother. That servant of Count de Beaumonde’s had better be treating Solange well, or Monique would roast him on a spit!
“Are you ready?” said a crisp male voice from the doorway.
She started. The count was hovering about as usual. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
Her great-uncle entered. “You needn’t be nervous. You already have Lord Fulkham wrapped about your finger. The man is entranced.”
The trace of bitterness in the man’s voice gave her pause. Granted, Aurore wasn’t known for her male conquests, but she’d seemed pretty enough. Surely she would make a good match eventually.
“He’s not entranced,” she said. “He is . . . careful. He asks probing questions and demands answers.”
The count poured himself some coffee from the pot always kept at the ready for his use, even now, in late afternoon. The man drank more coffee than anyone Monique had ever met, always flavored with a finger of brandy. It did make her wonder if the brandy was the real reason for the coffee, though he never seemed intoxicated.
“Are you having trouble giving Fulkham answers?” the count asked. “Shall we go over the information I gave you before?”
“No need. He’s not interested in the exports of Chanay or in how the ministers advise me. He wants to know my opinions on governing.”
And why I am masquerading as Princess Aurore. Though she could hardly tell the count that.
She could handle Lord Fulkham. She must.
Nervously she adjusted the gold bracelet she wore to cover his love bite. It gave her a secret thrill to know it was there. Curse the man for that.
“You must play nice with him,” the count said. “Encourage him.”
She stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“Being an actress with many admirers, you must realize how men are. Flatter him and soothe his fears. I’m sure you know how.”
Stifling a burst of temper, she said, “Of course.” Though she did not know how. She’d learned from her grandmother never to encourage men who wished to conquer her. Otherwise, they only became more strident, more demanding . . . more dangerous.
Or so Grand-maman said. But the undersecretary was dangerous for an entirely different reason. Because she was far too susceptible to him, though God only knew why.
“I will do my best,” she said. “But he is predisposed toward choosing a man to rule Belgium.” She wasn’t sure of that, but it made sense. Men always favored other men.
The count frowned. “He won’t continue to be so if you make him enamored of you. Men think with their . . . you know. And he is no exception.”
This time she had more trouble hiding her anger. Why did everyone assume that actresses were whores? Elizabeth Farren had been famously chaste until she married the Earl of Derby. And Monique knew plenty of women in the theater who did not take lovers, who did not want to be a man’s toy.
Well, a few women, anyway. And she was one of them, having learned that even marriage could prove treacherous to one’s future. She would find a man who would accept her profession, who understood her need to be free, who would allow her a voice in her future. Who would not tear her family from her.
It certainly couldn’t be Lord Fulkham, since he seemed determined to expose her, which would end her hopes of taking care of Grand-maman in Chanay.
One of their English footmen came to the door. “Lord Fulkham is here for Princess Aurore.”
“Send him in,” the count said.
When Lord Fulkham entered she tried not to be impressed, but it was difficult. The man certainly knew how to dress. Most of the Englishmen in the streets looked frumpy and ill-kempt. While the members of Parliament carried themselves better, their overhanging bellies and red noses testified to their overindulgence in food and drink. And the lack of hair was common enough for her to think the English a race of bald men.
Not Lord Fulkham. Looking ever so smart in his royal-blue coat, ivory waistcoat with brown stripes, and buff trousers, he emanated power in a way that other English lords did not. Their attire was fussy and extravagant. His was understated, hiding his important rank the same way his body’s lean, clean lines hid his surprising strength.
It made her nervous. She always liked to know what kind of man she was dealing with, and he shielded his true character at every turn.
“Good afternoon, Your Serene Highness,” he said in a voice like warm chocolate. A pity his eyes were like the frozen ices from Gunter’s in Berkeley Square.
She raised an eyebrow. “I’m looking forward to our jaunt through your little park.”
That warmed his gaze, and he chuckled. “The king would be amused to hear you refer to his park as ‘little.’ ”
“The princess hasn’t had much chance to see the city, I’m afraid,” the count cut in. “Too many appointments and parties.”
The ice returned to Lord Fulkham’s eyes as he trained them on the count. “We do like to keep our guests busy. It prevents them from wandering too far afield.”
“Wandering?” A frown crossed her great-uncle’s brow. “Who has been wandering?”
“I understand you were recently in Dieppe, sir,” Lord Fulkham said.
Though the count showed no surprise, her heart jumped into a frenzied rhythm. Lord Fulkham had apparently done some probing into the Chanay contingent. Either that or he was trying to provoke her great-uncle into revealing her role in the scheme. Then he would expose their former association and ruin everything.
Merde.
“I was indeed in Dieppe, not that it’s any of your concern,” the count said, as matter-of-factly as if Lord Fulkham had just mentioned a ride into the English countryside. “I have relations there, so I thought I would take advantage of being in Calais, close enough to take a steam packet there in one day, to pay them a visit. You do realize my family is from very near there, do you not?” His voice hardened. “Your spies must have told you. I was raised in Rouen. I met my late wife, great-aunt to Princess Aurore, in Paris.”
Monique fought to hide her surprise. She had not known that, though she had known the count wasn’t native to Chanay.
“What spies, sir?” Lord Fulkham said smoothly. “You are guests here. We don’t spy on our guests.”
The count flashed him a tight smile. “Of course not. And I do not spy on my English friends, either.”
The words seemed to give Lord Fulkham pause, as they were obviously meant to do. “I should hope not. That would be most unwise.”
She fought the urge to shiver at the veiled threat. Was this the world of diplomacy? If so, she wanted none of it. Thank God it would be Aurore enduring these games and not she.
Time to end it. “Lord Fulkham, I thought you had come to take me for a drive, not trade words with my great-uncle.” She held out her hand. “Shall we go? I am most eager to see this Hyde Park you spoke of.”
He forced a smile. “Certainly, Your Highness. I would be honored.”
“The princess’s maid will, of course, be attending her,” the count said.
That gave Monique pause. “I expected Lady Ursula to join me.”
&n
bsp; The count’s hard smile answered that. “She is feeling unwell, so Flora will go.”
Sacrebleu. The sympathies of her English maid would not be with her, but with the very handsome Lord Fulkham. “Of course.”
Oddly enough, Lord Fulkham looked as if he disapproved. “Such a shame that Lady Ursula is ill. Do give her my sympathies.”
Count de Beaumonde nodded, and Lord Fulkham left with her. Before they even reached the foyer downstairs where her maid stood waiting with her cloak, the undersecretary said in a low voice, “You see how he throws you to the wolves? Why do you let him?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she retorted. “Are you a wolf, sir?”
He stiffened. “I could be. That is the point.”
“But you and my uncle know each other well, do you not? So he’s aware that you can be entrusted with a princess.”
“Hmm,” was all he would say.
But his remark made her wonder. Was he truly concerned about her? Or simply trying to drive a wedge between her and the count?
If so, he was succeeding. It unnerved her how easily her champion Lady Ursula was whisked away and a foreigner put in her place.
They set out beneath a steady drizzle. At least his curricle had a hood that protected them, although poor Flora was left to sit on the back with nothing but a bonnet and a cloak to shield her from the weather.
“It appears I picked a bad day for a drive.” Lord Fulkham handled his horses exceedingly well, maneuvering them onto the street with ease. The beasts were probably as afraid to cross him as everyone else seemed to be. “I hope it isn’t too uncomfortable for you.”
“It is fine, although England seems very rainy. Is it always so?”
“Yes. That’s what makes it so very green.”
“My country is green, but it does not have constant rain.”
He turned pensive. “True. France manages to have the best of both worlds.”
“As does Chanay.” When his lips curved cynically, she added, out of spite, “We have wonderful summers, full of sunshine and golden blooms. Can you say the same for England?”
“I can say the same for my part of England. My estate, Canterbury Court, is in Kent. We suffer some of the rain, but we have more sunny days than the north and even than London. That’s why we’re called the garden of England.”
The Secret of Flirting Page 9
