“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Hal told him with a playful wince. “I am not at all assured of the nature of my mother’s departure from her family all those years ago, so we may find ourselves coldly received.”
Pratt stared at her in a resigned sort of study. “Now you mention this.”
An earnest grimace exchanged places with the playful wince on her face. “I didn’t want to worry you.”
“What I feel now is worry,” he assured her. “Had I known before, I could have replaced worry with strategy. Now…?”
“Now?” she prodded when he trailed off.
He groaned and rubbed at his brow. “Now I am too bloody tired for strategy, which leaves me with worry, which is not at all comforting, and I’m presently feeling it will be a miracle if we are not shot on sight.”
“It won’t be that bad,” she told him with a laugh that she didn’t feel.
Truth be told, it could be that bad. Her mother hadn’t said much about her family in France over the years, though she had continued to correspond with some of them. Everything her mother had done had seemed contradictory, though her love for her husband and children had been constant. She had likely been as involved with covert operations as her husband, and given that she had left her family to marry Hal’s father, seemingly without the approval of her family, one had to assume she had devoted herself to the British.
But there had always been rumors.
Not among polite society, of course. They had all declared Marguerite Mortimer the most beautiful creature to come out of France, though she had been criticized for bearing the aloof, haughty nature that had spurred on the bloody revolution in her home country.
In the darker, more secret circles that Hal and her brother occupied, however, the lines were rather blurred.
“Where did you stash our private correspondence?” Pratt asked in a low voice as they turned down another row of pristine houses. “As we weren’t detained entering Calais, I must presume that the examiners found nothing?”
Hal shuddered at the memory of being so humiliated as to be examined nearly to the square inch of her by females designated by the customs officials at the port. It was all in an effort to prevent the smuggling in of goods and no doubt various items of a more nefarious nature, but it was shockingly thorough. One could only presume that their belongings had undergone an equally thorough looking over.
“Yes,” she managed, returning her attention to Pratt. “Not on my person, and not in my trunk.”
“And you managed that how?” he inquired with mild interest, either for his own benefit or for the sake of maintaining a steady stream of conversation to ease the cordiality he would shortly need.
She wasn’t quite sure how out of practice a man like Sphinx would be.
Pratt, she reminded herself with a mental kick. Pratt.
She had to think of him as such for the duration of the mission, or their objective would be completely compromised.
“There is a false bottom in my trunk,” Hal informed him with a quick smile. “My father had it installed when I was eleven or so. Told me it would be a marvelous place to keep my secrets when we travelled as a family. I rather think now that he might have kept his secrets in there, but it did well enough.” She shrugged and glanced out of the window at the passing buildings and inhabitants of Paris walking about.
Strange how a place could look so like another in some ways, and yet so very strange in others. They might have been on a neighborhood street in Mayfair for the appearance of their surroundings, only there was a sort of haunted feel to the streets of Paris. As though the buildings themselves could tell the tales the city had seen in the last fifty years.
If not longer.
“Are you nervous?” Pratt asked in a low voice she couldn’t interpret well.
Hal shook her head but swallowed so hard it surely betrayed her. “I’ve never been particularly good at pretense.”
“Nor I,” he confessed.
She laughed once without an ounce of humor in it. “Then what the devil are we doing here?”
Pratt exhaled without smiling, though there seemed to be amusement in the sound. “I’m sure we’ll find out by and by. So for now, let’s just be delighted to be out of the damned carriage and to see your family.”
“Family is an interesting choice of word,” she murmured as the carriage pulled to a stop before a house identical to the one beside it. “Relations are all I can claim of them.”
“Well, let us hope they see you as more than that,” Pratt grunted as he leaned forward to grab the handle of the door, only to find a prompt footman already opening it. “If they don’t, we will have a rather awkward time of it in Paris for the duration of our stay.” He quirked his brows knowingly, his expression almost derisive.
Hal made a face back, though Pratt had already disembarked and missed it. “Yes, thank you, husband,” she muttered. “So encouraging. Really.”
His hand was extended, as it was her turn to climb out, and she took it, remembering, belatedly, that she had removed her gloves at some point in the coach. The touch of his skin against hers was almost jarring in its intensity, though it was a simple matter of palm to palm, fingers around fingers. He was warmer than she expected, and the heat of him raced into her arm, drawing her closer to him as she stepped to the ground.
Not gracefully, given that she nearly swayed into him with that final step, which, when combined with the odd squawk that came from her mouth, gave the impression that she had stumbled worse than the reality.
Pratt gripped her other arm with a quick snatch. “Steady. Are you all right?”
An embarrassed heat raced into her cheeks, and she shook her arm free while her hand still held his. “Fine,” she snapped, fidgeting with her traveling gown in an attempt to recover some dignity. “The step was not sturdy.”
“Of course.”
There was no irony in his tone, and for some reason, that was worse.
“Thirty-six hours in a coach with you has left me in a vile temper,” Hal grumbled, glaring up at him. “Don’t provoke me before I’m forced to be pleasant for show.”
“In what way have I provoked you?” Pratt inquired in the same dry, mild tone he’d used all morning as he led her to the door of the house. “All I said was…”
“Not another word,” she ground out, gripping his hand. “I beg you.”
Incredibly, he listened and complied, giving her hand a gentle squeeze in return.
Hal exhaled slowly, the pressure in that squeeze grounding her as her anticipation rose. As in all else in this mission, she was playing a part, acting to accomplish the task at hand, scheming for opportunities to unearth what she could. But this moment before her would bear more truth than anything else she would endure for some time.
This was the home of her legitimate family, actual relations that would be hosting them, and she was about to properly make their acquaintance for the first time in her life.
Anticipation and anxiety ran a footrace within her at the prospect. Swallowing was impossible, breathing unbearable. And she was exhausted.
The door of the house opened as they approached, a second footman stepping out and moving to join the first to help with their trunks. Then an older gentleman with greying temples stepped out and snapped a bow.
“Madame Pratt, Monsieur Pratt. Welcome. Le baron and ze family will please greet you inside.”
“Thank you,” Pratt replied in a clear tone, sliding his hand from Hal’s to offer a more polite arm to her, which she took in the same smooth motion.
At least the butler would find them collected and proper, even if no one else would.
Hal continued silently beside Pratt as they moved into the house, following the butler within, her throat going dry and tightening all at once.
What if her mother had grossly offended her French relations before she left, and this was all just a dramatic plot that would end with her being thrown out onto the streets of Paris with her sham of a hu
sband? She had no other connections in France, and she doubted Pratt did, either. Everything in the mission hinged on them being able to move about in high circles, and without any other operatives to confer with safely, changing the tone of said mission would be infinitely more difficult.
There hadn’t been time to wait for an answer to the letter she’d sent to her mother’s cousin, practically inviting herself and her new husband to stay with them, so she had no assurance that they wanted the company.
But they had been let in, almost as though they had been expected.
Would they now be informed that there was no room for them here? Or that their would-be hosts would rather not be hosts?
Hal found herself looking around the entry as they stood in it, and her breath caught at the finery she saw. Gilded edges to nearly every surface from ceiling to floor, exquisite artwork adorning that ceiling, and the marble beneath their feet glistened, echoing every step placed upon it. Even the sconces on the walls were gilded, and the candles within them burned brightly despite it being the middle of the day with plenty of daylight streaking through the windows.
There was no sense to that but to reveal a complete lack of concern for the cost of candles, nor the wasting of them.
Strange.
“Zis way, monsieur, madame.” The butler gestured down a corridor somehow even more gilded than the entrance hall, and it was only then that Hal realized she had been gawking like an urchin in a palace.
Apparently, her husband had as well.
“I feel as though I will dirty something just by being in the same room,” Hal muttered out of the corner of her mouth. “Why is everything white and gold?”
Pratt said nothing beside her and only continued moving in the direction the butler led them, attention fixed ahead.
Hal frowned up at him. “Say something.”
One edge of his mouth lifted just enough to give her an indication of life. “You told me not to provoke you. I’m doing my best to accommodate that instruction.”
A startled chuckle erupted from her, and she clamped her free hand over her mouth, the brief sound of her laugh echoing off the pristine surfaces of the house. Hal squeezed her eyes shut and found herself curving into Pratt’s side in an attempt to recover herself as more giggles bubbled up.
“But if you would like my insight,” Pratt went on, seemingly unruffled by her current state of hilarity, “I will admit that I find the expanse of white to be slightly unnerving when not dressed in finery. The gold is an elegant touch, but I have the strangest sense of being in a palace rather than a residence.”
“It would seem that the family fortunes are intact, even if the title is not,” Hal murmured between snickers, straightening herself up and facing forward yet again. “Perhaps Tilda’s efforts were not in vain.”
Pratt grunted once. “After seeing the adornments in this house, I will kiss Tilda’s feet when we return to England, mark my words.”
Hal grinned up at him, her nerves miraculously abated for the time being. “Consider them marked.”
He smiled at her in return, and the strangest sense of unity filled her, despite the ache in her head, the fatigue in her limbs, and the general sense of being covered in dust from their travels. Even if the worst happened and they were tossed out, at least she would have him by her side.
Whether or not that was worth anything remained to be seen, but there was some solace in not facing this alone.
“Are you ready, Ange?” Pratt asked in a quiet voice, the blend of green and brown in his eyes seeming to swirl with a hidden depth to the question.
Or perhaps that was the endearment.
“More ready now than a moment ago,” Hal admitted as she allowed her arm to curl more fully into his. “Thank you.”
One of his brows lifted. “For…?”
Hal rolled her eyes. “I’ve never known you to be more amusing or agreeable than you have been in the last few days, and I can only imagine you are doing so in an effort to set me at ease. Or to rid me of my doubts. Whatever your reasons, I am appreciative.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about. Perhaps your initial perceptions were incorrect, and now you are seeing the truth of me.”
“Perhaps…” She drew the word out, hesitation palpable. Then she pursed her lips. “And perhaps I am truly an opera dancer who trained in Italy and this entire excursion is only an opportunity to perform in Paris.”
Pratt only exhaled with more noise than he usually did. “I knew it.”
Hal bit her lip hard, fearing she might actually draw blood as she forcibly restrained laughter. A hum resembling a weak laugh escaped, but the rest remained within her chest, bouncing off her ribs and lungs until she feared she’d strain for her next breath.
The butler suddenly turned to his left and bowed. “Monsieur, madame, vos invités sont arrivés.”
“Help,” Hal squeaked, laughter still warring within her.
“Inhale…” Pratt instructed with a small smile, waiting for her to do so. “Exhale…”
She obeyed again, slowly, then nodded as the laughter faded, leaving only exhaustion behind.
Which had been there before her laughter, so she supposed all was well.
Nodding once more, Hal lifted her chin and turned to face the doorway to the next room, proceeding forward when the butler stepped back. Her fingers brushed absently against Pratt’s sleeve, and his free hand covered hers in an almost automatic response.
There was something quite sweet about that.
She turned her attention to the overdressed parlor they were entering, and the people within.
A taller gentleman with greying hair and a fairly trim, though admittedly sluggish, frame smiled with what appeared to be genuine warmth. He wore no jacket, only shirtsleeves and a vest, his cravat middling in flourishes, and there was something about the way his dark eyes crinkled that Hal instantly liked.
“Mon petit Ange,” he said in a newly booming voice. “Bienvenue, bienvenue!”
Hal smiled with more sincerity than she had intended, the impulse an involuntary one in the face of his good humor. “Monsieur le baron,” she greeted, curtseying with more perfection than she had ever managed in her entire life.
“Non,” he urged, coming to her quickly and taking both hands. “Non, ma petite, we shall not stand on ceremony here. No titles. Please, call me Jean, or de Rouvroy, if the formality pleases you.” He kissed both hands, then leaned in to kiss both cheeks.
“Merci,” Hal murmured, blushing just a little. She turned to indicate Pratt beside her. “This is my husband, Mr. Pratt.”
De Rouvroy looked at Pratt with an equally warm smile. “Monsieur, you are most welcome, to my home and to my family.”
Pratt bowed in return. “Merci beaucoup, monsieur.”
De Rouvroy nodded politely and turned back to Hal with a sigh. “Ma douce cousine. So much like your maman. Not the eyes, though. Dark eyes, she had.”
Hal returned his nod, still smiling. “She did, and I do not resemble her so much. I take after my father.”
“Ah, but the same esprit is there.” He grinned and tapped her cheek gently. “Juste là.” He exhaled with some unspoken emotion, then turned, brightening. “Allow me to introduce you to ma famille.”
A surprisingly young woman stood by an ornate divan, her gown too elegant for a day at home with family but flattering in the extreme. Where de Rouvroy was aging, albeit well, this woman could have sprung from the fountain of youth itself. She could not have been more than a year or two older than Hal, unless her eyes were deceiving her. Her dark, sable hair was pulled back with fashionable simplicity, emerald ear bobs dangling along the ringlets surrounding them, and while her smile did not bear the same warmth as her husband’s, it was rather pleasant in its own right.
“Cousine, Mr. Pratt,” de Rouvroy intoned with a heartfelt formality, “ma femme Victoire, Madame de Rouvroy.”
Victoire curtseyed effortlessly, her hands cradling a swel
ling in her belly Hal hadn’t noticed initially. “Welcome,” she greeted softly almost without accent. She gestured to nearby seats. “Please, join us. I will send for some tea.”
“Madame,” Hal protested, shaking her head. “My husband and I have been traveling without stopping since Calais. We are rather dusty, I fear, and your furniture…”
“J’insiste,” Victoire overrode without hesitation, her smile spreading. “The chairs were made for sitting, non? You are not so filthy as to ruin them. You must be exhausted, do sit.”
De Rouvroy chuckled and gestured to the chairs as well. “You should do as she says,” he encouraged. “She is quite fierce in her opinions.”
Hal managed a smile and nodded once. “Fair warning, cousin. I am likely to drift off if I sit for too long in a comfortable place.”
“And I would shortly follow,” Pratt admitted without any of the stiffness she’d expected of him.
“We shall not keep you long,” de Rouvroy told them both. “A bit of nourishment and then off to your rooms for rest and récupération, oui?”
Hal sighed as she moved to her chair, her smile spreading. “Oui. S’il vous plaît.”
Victoire laughed as they all sat. “Ze journey from Calais can be very trying if you have no place to rest along the way. Ze roads alone are très misérable.”
“They are indeed,” Pratt agreed, crossing one knee over the other beside Hal. “Ange here managed to sleep despite them, but I could not.”
“Impressive, cousine,” de Rouvroy praised warmly. “I cannot manage so myself. That road is not so good as the English roads, I think.”
Hal tilted her head as tea was brought in. “Have you been to England?”
“Oui,” came the simple reply. “Several times. Ze roads are better there, but our opera is better here.” He winked with a chuckle as he indicated that they should help themselves to the tea.
“I do hope to see it,” Hal said before she could help herself, stirring a bit too much sugar into her tea.
To Sketch a Sphinx Page 5
