John moved to seat Hal just to the right of her cousin at the head of the table, assisting her with her chair, as any good husband would, then sitting, shockingly, beside her.
Husbands and wives rarely sat beside each other in polite company in England, but it was clear that these French relations of Hal’s considered this an informal family dinner, despite not truly knowing each other at all.
This would take some getting used to.
He forced a smile as he sat beside Hal and looked up the table at their host, who nodded, then bowed his head and offered a brief prayer in French, hardly giving John time enough to lower his head in deference before the thing was done.
Hal giggled very softly and turned it into a cough, reaching for her water as she glanced at John, the mirth still in her eyes.
If this was how their time here would be, he doubted either of them would come out of it unscathed. If they managed to get anything accomplished on their mission at all, it would be a miracle.
As they began to serve up the meal, chatter commenced around the table. Hal was very nearly interrogated as to her life in England, and anything that could be said about her mother seemed music to de Rouvroy’s ears. Either he truly adored his cousin, or he was an actor of great skill, and John was struggling to tell the difference.
Yet another sign of his fatigue.
No one paid any particular attention to John, which he was quite grateful for. He had no desire to prattle on or to make his life seem in any respect more exciting or entertaining than it really was. He led a simple, scholarly life, apart from his ties to the covert operations in which he was now engaged, and it would be rather difficult to describe exactly what he did in a manner that would not bore the family to tears.
But from the sound of it, Hal’s childhood had been particularly eventful. Her parents had traveled about the Continent from time to time and had brought their twins along with them on occasion. While she might not have attended suppers, by her own admission moments ago, she clearly benefited from her mother’s peculiar parental tendencies, similar in style to her cousin, le baron.
“And how is your dear brother, then?” de Rouvroy inquired after slurping a spoonful of soup uncomfortably loudly. “I know your mother was not pleased about his being called Hunter, but your father would insist upon it.”
Hal smiled at that, but John could feel the tension in it from where he sat. “Hunter is well enough. I don’t know if you have heard, but he has left Society. Nearly ruined us all, you know, with his gambling and his ungentlemanly behavior. Quite a pariah now, and he seems content to remain so.”
The baron looked sympathetic. “Oh, I am grieved to hear it. Is there nothing to be done to repair his reputation?”
“If he seemed at all repentant, it might help.” Hal shrugged and dipped her spoon into the soup before her. “But alas, he is not, and will not be.”
“Brothers can be a trial,” Agathe broke in from her seat, glaring coldly at her own brother without any preamble.
René returned her look, wide-eyed and surprised. “Qu’est ce que j’ai fait?” he demanded.
Agathe gave no response and only shrugged as she buttered a roll from her plate.
“I have a brother myself,” John broke in, unsure why he was doing so, turning his attention to the head of the table. “Younger. And he is a trial, as well, I can assure you.”
Hal forced a laugh and nodded for effect. “Oh, that he is!” She smiled at de Rouvroy. “You’d like him, I think, cousin. Full of good humor and mischief, and practically irreverent about anything.”
“It is a wonder, then, that you married this one,” the baron remarked with a teasing lift of one brow.
John’s stomach clenched, and it was all he could do to smoothly continue to eat his supper as if the statement meant nothing. As if he were completely secure in his wife’s affections. As if the question had been asked dozens of times before.
As if the marriage had been one of choice.
“Oh, he wouldn’t have done for me at all,” Hal scoffed loudly, laughing at the very idea. “He is good for a laugh, I grant you, but in small dosages only. I would not trade my husband for his brother for anything. I have surely gained the better of the Pratt brothers, cousin, and I stand by my choice.”
Choice.
But there hadn’t been a choice. They could probably have done the mission without the marriage that had come with it, but the decision had not been theirs to make. She could have said no during the vows, he supposed, though it would have irritated their superiors that she was again making things difficult. She could have refused, and they would have made do.
She hadn’t refused, but could she say she had chosen?
“That must give you some comfort, monsieur.”
John blinked and looked up at the baron, unable to even pretend at a smile. “It does, sir. More than you know.”
Hal’s hand crept across the tabletop to cover his where it rested, then curved her fingers around his hand gently.
One heartbeat, perhaps two passed, and John shifted his own fingers enough to hold her hand as it held his.
Hal gave him a tiny smile, the pressure against his hand increasing for just a moment before she returned her attention to the baron. “Hunter did make an appearance at our very small wedding. Just long enough to do his duty and wish us well.”
“Did you get a trousseau for your wedding?” Agathe asked with sudden interest. “You cannot go out in our society without the parure nécessaire. It would be an embarrassment.”
“Never fear, cousine,” Hal said with a smile that was more mischief than anything else. “We have all that we need, I promise you that.”
Chapter Six
“Why does my hair feel even worse now than it did before?”
“Because that particular style is much worse than what you wore the other night.”
Hal glared at her husband as he sat in the coach beside her. “That question did not require an answer.”
“Then, you shouldn’t have asked it aloud.” Pratt shrugged and looked out of the window. “Why voice a question that doesn’t require an answer? Waste of words.”
“I have no qualms about hitting a man, Pratt. I have a brother who has borne my bruises,” Hal told the infuriating man without looking at him. “Do not tempt me.”
Pratt said nothing to this, which was to be expected, as he said nothing most of the time. He had said nothing all day, not that she had wanted him to. Left in the house of her cousin and his unending brood of children, Hal enjoyed nothing more than the silence her husband afforded her. The children were sweet and rather dear, but they were also wild, undisciplined, curious, and enthusiastic about anything and everything.
Hal was relieved she hadn’t been brought up in such a way, even if her cousin thought it appropriate.
The only respite she’d had from the energy of the house was when they had gone to fetch their trousseau from Tilda’s friend. The baron and his wife had been suitably impressed by the name they had given them, which settled both her and Pratt as to the nature of Tilda’s promises. If nothing else, they would be impressively arrayed, which ought to be enough to put them in the appropriate circles, if nothing else would.
There was one thing, however, that she had not settled on, in her mind or otherwise.
How the devil were they supposed to know who they were looking for? It would hardly be as obvious as a man or woman announcing themselves as a prescriber of Sieyès’s beliefs, wishing for his dream to be fulfilled, recruiting others to join in a new order they were creating… All within earshot of the pair of them, of course.
It could not be so easy as that, but how would they know it? Where would they look? What would they have to suspect anyone of?
There were valid reasons that Hal had not been deemed a successful candidate for the covert world, and this was surely one of them.
How did anybody embarking on an assignment actually know where to start?
“
I do believe I can hear you thinking, Ange.” Pratt glanced at her as they rambled on in the coach. “What is the subject of such efforts?”
“Our mission.” Hal lowered her voice, though they were alone in the carriage and no one could possibly hear her. “How in the blazes will we know what to look for? What if nothing is obvious? How do we even begin to…?”
“I was wondering the very same thing just now,” he interrupted with a dry laugh. “With little to no information, apart from whatever is in your trunks and mine…”
She turned to him then, her pulse skipping. “We have to go through those tonight. It’s likely we should have already done so.”
Pratt snorted once. “When would we have had the time? Last evening, we barely made it through supper without falling asleep, and today, we were forced to endure entertainment before we fetched our costumes, then were foisted into ridiculous garb, scarfed down a quick supper, only to then be thrust into a coach so that we may suffer through an opera.” He exhaled heavily, as though the mere recollection of the day’s events was as exhausting as the day itself had been. “There was no time, Ange.”
“You don’t have to call me that now,” she reminded him, ignoring how her toes tingled every time he said it, particularly when his voice dipped lower on the final syllable. “We’re alone.”
Again, he shrugged. “Easier to remember to call you such in company if I call you such in private. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I don’t,” she quipped quickly. “Just reminding you.” She looked down at the tips of her fingers, encased in pristine new gloves. “So tonight, we simply make acquaintances? I cannot see what else we can hope for without more information.”
“Agreed. We’ll use that inestimable mind of yours to remember faces and facts later. For now, we’ll simply make ourselves known.” He winced as the words escaped. “But not too much. A very subtle introduction to us.”
Hal laughed and shook her head, much as the pinned monstrosity that was her hair protested the motion. “Well, I was hardly planning to announce us from the stage before the show began…”
“I wouldn’t put it past you, if it served your ends.” He gave her an all too knowing look, which was hardly fair, as he barely knew her.
She barely knew him, come to think of it. She realized she had been less than polite with him in the past, quick to take offense and snap back at presumed injuries. He was not a man of outward congeniality as his brother was; perhaps she had assumed the brothers shared a similar nature when, in fact, they were nearly opposite. Her judgements and assumptions had been ignorant where he was concerned, and she had little reason to think he’d done otherwise with her. But she had never doubted his abilities or his loyalties, and she’d never heard of him slandering her work either.
There was no such thing as a professional marriage, as far as Hal was aware, so she supposed that, mission-based or not, she might as well treat it as the connection it was.
“I’ll have you know,” she told him with a playful sniff, “that I happen to be remarkably reserved in company. Anything involving Society at all, and I barely speak a word.”
The look of uncertain disbelief was worth the revelation, and she couldn’t help but grin at it.
“That cannot be true.”
She shrugged a shoulder. “It is. You would know if you saw me in company, but I never go out in it. My brother inherited all the charm and social affability my parents had to offer. I am always more content in intimate circles or on my own.”
Pratt blinked, and Hal could almost feel his thought process, agile as it was, working on the idea. “Then we are destined to struggle in this mission of ours,” he admitted slowly, “because I’m reserved no matter where I am.”
“That is a slightly less shocking statement.” She continued to grin, and he smiled in return.
He opened his mouth to reply when the coach stopped, bringing both of their attentions around to the building before them.
A line of carriages preceded them, and elegant people disembarked and made their way inside. Thankfully, many of the ladies had their hair coifed in a similarly ridiculous style as Hal.
If all else failed, at least she would not stand out because of her hair.
“Please don’t be offended if I fall asleep during the performance,” Pratt muttered as he moved to the door of the coach, which a gold liveried footman opened. He nodded and stepped out.
“I will ensure you do not,” Hal returned as she followed, allowing him to help her down. “If I am to endure this, so must you.”
He made a face, then extended an arm and looped her hand through it, sighing.
Cousin Jean, Victoire, René, and Agathe approached them, having ridden together in another coach, and the group moved into the theatre.
The general murmur of the public could have been described as a discordant hum that ebbed and flowed as though on a wave. Everywhere Hal looked, she saw finery and excess. While not the grandest theatre in Paris, and certainly nothing to the London Opera House itself, it was hard to think of anything lacking even in comparison. As with the de Rouvroy home, nearly every surface was gilded, shining with the luster of gold in the candlelight, and pristine in its artistry and workmanship.
The guests within, especially those currently lingering along with their group in the entrance and corridors of the theatre, could also fit that description.
Hal had never seen gowns of such detail and finery, and she had been to events in some of the highest circles in London. Not in some time, granted, but the memories of those events lingered in her mind with astonishing clarity. Nothing she had ever seen there compared with the excess before her now. Fortunes had clearly been spent on the gowns, and possibly hours on the ladies’ hair alone, both of which seemed to be a waste to Hal. Some gowns clung to the fashions on their way into the catacombs of such wares while others were evidently the styles that were yet to come.
How could a matter of skirts, sleeves, and waistlines have so much influence on Society? What power did they wield, and how had they been granted it? And by whom?
Hal had never understood it, but she had to abide by the rules set down just as the rest of the ladies did. Reluctantly, as her unremarkable yet acceptable gown would testify, but abiding just the same.
She had never felt more out of place in her life, and that included any and all events in London.
“Remind me what we are seeing this evening, de Rouvroy,” Pratt said in a surprisingly calm and seemingly interested tone.
The baron grinned as he led their procession down the crowded corridor. “In honor of you both, Pratt, we will enjoy Elisabetta, regina d’Inghilterra. Extraordinary music, simply marvelous.”
Pratt only grunted and pasted a would-be pleasant smile on his face.
Hal pitied that false smile, least of all because it looked as though it pained him.
“I saw this when it played in London,” Hal whispered to Pratt as they continued towards the box her cousin had reserved. “Middling at best. Rossini wrote the role of Elizabeth for his mistress.”
“You aren’t serious,” her husband muttered back.
“I never jest about opera.” She grinned up at him, nudging his side a little. “Don’t worry, I heard that he married the woman a few years ago.”
Pratt glanced at her, his lips curving just enough to be encouraging. “Because that was my primary concern.”
Hal snickered, covering her mouth to stifle the sound from her relations. Sometimes, her husband’s dry humor really was quite perfect. Had she noticed that during their previous encounters? Not that she would have found anything praiseworthy in him, given their disputes and opinions in the past, but surely he’d shown some humor then.
Or had they only met under stressful situations where any sort of joviality, dry or not, would have been inappropriate?
If she knew anything about John Pratt, it was that he was never anything less than appropriate.
Never.
As the
y moved up the stairs, de Rouvroy began to wave at other guests and greet them warmly, his French taking on a more formal tone, though nothing in his behavior changed from the manner Hal had seen from him so far. All warmth and friendliness, all affability, and he seemed to know every single person who greeted him.
Hal marveled at her cousin and shook her head to herself. She had never been that person, and she would never be. Where he seemed to revel in the attention, she would have shrunk back from it. She knew a great number of people in Society, and they knew her, but she would flee from any occasion that would have involved being in the center of them.
Her cousin would have apparently preferred to collect them all and let the attention fall in showers of praise around him. This meant that whatever number of people were greeting her cousin, their attention would also fall upon her by association.
Her cheeks flamed in response to the realization, and she found herself tucking closer to her husband, though there was no shield anywhere from the curious eyes. The staircase was open to the level above, and so well attended was the opera this evening that those eyes were everywhere. Every aspect of Hal, of Pratt, of de Rouvroy, of them all, would be witnessed by anyone watching them. All scrutinized, all commented on, and all creating an impression, for good or for ill.
There was no comfort to be found in that.
None at all.
Don’t trip. Don’t slip. Don’t fall.
She repeated the orders in her mind as she placed one foot in front of the other on the stairs, praying she did so with a modicum of grace. Poise had never really been an emphasis for her, more due to the lack of concern rather than a lack of necessity, yet now she felt that thread running through her spine and tugging herself upright. Could feel the books piled atop her head. Could feel the fingers beneath her chin pressing it up just enough to be perfect.
She could hear Miss Walker’s instructions now and could feel the disappointment in her efforts.
That wasn’t exactly the sort of feeling she wanted at the moment.
Perhaps now she could rewrite the past, in a way.
To Sketch a Sphinx Page 7
