Leigh Sparrow

by In Pursuit of the Black Swan

  “Sacre bleu!” Francois exclaimed with an overdone touch of drama. From him it was charming. “I will personally ensure that your gowns are completed in time for LaCroix Masque, if you will allow me to accompany you.”

  Alexandra raised her brows at his obvious candor. “The LaCroix Masque is two days hence. Are you extorting me, Monsieur?”

  His gaze met hers with shameless gall. “But of course.”

  With a cool curtsy, she turned to leave. Just as she exited, she paused and looked coyly back over her shoulder. “Very well, I shall agree.” Then she marched out of the shop.

  Behind her, his laughter rang through the shop.

  As Alexandra walked the ten blocks back to the boarding house, she wondered what had possessed her to flirt so shamelessly with Monsieur Jonteau. And yet, she had enjoyed it. His ridiculous flattery had made her feel…womanly. It had been a momentary reprieve from her looming onset of worries.

  Moreover, it was a stroke of luck that she had literally stumbled into him. One of the invitations Ian had provided her with was for the LaCroix Masque, and she had worried about attending it alone. The dashing Monsieur Jonteau would suit her purposes quite well as a convenient escort to her first ever masked ball. Her stomach tightened. Actually it was her first ball ever.

  Chapter 11

  Two days later, a strangely exotic woman in the mirror stared back at Alexandra. She gasped at her own reflection.

  “Nicole! My God, what have you done to me?”

  Nicole smiled like a proud hen, helping her tug on her gloves. “You are magnifique, Mademoiselle. Tres belle.”

  A white wig of artfully arranged ringlets was piled high on her head. A stunning ice-blue satin gown did surprising things for her figure, which she had considered merely girlish—until now. The gown tapered sharply into her waist, and then flared out into a very full ruffle skirt. Large blue sequins glittered along the plunging scooped neckline, emphasizing her very pushed up bosom. The sleeves were small slips of sheer fabric lying just off her shoulders. One bare shoulder was adorned with a heart-shaped patch in the same ice-blue satin. Her skin was dusted with a white powder, making her appear more like a mythical corpse. White gloves encased her hands and arms past her elbows, and a matching stole completed her ensemble.

  “Good God. My bosom looks bigger than the day I stuffed it with handkerchiefs,” she murmured. Edward’s face, flushed with rage, flashed in her mind. A wave of regret washed over her. He had been so furious with her that evening. It was almost five years ago—the last time she saw him.

  As she descended the stairs, Madame Marche smiled with approval. “You look glorious, my dear. Enjoy yourself. Your young man is already arrived.”

  “Thank you for all your assistance, Madame,” Alexandra said demurely and then turned to see Monsieur Jonteau.

  He bowed to her politely and perused her from head to toe. “I must say you look astonishing, Mademoiselle, especially considering the last time I saw you, you were wearing something more suited for feeding cows…Or pigs.” He smirked. He appeared quite the dandy French aristocrat, dressed in a burgundy tailcoat, black trousers, and gold brocade waistcoat with an impeccably tied white cravat. His tawny blonde hair was slicked back, and he carried a polished black cane in one hand.

  “Beware, Monsieur, I can use this wig as a weapon, perhaps to smother you.” She graced him with a demure smile and curtsied daintily.

  He arched his brows and laughed. “Please call me Francois.” He lifted her hand to his lips. “Formalities are such a bother. Don’t you think? Shall we depart?”

  Outside a modest coach waited with a team of two horses. A small lantern dimly lit the interior as they climbed inside.

  “My apologies for the austerity of the coach, but after dark, we find it more prudent to attract as little attention as possible on the streets of Paris.”

  “No apology required. I most kindly thank you for your escort,” she said. “How far is it to the LaCroix Chateau?”

  “Not far. It is just north on the outskirts of the Montmartre.”

  “Well, I suppose I should put on my mask.” She was not sure how far Montmartre actually was, but taking his word for it, she extracted a pearl-encrusted mask from her reticule, and carefully placed it over her eyes.

  Francois donned his own full-face mask of a harlequin.

  They both laughed and joked politely at the absurdity of their costumes, and soon the coach arrived at their destination, lurching to a halt.

  A footman at the entrance plucked their invitations and called out, “Madmoiselle Gabrielle Demerre… Monsieur Francois Jonteau.”

  “So much for a masquerade,” Alexandra muttered under her breath. “Why announce names when it is a masked ball?” When Francois cast a curious glance, she replaced her frown with a tight smile.

  Clinging to Francois, she descended the grand stairway, despite her wobbly knees. Peering through her mask, she carefully scanned the expanse of the crowded room. The sight of the dazzling crush of the ballroom brought an icy ribbon of terror slithering down her spine. Masses of guests with covered faces appeared like a sea of ghoulish marionettes, bobbing up and down without their strings to a jaunty minuette.

  She felt like she had stepped into a bizarre dream.

  Ironically, it was the most beautiful room she had ever seen. Opulent crystal chandeliers seemed to float above a lavish room, emitting sparkling light, suggesting mystery and extravagance and escape from a jaded reality beyond. The walls and multi-level floors boasted of golden marble. Tall windows were left ajar with sheer flowing draperies billowing from the August breeze. Wide pillared entryways beckoned the exclusive masked guests dressed in every brilliant and exotic costume imaginable. All the while, haunting melodies of stringed instruments echoed through the grand room, suggesting decadent indulgence, creating a façade of safe harbor against the sea of danger beyond its doors.

  This was her first ball. Somehow Alexandra had not envisioned the momentous occasion to occur in a foreign country, searching for Edward among a crowd of strangers. Her reason for being here made her realize how inconsequential she truly was. She had no leads and no clues, only a desperate urge to flee back to England. Her throat tightened and her knees threatened to buckle. She feared she might swoon for the first time in her life.

  To make matters worse, beneath her full petticoats, her pistol pinched into her leg. Bertha had surprised her by producing a dainty lady’s pistol with its own ornate leg holster which was now strapped above her knee. Yet strangely, the pistol was also a comfort.

  Among this multitude of guests, even with Francois standing directly beside her, Alexandra felt entirely alone. For once, she would earnestly admit to cowardice, but she had already come too far. Drawing a deep breath, she straightened her spine. Her trembling hand gripped the crook of Francois’s arm.

  At the start of the next dance, a waltz, Francois asked, “Shall we, Mademoiselle?”

  She nodded stiffly and he escorted her to the dance floor. Immersed in counting steps in her head, she hoped Francois wouldn’t wish to converse. Apparently he sensed her uneasiness and skillfully guided her, twirling her in time to the music.

  The dance ended and they took their bows. Then a gentleman in a very silly feathered hat approached. “A gavotte, ma belle! Please join me,” he exclaimed, giving a dramatic bow.

  Francois gestured for her to dance with the other gentleman. “It would be impolite for me to dance with you twice in a row. I shall procure us some champagne.”

  By the third dance with yet another partner, Alexandra was actually starting to relax—almost. She was well accustomed to the concept of masquerade, after pretending to be Ian for years. Even in her own outlandish apparel, she felt a sense of being invisible amid all the other lavish costumes.

  But Edward lurked in the back of her mind. That nagging sense of urgency twisting her stomach was a constant reminder of her true purpose in Paris. She looked around for Francois, but the throngs of people
made it futile to search for him.

  The crush of the guests closed in, faceless wraiths pressing around her. Their perfumes and body odors were suffocating. Terror coursed through her veins and her heart pounded. On wobbly legs, she forced her way through the animated crowd, twisting her body to maneuver her voluminous petticoats. Finally she made it through an arched door out to a long balcony.

  She crossed to the balustrade, falling forward against it, her fingers digging into the top of the rail. She closed her eyes and focused on the simple act of gasping for air, and then finally just breathing. Her lungs drew in the clean scent of freshly scythed lawn. A soft breeze caressed her face and bare shoulders, soothing her frayed senses. Adjusting her mask, she peered through the almond-shaped eye holes.

  The garden below was enchanting. Blazing torches washed golden light across manicured pathways upon which the guests themselves appeared as bright flowers. There were mostly couples she noted, and she felt wistfully, utterly alone.

  Standing quietly, Alexandra discovered she could eavesdrop on the sparsely clustered guests around her. Couples laughed and flirted. Many groups were engaged in heated political discussions.

  How dared they laugh, and frolic! Do they not realize the world is dimmer with Edward missing? The stars don’t shimmer. The moon is dull. The universe is broken.

  In truth, the universe broke the day Edward decided he hated her.

  With her best effort at nonchalance, Alexandra strolled along the balcony, attempting not to appear conspicuous. She paused now and again to hear animated tidbits of conversations: speculations about the war, complaints of the outrageous prices of brandy, slurred solicitations for lovers’ trysts. But nothing hinted of Edward.

  She reached the end of the balcony, blocked into a corner by the balustrade. She leaned forward, wishing she was a bird, wishing she could fly away into the night. But a sinking sense of despair weighted her to the earth, reminding her she had nowhere else to go.

  She was an impetuous idiot. Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her view of the garden. Five years ago, Edward left her at Devonwood Hall without a by-your-leave, and she fully deserved it. How naïve to assume he would even wish to see her. Her watery eyes squeezed closed while she struggled to not shatter into a thousand shards of glass.

  Then a masculine baritone voice spoke up softly from behind her. “How can the most beautiful woman at the ball be standing here all alone?”

  Her eyes opened. “Pardon me?” she asked nervously in English with a sharp sniffle.

  “You’re not French.” The voice behind her gently accused in perfect, cultured English.

  Fearing she had blown her disguise, she blinked away her tears and turned to examine him. “I daresay you’re not either,” she replied in French.

  “But you, cherie, appear very French tonight,” he remarked, also in French. His gaze raked over her like a hungry predator, sending hot shivers down her spine.

  Attempting to reclaim her composure, she forced a jaded laugh, giving a flick of her hand. “Oh, it’s the costume—my couturier’s design.”

  She eyed his costume, completely in black with a thin mask across dark glittering eyes. A long cloak was pushed jauntily over his shoulders, and a rather menacing sword hung at his side. “And you, Messieur, look like the very devil himself.”

  His mouth widened to a wicked smile. “Oh, but I am indeed. I assure you, this is no costume.”

  In a world where introductions could get one killed, being presented to the devil suddenly did not seem so ominous. He was taller and broader than any man she had ever been this near. Alexandra tried to move back away from him, but she was blocked by the balustrade. He took a step closer. His smile was devastating, with perfect white teeth. His dark wavy hair was neatly trimmed, yet longer, more rakish than the current shorter French style. A gold hoop twinkled from the lobe of his ear.

  Towering over her, the man’s eyes dropped to her bosom. “I salute your couturier, Madmoiselle.”

  His heated gaze made her skin tingle. A hot blush crept up her face. His voice was husky and hypnotic. His clean masculine scent of musk and limes tantalized her. There was something about him that touched her so profoundly it left her momentarily speechless.

  He is dangerous, her mind warned her. She should fear him, flee from him this very instant. But instead she was drawn to him, like a moth to inferno.

  Chapter 12

  He lifted his gaze from her breasts to her face. She was taller than most women, most refreshing given his own considerable height. Her jeweled mask covered the top half of her softly powdered face, yet allowed her expressive eyes to peek through the openings. Beneath the mask, her dewy pink lips were perfection. They were lips that could bring a man to his knees. And somehow, a distant tug swept through his mind like a sudden soft breeze, gone an instant later.

  “So, Madmoiselle, you never graced me with an answer to my question. Has the puss stole your tongue?” he teased.

  For a moment she only stared at him. Her lovely mouth dropped open and closed again. Then she dipped into a quick curtsy. “Please, Monsieur, I have pressing business. I truly must leave.” Her voice was husky, yet musical and held a chord of profound sadness.

  Beneath her mask, he was sure was the face of an angel. Her gown was ice-blue perfection against her ivory skin. He wondered at her true hair hidden under the silvery white wig piled high on her head. His eyes rested on the heart-shaped patch nestled on her lovely shoulder and he smiled.

  She was magnificent and her blush told him she was younger and more innocent than he originally thought. But she had arrived at the masque on the arm of Francois Jonteau, a scoundrel famous for flaunting his mistresses and he was even more infamous for his radical politics. Truly, she could not so very innocent.

  She turned to leave and his hand gently imprisoned her arm. “Whatever your answer, your secret is safe with me,” he said, inching closer.

  “Is it?” she asked with a sharp whisper. She eyed his hold on her arm and then looked up, probing his face from behind her mask with her amazing eyes.

  “I suppose you can never be absolutely certain these days.”

  Somewhere out of the depths of her sadness, the corner of her perfect mouth lifted into an impish smile. “Unless I kill you,” she said.

  He stared at her. In his presumption of her innocence, her remark was unexpected. “Ahh, yes. That would indeed silence me,” he responded, strangely fascinated. “Your secret would be quite safe indeed. But it wouldn’t be as…interesting.”

  She paused and tilted her head. “As interesting as what?”

  “How about a kiss?” he whispered.

  Her eyes widened. They were so blue they were almost violet.

  “If you don’t stop looking at me in that manner, cherie, I will kiss you right here and now.” And then he couldn’t resist lifting her chin with his fingers and lowering his head. His lips softly touched her rosebud mouth. He felt her gasp, but then she also kissed him back.

  How old was she? She was an angel fallen to earth, and he was the very devil, wanting to devour her.

  “Why don’t we walk,” he murmured. “Madame LaCroix’s gardens are renowned.”

  She peered across the gardens. “My escort will miss me.”

  “We’ll walk for merely a short while. Then I shall return you to him.” He had no intention of returning her to Jonteau. Although he dared to speculate if she would be in less peril with Jonteau or with him at the moment.

  They strolled through the garden and he saw other men staring. He felt strangely possessive. Taking her gloved hand, he pressed it closer to his arm.

  He had only intended to talk to her. Simply out of curiosity, he told himself. The very last thing he needed right now was an entanglement with a woman.

  Yet, intuitively he knew her face would be delicate and finely sculpted, and something about her expressive eyes touched his very being. Had she been weeping when he approached her?

  She appeared to
be quite taken with the gardens, and they were indeed splendid. But she herself under the golden torchlight made the gardens glorious, where before they were merely beautiful. What was it about this particular woman among all the lovely women here tonight that struck such an instant yearning in him?

  He guided her away from the torchlight, into a maze of hedges with quaint stone benches positioned cozily in shadowed corners. Finally alone in a small hidden alcove, he stopped and turned to her. “So, cherie, you never answered my question. Why are you alone?”

  “I am searching for someone.”

  “So is half of France.” He was instantly jealous as hell. “Are you married?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I’m beginning to think it does.”

  “It must not.”

  “Who is he? You cannot love him.”

  “How would you know?

  He paused. “Because of the way you just kissed me.”

  For a moment she seemed flustered. Then looking up at him, she smirked. “Perhaps I was pretending that you were someone else. After all, you could be anyone, and that’s the thing about masques. In times such as these, it is often preferable to remain anonymous.”

  His eyes narrowed. “In time such as these, I can have him killed if you wish it.”

  “No! I want him alive.” Her voice faltered. “I want him to come home…I love him.”

  A red streak of jealousy took hold of him. He reached for her and pulled her into his arms. “Perhaps he won’t love you the way I can,” he taunted.

  She struggled against him, but he held her fast. She felt heavenly.

  “Perhaps I shall steal you away,” he murmured. “I know I could love you better than him.” He lowered his head to steal another kiss and she pushed herself away from him.

  She stumbled two steps back. “You don’t even know me, Monsieur. Nor I you.” Her entire body trembled, yet her chin rose and her spine straightened like the Queen of England. He could only admire her courage to face him down despite her fear.

  He forced his breathing to slow, shocked at his own loss of control. “I know enough to tell you this: the man you are searching for is a fool.”