“I said nothing of the sort. But I would have supposed that a young woman who could not speak a word of English just an hour ago could not possibly have learned to speak it proficiently by sitting in a darkened room full of books for such a short time.”
“You don’t understand, I—”
“I am certain I see well enough. You have some deep, dark secret you want no one to know of. Let us see if we can solve the mystery. Perhaps you are Mrs. Ashby’s long-lost secret daughter.”
“Never! How horrid you are!” Claudette slapped the arms of her chair and stood up.
“No? Hmm, well then maybe you are a spy for the French royal house, seeking to determine whether England can be conquered by infiltrating her citizens’ dinner parties.”
She stamped her foot, hands on her hips. “I am no such thing. How dare you? I am Claudette Laurent, an émigré in the employ of the Ashbys, no matter how humiliating that may be. My father was Étienne Laurent, one of the greatest dollmakers in France. But I am certain, monsieur, you would not understand the meaning of hard work, and greatness achieved through talent.”
The man threw his head back and laughed. “Why, Miss Laurent, I am honored to make the acquaintance of the daughter of so great an entrepreneur. The next time I enter your presence, I shall ensure that I am adequately humbled and deferential.”
Claudette dropped back into her chair, arranging her skirts. She felt her cheeks burning. “Monsieur, you are not a gentleman, and I shall not listen to another word. I cannot understand why Mr. and Mrs. Ashby would have someone so boorish as a guest in their home.”
“Oh, I suspect my family name and connections quite overcome any objections Mrs. Ashby may have to my considerable personal faults.” He tucked his selected book under his arm, and put the lamp back down in its place. “Well, I leave you to your slumber.”
“I am not slumbering—” But the door had already clicked behind him.
Claudette blew a loose tendril away from her eyes. An infuriating man. What absolute nerve to speak to her so. He was certainly not a gentleman nor an intellectual like Jean-Philippe, despite whatever disparity there might be in their social strata. She twisted her betrothal ring, now worn on her right hand, with the thumb and forefinger of her opposite hand, trying to remember Jean-Philippe’s passionate discourses on politics. Yet her mind drifted.
Who was that man?
The tinkling of a bell startled Claudette out of the chair. It was another of Maude Ashby’s endless prearranged signals for Claudette to attend to her. She hurried out from the library to the dining room. Mrs. Ashby motioned for Claudette to pull up a chair behind her. The man from the library was sitting directly across from his hostess, a wine glass in his hand. He leaned back, a hint of a smile about his lips.
“My dear Mrs. Ashby, where have you been hiding your new lady’s maid? She is French, is she not? Given how superior they believe they are over the English, it seems that we should show them otherwise. I speak freely since, of course”—he leaned forward conspiratorially—“she knows no English whatsoever.” A small titter of female laughter emanated from somewhere at the other end of the table. For the first time during the evening, Mrs. Ashby seemed a bit unsure of herself.
“Why, Mr. Greycliffe, she naturally knows how to interpret her mistress’s commands. I am quite good at making my wishes known.”
“Yes. Undoubtedly you are. Does your lady’s maid know how to dance the minuet? It would be charming to see it danced by a genuine Frenchwoman. In fact, I would be happy to lead her and our entire assembly.”
Mrs. Ashby snapped open her fan and fluttered it furiously. This was a highly inappropriate suggestion, but should she risk offending a member of the Greycliffe family, who had recently come to royal notice for some particularly effective trade negotiations in the Caribbean? Royal appreciation usually led to a title.
“I was just about to suggest that it was time to retire from dinner and join together in dancing. James,”—she held out a hand—“would you please escort me to the gallery?”
The man called Mr. Greycliffe walked over to Claudette, made a small bow, and extended an arm to her. “Mademoiselle?”
She stood and took his arm, but refused to look at him. As they led the Ashbys and the rest of the company into the gallery, Claudette hissed under her breath, “Monsieur, I know nothing of dancing. I am but a dollmaker’s daughter.”
“Oho! How far you have tumbled in so short a time, mademoiselle. Were you not the heir to a great merchant when I last saw you?” When she did not respond, he leaned down. “Never fear, I will guide you.”
When the guests began entering the long room bordered on each side by chairs, the musicians immediately struck up the polonaise. Mr. Greycliffe led Claudette to the front of the room and slid a surprisingly strong arm around her. He whirled her gently through the S-patterns of the dance, showing her silently how to remain on the balls of her feet, with heels rarely touching the floor.
“You are a quick study, Miss Laurent.”
Claudette did not respond. She was thinking of Jean-Philippe. The last time she had been in a man’s arms it was to say good-bye after a walk through a park, not knowing it was to be their last meeting. She felt for her betrothal ring. Still there. This man was taller than Jean-Philippe, and blond, not with the dark hair and eyes she had come to love. He did have a fierce and protective hold on her waist, though. How many women had fallen under the spell of his tightly comforting grip? He smelled clean, with a faint trace of leather behind soap. She inhaled deeply. Jean-Philippe always smelt of soap, but it was a more delicate scent than what this man possessed. She shook off her reverie. Mr. Greycliffe was one of them, a conceited, arrogant Gentleman of Rank. She had no interest in him, and certainly he would have none in a French maiden in reduced circumstances.
The dance ended, and Claudette quickly disengaged herself, still burning where his arms had been. William Greycliffe leaned over her hand and said softly, “Enchanté, Mademoiselle Laurent. Let us hope we can repeat this experience.” His green eyes sparkled at her.
Fearing that he was once again making light of her, she fled the room quickly, feeling his eyes attached to her retreating figure.
Béatrice was not in her room, so Claudette went straight to her own bed, ignoring the knocks of other servants searching for her on Mrs. Ashby’s behalf. Her friend showed up hours later, flush with excitement.
“Where have you been? You will not believe what happened.”
Claudette sat up on her creaky bed, listening.
“I witnessed Nathaniel pulling a despicable prank and ruining Mrs. Ashby’s party. He slipped a snake—some harmless, garden variety—into the gallery. It slid into where the guests were dancing together. It crawled across a guest’s foot as she was waiting her turn in the contredanse. She began screeching and flapping around and wouldn’t calm herself until she knew the snake was captured. The lady’s husband took care of the snake, but everyone was outraged and demanded that something be done about Nathaniel, since it was clear he was the only one who could be responsible. You know Mrs. Ashby—she hugged her precious little boy to her and insisted that he couldn’t possibly have done it, even though everyone knows what a monster he is.”
“So Nathaniel was naughty. What is so unusual about that?”
“You haven’t heard what happened next. One of the guests knelt before Nathaniel and gave him such a sermon about duty and honor that the little brute actually broke down in tears and fled the room crying. I’ve never before witnessed Mrs. Ashby so speechless.”
Claudette almost regretted having left the party, not only because she was surely in for a lecture from Mrs. Ashby for leaving without permission, but for having missed this.
“Which guest was it?”
“A