Лорен Уиллиг - The Garden Intrigue

Marston had been easy, but he hadn’t been the consolation she needed. It hadn’t taken long for Emma to realize that. Mimi, or whatever her name was, had provided a much-needed excuse to break off an affair that Emma already knew to be a mistake.

“She was nothing to me,” Marston insisted, misunderstanding Emma’s comment. “Not like you.”

“How very lowering for her,” remarked Emma, and saw Marston’s lack of comprehension. He wouldn’t have thought of Mimi having feelings. She was just an object of convenience.

As he had been for Emma.

Despite herself, Emma felt a stirring of guilt. She had known what he was when she slept with him; she had gone to him because of it, seeking the distraction of the physical, without messy emotional ties. She had used him as much as he had used her, if not more. She owed him the courtesy of kindness, if nothing else.

Removing his hand from her shoulder, Emma pressed it briefly between both of hers. “I wish you all the best, Georges. Truly, I do. I hope you have all the success for which you could wish in Boulogne. Glories and triumphs and all that sort of thing.”

“The only reward I want is right here in Paris.” His eyes smoldered. “You.”

“I’m sorry, Georges.” Releasing his hand, Emma stepped back. “I’d get bored sitting on your mantelpiece.”

There it was again, that flicker of confusion. There had been a lot of that in the brief time they had been together. She had always known he thought her a little odd. She’d never done well with being seen and not heard.

“Mantelpiece?”

Emma shook her head. It wasn’t worth explaining. “Good-bye, Georges.”

This wasn’t what he expected. He took a step forward, crowding her back into the embrace of a garishly painted papier-mâché model of a mummy case. The mummy’s crossed arms bit into Emma’s back through the thin fabric of her dress.

“You don’t mean that,” he said.

“Ah, Monsieur!”

Linen swished past the periphery of her vision. Emma sucked in a deep, relieved breath as Marston stumbled back, glaring at the source of the interruption.

Unperturbed, Augustus Whittlesby raised a hand to one ear. “What is this I hear? My instincts inform me that you are in desperate need of the offices of a poet.” He smiled benignly at the infuriated Marston. “One should never try to woo without one.”

“No one,” said Mme. Delagardie firmly, “is doing any wooing. Monsieur Marston was just leaving.”

The man didn’t look like he had any intention of leaving. In fact, he was quite firmly planted in front of Mme. Delagardie.

For all Jane’s touching faith that the gossips must have exaggerated, it wasn’t looking good for Emma Delagardie. She had got rid of the cousin. That, to Augustus, was the crucial point. No woman created the conditions for a tête-à-tête unless she wanted one, and Delagardie and Marston were very tête-à-tête indeed. As Augustus had watched, she had led Marston on a chase through the crowded drawing room, drawing him along after her, like a comet trailing its train, her spangles glittering as she glanced back over her shoulder at him.

Just friends? Augustus thought not. He had seen the way Marston’s hands had disappeared beneath the trim of her dress, massaging her shoulders with the familiarity of long intimacy. He had seen the way Marston leaned in to speak to her, his lips practically devouring her ear. His pantaloons were tailored so tightly, Augustus could practically hear them squeak as he bent over.

If Marston was after Delagardie, that was all the more reason to move quickly.

Marston wouldn’t be pursuing her without a reason. Marston liked them dark-haired and generously endowed. Mme. Delagardie was fair and slight. It might just be that Marston was being dunned by his tailor again and thought a former lover, revisited, might be moved to generosity. The blaze of diamonds that adorned Mme. Delagardie’s person bespoke a careless affluence. Marston wouldn’t be the first to use a rich widow to refill his coffers; it was a trope as old as Chaucer.

On the other hand, there were plenty of other rich women out there, taller ones, bustier ones, ones more convenient to Boulogne. For Marston to have hied himself all the way to Paris to a house from which he had been banned, he must have a reason more compelling than an overdue boot maker’s bill.

“Should you be in need of assistance,” Augustus directed himself to Marston, “I should be more than delighted to convey your amorous sentiments into verse for the delectation of the object of your affection. For a small but reasonable remuneration, of course.” He plucked delicately at one flowing sleeve. “I call it Service à la Cyrano.”

“Service à la what?” Marston appeared less than overjoyed by the interruption. One might even call his tone belligerent.

To Augustus’s surprise, Mme. Delagardie answered for him. “Cyrano. In Rostand’s play, Cyrano de Bergerac takes on the wooing of the fair Roxanne on behalf of a handsome but…less verbally inclined officer.”

Augustus inclined his head to Marston. “Poetry, Monsieur, has long been the food of love. Perhaps you might like a small measure of assistance from a chef of long experience?”

Marston was not amused. “When I need help, I’ll ask for it.”

“Perhaps you ought to ask the lady.” Augustus directed a flowing bow in Mme. Delagardie’s direction. “A canto does more than cologne can to win the affections of a lady to a man.”

A muffled snort emerged from behind Mme. Delagardie’s fan.

Reddening, Marston turned to Mme. Delagardie, deliberately blocking out Augustus. “We can resume this later. Alone.”

Mme. Delagardie snapped her fan shut. “You needn’t bother. I shouldn’t want to put you out. Good-bye, Monsieur Marston.”

Marston pressed a last, lingering kiss to her palm. “Au revoir, Emma.”

His tone was that of a lover, but his eyes were as calculating as a Cheapside moneylender’s. That was Marston for you, venal to the core.

As for Mme. Delagardie, she watched her former lover go, but her expression was anything but amorous. In fact, if Augustus hadn’t known better, he would have said she appeared distinctly annoyed. Her lips were tight and her fan beat an impatient tattoo against her hip.

“Bother,” she said, with feeling.

“If I was interrupting…” Augustus fished.

Mme. Delagardie blinked, as though she had forgotten he was there. Augustus found this unaccountably annoying. He had large, flowing sleeves and carried an oversize paper scroll. He wasn’t exactly inconspicuous. And yet he appeared to have entirely escaped the notice of Mme. Delagardie.

“Oh, Mr. Whittlesby,” she said, confirming his initial impression. “Did you want something?”

“Me? To what wants could a humble servant of the muse possibly lay claim?” When he thought she had suffered enough, Augustus relaxed his pose. “It is not my wants, lady, but yours that bring me to your side on this fateful eve.”

“I would have called it more fearful than fateful,” muttered Mme. Delagardie.

“Fearfully fateful, then,” said Augustus. “Flora’s fairest flower informs me that you might have need of the assistance of an amanuensis for your amateur endeavors in the realm of Thespis.”

“My what?”

It was late and Augustus was tired. “I hear you’re writing a masque,” he said bluntly. “I thought you might desire my aid.”

Mme. Delagardie was silent for a moment. He had her attention now, but not necessarily in a good way. “I see,” she said, and she sounded surprisingly weary. “Are you offering to hire yourself out? Is this another sideline, like the Service de Cyrano?”

Would she be more likely to collaborate with him if she thought she was meant to pay for the pleasure? Some people put worth only in those things to which they could set a price.

“Even a poor poet must survive.” Something in her expression warned him that this was not a tack to pursue. Hastily, he added, “But in this case, I should be delighted to offer my expertise for the sake of art and art alone.”

“What are you suggesting?” she asked.

“A collaboration. Your ideas, my verse. Together, we can craft a masque to transcend the very heavens of invention!”

“You have,” she said, “a remarkable knack for statements that sound grandiose but say nothing at all.”

“Precisely the talent one needs for a good theatrical production,” Augustus said heartily.

Mme. Delagardie tapped her furled fan against her chin. “You might be right, at that,” she said. “It’s all about illusion, isn’t it? Illusion and spectacle.”

He had her. He could tell. Ha. He had told Jane this would be easy.

“Spectacle of the most spectacular,” he promised, feeling like an unlikely Mephistopheles luring a female Faustus to his bidding. “All Paris will be talking of it for years to come.”

“Years?” The tone was light, but the words were bitter. “Hours, more likely. Praise fades fast; only opprobrium lasts. Odd how memory comes and goes.”

“Like a chameleon,” said Augustus solemnly, “which changes color at a whim, now this, now that, no more constant than a lady’s style of hat. It lights one’s dreams, red, gold, and green.”

“Er, yes,” said Mme. Delagardie. “Something like that.”

Perhaps the chameleon had been a bit much. “When shall we start?” Augustus asked. “Miss Wooliston informs me that time is of the essence.”

“Miss Wooliston?” Mme. Delagardie’s plumes wobbled. “Was it she who told you to speak to me?”

“She is,” said Augustus reverently, “ever gracious and ever good. How could I refuse her so small a task?”

“Yes,” agreed Mme. Delagardie. “She is. All of those things. But in this case, somewhat overzealous. Your offer is very kind, but I have no intention of writing the masque.”

“But—”

“If you’ll excuse me, my cousin wants me. Good evening, Mr. Whittlesby.”

With a vague flutter of her fan, she wafted off in a cloud of silver spangles, in the direction of an ill-dressed man with his hair clubbed back in an old-fashioned queue. It was, Augustus had to admit, very neatly done. She had cut him off so quickly, he had no time to object. He was simply left standing there, mouth open on an unvoiced argument, wondering what in the devil he had done. He had been so sure he had her where he wanted her. How hard could it be, after all? She was a silly flibbertigibbet of a society matron, easily manipulable.

Only not.

Her cousin extended a glass half full of a somewhat murky liquid. He spoke in English, or the version of the language that the colonials recognized as such. “I didn’t find your punch, but I managed to persuade someone to make some.”

Mme. Delagardie smiled fondly up at him, but made no move to take the glass. “Thank you, Kort. Would you be hideously offended if, after all your valiant efforts, I declined to drink it? All I want is to find my carriage and go home.”

“Shall I escort you back?”

“No, stay. Enjoy yourself.” She favored him with a fleeting smile. “The night is still very young by Paris standards.”

“But late by New York ones. I would be more than happy—”

“Please,” she said, cutting him off as effectively as she had done Augustus. “I intend to curl up against the squabs and nap, and you’ll only be in the way of that. Unless you’re volunteering to serve as pillow?”

“All right,” her cousin said reluctantly. “Before you go, though, I nearly forgot to give you this.”

Fishing in his waistcoat pocket, he dragged out a piece of paper, loosely folded into thirds that promptly flapped open as he offered it to Mme. Delagardie.

“Sorry. Wrong one.” He hastily stuffed it back in his pocket. Rooting about some more, he extracted a second sheet, passing it to his cousin, who accepted it with a murmur of thanks. “I’ll call on you tomorrow, once you’ve had time to read it.”

Emma Delagardie lifted a hand and touched a finger lightly to his cheek. “I shall look forward to it. Good night, Kort.”

She tucked away the second paper in her reticule too quickly for Augustus to view what was written on it. He had, however, got a fairly good view of the first document, too loosely folded for privacy. It hadn’t been a letter, but a drawing, marked out in brown ink with numbers and other scribbling along the sides.

In other words, a diagram. A diagram of some variety of mechanism.

Or device.

Sussex, England