Frustrating? Absolutely. But weighed against starvation, exposure, and the violence of the streets, hardly intolerable.
And then, earlier that week, Alexandre had informed her that he'd soon be hosting another gala-and that she, finally, would be attending!
Her excitement and enthusiasm had lasted exactly as long as it took for Alexandre to arrange her first session with a tailor and hairdresser, at which point Adrienne lost patience with the entire process.
She glanced up, gaze smoldering, as Alexandre once more stepped into the room-alone. “I've given Francois the rest of the afternoon off,” he told her as he lowered himself gracefully into the nearest chair. “We'll try this again tomorrow.”
“Like hell we will!”
The aristocrat raised an eyebrow, a gesture that was starting to become instinctive around the girl. “You have a problem, Adrienne?”
“Me? A problem? Why would you think that?” She spread her arms melodramatically, the proto-gown crumpled into an uneven bundle and clutched in one hand. She wore only a heavy white chemise. “I've just spent three days standing around in my smallclothes, letting that decrepit snake stick me with needles and measure me in places that I could charge him for, and all for some stupid party where I'll be ‘privileged' to stand around and hold riveting conversations about the state of the economy, and oh, dear, the market in beans has taken a dip, what shall we do, and what the hell is that third fork on the left for, anyway?” She finally stopped, face flushed, breathing deeply.
“Are you quite through?” Alexandre asked.
“I'll let you know.”
“You do that. While you're thinking about that, start thinking about your behavior this evening.” A frown of disapproval that cut Adrienne far more deeply than she'd admit settled on his face. “Have you listened to a word I've said over the past months?”
“Well, yes, but-”
“Then can you please tell me why you've found it necessary to embarrass me constantly this week?”
The red in her cheeks deepened abruptly, and she found herself staring down at her toes. “I'm sorry. I-”
“I invited you to this ball because I thought you were ready for it. If I was wrong, you'd best tell me now.”
A fist of jagged ice closed around Adrienne's heart and squeezed. She finally looked up, stricken, unaware of the tears welling in her eyes.
Alexandre's own face softened. He dragged one of the other chairs over so it faced his own. “Adrienne,” he said gently, “come sit.” He leaned forward as she did so, cupping her hands in his.
“I know this is overwhelming. I'm sure it's been that way ever since you moved in. But that doesn't excuse this sort of behavior.”
“I know,” she whispered. “I'm sorry.”
The aristocrat shook his head. “I'd planned to let this be a surprise,” he continued, “but I think, perhaps, you don't need any more of those. This party is for you.”
The girl looked up, puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that when it's done, you'll be one of us. One of the aristocracy. I don't think you'll be ready to go off on your own for some while, but at least you won't just be ‘Delacroix's urchin' anymore.”
“How…how can you do that? Why would anyone accept me?”
“Because Duchess Luchene is coming. I invited her, in your name, and she's planning to attend. And if she recognizes you, even if only as a favor to me, the others will follow suit.”
Adrienne sat stunned. Her hands shook, and the only response her dizzied mind could manage was an unsteady, “Oh, shit.”
Alexandre's smile vanished once more. “What have I told you about profanity?”
The girl sighed, though she couldn't help but smile at the pedantic change of tone. “A true lady never curses,” she parroted back at him.
“And do you know why?”
Adrienne blinked. He'd never gone into it, and she'd assumed it was another of the endlessly labyrinthine laws of etiquette. “Umm, because it's not ladylike?” she ventured.
“No. Because a true lady should have the wit and the imagination, or at the very least the restraint, to express herself without resorting to such base vocabulary.
“Now,” he continued, releasing her hands and rising, oblivious to the strange expression his comment had inspired on his protege's face, “I think it's time we see what Jeanette has for us for supper. Then I'll send word to Francois to be ready for another session bright and early tomorrow morning.” He looked meaningfully at her. “Can I count on you to behave, Adrienne?”
The young woman sighed. “If he can keep from sticking any more needles in me, I promise to stand still.”
“Good. Once he's done, I'll have Beatrice start work on your hair.” He grinned evilly as he strode toward the exit. “You thought standing for the dress took patience…”
Adrienne slumped dejectedly in her chair. “Oh, fu-”
“Yes?” Alexandre asked, face gone stiff, frozen in the doorway with one hand on the latch. “Oh, what?”
“Figs.”
“That's my girl.” The door clicked shut.
CHAPTER TEN
Now:
“All right, all right! I'm coming, confound it all!” Through the living room of a small house, its interior neat and crisp as a military barracks awaiting inspection, the old man moved toward the front door. In one hand, he carried a small lantern, for he'd already doused the lights in preparation for bed. In the other, he carried a heavy bludgeon with which, even at his age, he was more than skilled enough to crack a skull or two. He wasn't expecting trouble, no, but neither was he expecting visitors-and one didn't reach an age to retire from the Guard of Davillon without knowing how to take precautions.
It took him an extra moment to work the lock and the latch on the door, what with both hands being full, but eventually he hauled the portal open a crack, just enough to see who waited on the other side.
“Well, I'll be…Come in, Major, come in!” The door swung wide in invitation.
“Thank you, Sergeant,” Julien Bouniard told him as he stepped across the threshold, doffing his plumed hat.
“None of that, Major,” Cristophe Chapelle told his former protege with a smile far wider than any he'd offered during their years of working together. “No longer a sergeant, me. Unless you want me to call you ‘Constable'?”
Julien smiled in turn. “There was a time the thought of calling you anything else would have terrified me out of a week's sleep.”
“Well, I suppose you can go with ‘sir' if it makes you comfortable.” Then, still grinning, “Have a seat, Major. I fear I haven't anything prepared this late, but I could offer you a brandy.”
It was a test, as much as an offer, and Chapelle saw in the younger man's face that he knew it. “Nothing for me, thank you,” Julien demurred as he selected a chair.
“Not a social visit, then, is it?” The old soldier sat across from his guest. “Let me see. You obviously think of yourself on duty, but you're not precisely here in an official capacity. You need my advice on something, don't you?”
Julien couldn't help but chuckle. “You haven't lost a step, I see.”
Chapelle harrumphed. “I could return to the job tomorrow if they wanted me.” Then, more seriously, “Tell me about it, lad.”
And that he did, from Widdershins's arrest to the bizarre incident at Rittier's manor, from the man he'd been forced to kill to the murdered guard they'd located only afterward.
“Monstrous!” Chapelle agreed, puffed up with enough indignant fury that he'd clearly forgotten he was no longer part of the Guard. “For them to come into one of our headquarters…”
Julien nodded. “I don't know what Widdershins is up to, or the rest of the Finders' Guild. I don't know if His Eminence is still in danger. But I do know that things are heating up, at a time where Davillon really can't afford them to. And I have no bloody idea what the Shrouded Lord could possibly be thinking, since he should be as anxious to avoid tumult during de Laurent's visit as the rest of us!”