The Making of a Duchess (12 page)

   "And you didn't know she was in London?" the duchesse asked.

   "No idea," Sir Northrop answered, and he almost looked as though he were telling the truth.

   "I wrote," Sarah said quickly, not wanting Mademoiselle Serafina to appear rude. "Perhaps the letter was misdirected."

   Sir Northrop nodded at her. "Perhaps." He turned to the duchesse. "Your Grace, would you mind if I stole Mademoiselle Serafina away for just one moment? I know Lady Merton would love to see her. I'll bring her right back."

   "Of course," the duchesse said. "We'll wait here."

   Sir Northrop offered his arm, and Sarah took it. With her upswept hair, rouged skin, and fancy gown, she felt ridiculous beside the man who knew she was nothing more than a governess. But she reminded herself that no one else knew she was a fraud, and she held her head high. Sir Northrop led her across the room, glanced over his shoulder casually, and then opened a side terrace door and slipped out.

   The side terrace was small and empty. Chinese lanterns lit the main terrace as well as the lawns, but this section was shrouded from light. Sir Northrop closed the terrace door and leaned against it. Sarah pressed herself against the banister.

   "How are you doing?" Sir Northrop asked without prelude. "Have you found any evidence?"

   Sarah stared at him, anger building. "Found any evidence? No. I'm too busy trying to remember that my father is deathly ill, my family fled from Marseilles, and that
buona sera
means good evening. I think."

   Sir Northrop raised a brow at her tone.

   "I'm sorry," Sarah said, "but I'm at my wit's end. Thank God you interrupted just now. They wanted me to tell the story of the Guyennes' flight from France." Her voice was rising, sounding slightly panicked, and Sir Northrop held up a hand.

   "None of that, Serafina. I won't have it. Calm down."

   "Calm down? I might be able to calm down if I had a fortnight to study my character. If you'd given me more than three days to learn all of this!" She gestured at her gown and then the ballroom. "But how am I supposed to calm down when I have the duc de Valère asking me to marry him?"

   Sir Northrop leaned forward, and she could have sworn his eyes glinted. "Valère asked you to marry him?"

   She shook her head. "As if you didn't know! As if you didn't arrange it through the letters."

   "We didn't arrange it, but we had hoped the idea would occur to the Valères."

   Sarah shook her head, exasperated. She could hear her tinkling earbobs sway. "Why didn't you tell me?"

   He waved a hand as though her question were inconsequential. "What did you say?"

   "No, of course."

   "No?" His voice boomed out, and she winced. "Why did you say no?"

   "Was I supposed to say yes?"

   "Of course!"

   "How was I to know that?"

   "Any idiot would know that."

   She inhaled sharply and straightened her shoulders. "I see. Perhaps you'd like to send someone else to play Serafina. Someone who's not an idiot."

   She tried to push past him, to return to the ball, but he grabbed her shoulders and thrust her back against the banister. "This is not a game," he gritted out, his spittle wetting her cheeks. "I—we—don't have time for your dramatics."

   Her heart was pounding fast now, fear replacing the earlier feeling of inadequacy.

   "Do you understand?" Sir Northrop growled.

   She nodded. "Y-yes."

   Sir Northrop stepped back again, but that did not diminish the sinking feeling creeping over her. Sir Northrop was not going to help her. In the back of her mind, she had hoped he would tell her this was all over, that she could go back to little Anne and Edmund. But that was not going to happen. She was stuck being Mademoiselle Serafina, and no one could save her.

   "You said Valère asked you to marry him," Sir Northrop reiterated, calmer now. "And you rejected him."

   She nodded.

   "Was he angry?"

   "He said he wasn't."

   "But?"

   She glanced over his head at their shadows cast by the Chinese lanterns in the garden. Behind him, the bricks of the town house flickered red and blue and yellow ominously. "He seemed annoyed."

   "Not so annoyed that he didn't ask you to dance."

   "Duty is important to him. That's why he asked me to marry him. Duty."

   "Good. Then you can get him to ask you again."

   "What? No, I can't!" Sarah shook her head defiantly, but the look in Sir Northrop's eyes made her take a step back. "I told him no," she said sternly. "He's not going to ask me again."

   "Find a way to convince him otherwise. I need you engaged to Valère."

   Sarah felt suddenly exhausted. She was no spy. How could she possibly deal with all these complications? Couldn't Sir Northrop see she was unprepared? Did he not realize the dangers she faced if she failed as Serafina?

   She wanted to protest, but something about the way Sir Northrop glared at her kept her silent. Perhaps Valère was not the only danger.

   "An engagement lends more legitimacy to your being in Valère's home," Sir Northrop told her, "and it develops closeness between you and the duc. The closer you are, the easier it will be for you to crack his defenses, find out what he's really up to."

   "I saw a letter on his desk." The tidbit was not much, but maybe it would substitute for an engagement. "The writing was French. I didn't get a good look, but I thought it might have come from the Continent."

   Sir Northrop nodded, looked pleased, and she relaxed slightly. Afraid of Sir Northrop! Sometimes she was such a ninny.

   "Get your hands on that letter. Copy it or bring it to me. Valère and his mother will be going to the King's Theater next week. Make sure you're there."

   "And if I can secure the letter, then I don't have to worry about the engagement?" She knew even before she spoke that she was wasting her breath.

   Sir Northrop gave her a hard look. "You need the letter
and
the proposal. Is that clear?"

   She sighed. "But how do I persuade him to propose again?" She remembered the night before with no small discomfort. If she were Valère, she would not propose again.

   "That's your problem. Your orders are to become engaged. Posthaste."

   She stared at Sir Northrop, open-mouthed. Was this how the Foreign Office operated? Next they would be ordering her to get married and produce a child.

   An image of Valère kissing her, in an effort to produce that child, flickered in her mind. She saw his hand cup her chin, his fingers caress her cheek. And then those long, aristocratic fingers slid down to the exposed flesh of her neck and shoulders. She could almost feel his light touch skating across the swells of her breasts.

   She took a shaky breath. For a moment the thought of starting a family with Valère, the notion of having his children, warmed her—heated her. But she quickly pushed the notion away. Valère wanted Mademoiselle Serafina, not Sarah Smith.

   And she did not want him either. No. It was only the idea of children and a family that was affecting her. She could not think where those lustful thoughts had come from.

   "Did you hear me, Serafina?"

   She nodded rigidly. "Yes."
Find the letter. Get engaged.

   "Good. Now get out there and get to work. Use some of your feminine wiles."

   She raised a brow. "Feminine wiles?"

   "Exactly." He gave her a pat on the shoulder and opened the terrace door. "Good luck."

   And then she was back in the crush of people. She took one step and stared into Valère's azure blue eyes.

George himself.

   And now she was back again, her face white and drawn.

   Julien grabbed her arm, pulled her aside. "What did he do to you? Did he accost you?"

   "What?" She was staring at him, clearly confused. "No. That was Sir Northrop."

   "Who the hell—" He paused, tried to wrest control back. "Your pardon—who is Sir Northrop?"

   "My empl—a family friend."

   Julien narrowed his eyes. There was something she was not telling him. She looked down at his hand on her arm. "Would you mind releasing me?"

   He did so, stepping back but continuing to study her. Her face was pale, and she would not meet his gaze. "What's wrong?"

   "Nothing at all." She glanced at his empty hands. "Did you have a glass of champagne?"

   She was changing the subject, and he supposed he would have to allow it. After all, what she did on terraces with strange men did not concern him.

   He clenched his hands into fists.

   Julien spotted Stover heading toward them and nodded to him. Stover was just the man to keep him from saying something he would later regret. He already had too much to regret with this woman.

   "Mademoiselle Serafina Artois," Julien said as Stover paused and bowed before them. "I present Marcus Stover."

   She held out one gloved hand, regal and selfassured once again. The color had come back to her cheeks as well. "Good evening Mr. Stover. How are you enjoying the ball?" She had to raise her voice to be heard over the din of voices and the swell of the orchestra.

   "Very much, and you, my lady?"

   She smiled. "It's been a whirlwind." She gestured to the couples now dancing. The women were spinning, their gowns belling out.

   "Have you had time to see much of London?"

   She shook her head. "No, not yet."

   "Perhaps Valère will give you a tour. You're in Berkeley Square, and that's not far from Hyde Park."

   Julien frowned. Why had he not thought of offering to take her on a tour?

   "I've heard Hyde Park is lovely," she said, "but what I'd really enjoy is one of Gunther's ices. I haven't had one of those in—" She paused, glanced at the dancers again. "I mean, I've heard those are delicious."

   "I see our reputation precedes us," Julien said. "What else would you like to see? I'll take you when I have a moment away from business."

   "That will be never," Rigby interjected, coming up behind Stover. "You should allow me to escort you, Mademoiselle Serafina. We might practice our Italian." He winked, and Julien had to resist the urge to punch the man.

   "Perhaps you should take Miss Wimple out and about, Rigby," Stover said. "I'm sure she's on pins and needles, waiting for you to call."

   Julien coughed to cover his grin, but Rigby shot them both looks rife with sabers. Then he smiled. "Unfortunately, Miss Wimple is not in attendance this evening." He turned to Mademoiselle Serafina, his eyes sad. "Which means I have no one to dance with. Mademoiselle Serafina, would you end my loneliness and grant me the pleasure of this dance?"

   She blinked, looked to Julien for help, but before Julien could stop Rigby, the man had her on his arm and was leading her away. She glanced back once, her look pleading.

   "You should probably cut in," Stover said, watching them go. "Too much time with Rigby and she'll book passage back to Italy tomorrow."

   Julien crossed his arms to stop himself from following Stover's advice. He was not going to go after her. "That wouldn't be the worst thing."

   Stover raised his brows. "Trouble already?"

   Julien stared across the room for a full minute. He did not really want to discuss this, but when no engagement announcement was forthcoming, everyone would be talking about it anyway. "She rejected me."

   Stover frowned. "What? I didn't hear you."

   "You heard me." Julien kept his eyes on a sconce across the room.

   "You proposed already?"

   "I don't like to waste time." The music began, and he moved to the right a few steps, so that he had a better view of the ballroom and the dancers. He caught a flash of Rigby's red hair and shook his head. Mademoiselle Serafina was stumbling through this dance as well.

   "You might have waited until you'd had a conversation or two."

   Julien glared at him.

   "Just a suggestion."

"Thanks."

   Julien watched the dance proceed, watched Rigby laugh at something Mademoiselle Serafina said. Was she witty? She had not said anything amusing to him.

   "What are you going to do now?"

   Julien shrugged. "Any suggestions? I don't care about the marriage, but my mother has the whole
ton
thinking we're buying the bridal trousseau."

   "It's not that bad."

   Julien gave Stover a sidelong look.

   Stover pointed to Rigby and Mademoiselle Serafina. "Perhaps that's not such a bad idea. You might encourage more of that. Though"—he frowned as Serafina turned the wrong way—"she isn't likely to attract many dancing partners."

   Julien sighed. And just why exactly did that statement please him?