sooner erased all signs of surprise than he wondered why he bothered. What was the use, with her, of pretending that nothing surprised him when everything did? She was the least predictable woman he’d ever met. And at this moment he felt like one of the men who’d walked into a lamp post.
He said, slowly and carefully, because surely he’d misunderstood, “You’ve been invited to Madame de Chirac’s ball?”
She made a small adjustment to her shawl. “I did not say I was invited.”
“But you’re going. Uninvited.”
She looked up at him, and the dark eyes flashed. “How else?”
“How about not going where you’re not invited?”
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “It’s the most important event of the social season.”
“It’s also the most exclusive event of the social season,” he said. “The king will be there. People negotiate and plot and blackmail each other for months in advance to get an invitation. Did it not occur to you that an uninvited guest is very liable to be noticed?”
“Didn’t I pass by you a dozen times undetected?” she said. “Do you think I can’t attend a ball without calling attention to myself?”
“Not this ball,” he said. “Unless you were planning to go disguised as a servant?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” she said.
“You’ll never get through the door,” he said. “If you do, you’ll be discovered immediately thereafter. If you’re lucky, they’ll merely throw you into the street. Madame de Chirac is not a woman to trifle with. If she’s not amused—and she rarely is—she’ll claim you’re an assassin.” The accusation might well be taken seriously, for France was unsettled, and one heard rumblings of another revolution. “At best you’ll end up in jail, and she’ll make sure no one remembers you’re there. At worst, you’ll make the personal acquaintance of Madame Guillotine. I don’t see the fun in that.”
“I won’t be discovered,” she said.
“You’re mad,” he said.
“The richest women in Paris will be there,” she said. “They’ll be wearing creations by Paris’s greatest modistes. It’s the greatest fashion competition of the year—a notch above Longchamp. I must see those dresses.”
“You can’t stand outside with the rest of the crowd and watch them go in?”
Her chin went up and her eyes narrowed. Emotion flashed in those dark depths, but when she spoke, her voice was as cool and as haughty as the comtesse’s. “Like the child with her nose pressed to the bakery shop window? I think not. I mean to examine those gowns closely as well as study the jewelry and coiffures. Such opportunities do not come along every day. I’ve been planning for it for weeks.”
She’d said she was a determined woman. He’d under-stood—to a point—her wishing to dress Clara. Dressing a duchess would be highly profitable. But to run this risk—she, an English nobody—with the Comtesse de Chirac, stupendously high in the instep and one of the most formidable women in Paris? And to do so at a time like this, when the city was in a state of ferment on account of an impending trial of some alleged traitors, and nobles like the comtesse saw assassins lurking in every shadowy corner?
It was a mad chance to take, merely for a little shop.
Yet Madame Noirot had announced her lunatic intention as cool as you please, with a gleam in her eye. And why should this surprise him? She was a gambler. This gamble, clearly, was of vast importance to her.
“You may have slipped into other parties unnoticed but you won’t get into this one,” he said.
“You think they’ll know I’m a nobody shopkeeper?” she said. “You think I can’t fool them? You think I can’t make them see what I want them to see?”
“Others, perhaps. Not Madame de Chirac. You haven’t a prayer.”
He thought perhaps she did have a prayer, but he was goading her, wanting to know what else she’d reveal of herself.
“Then I reckon you’ll simply have to see for yourself,” she said. “That is, I presume you’ve been invited?”
He glanced down at his diamond stickpin, winking up at him from the deep neckline of her red dress. Her bosom was rising and falling more rapidly than before.
“Oddly enough, I have,” he said. “In her view, we English are an inferior species, but for some reason, she makes an exception of me. It must be all my deceitful French names.”
“Then I’ll see you there.” She started to turn away.
“I hope not,” he said. “It would pain me to see you manhandled by the gendarmes, even if that would enliven an exceedingly dull evening.”
“You have a dramatic imagination,” she said. “In the unlikely event they don’t let me inside, they’ll merely send me away. They won’t want to make a scene with a mob outside. The mob, after all, might take my side.”
“It’s a silly risk to take,” he said. “All for your little shop.”
“Silly,” she repeated quietly. “My little shop.” She looked up at the leering demigods and satyrs cavorting on the ceiling. When her gaze returned to him it was cool and steady, belying the swift in-and-out of her breathing. She was angry but she controlled it wonderfully.
He wondered what that anger would be like, let loose.
“That little shop is my livelihood,” she said. “And not only mine. You haven’t the remotest idea what it took to gain a foothold in London. You haven’t the least notion what it’s taken to make headway against the established shops. You’ve no inkling of what we contend with: not merely other dressmakers—and they’re a treacherous lot—but the conservatism of your class. French grandmothers dress with more taste than do your countrywomen. It’s like a war, sometimes—and so, yes, that’s all I think about, and yes, I’ll do whatever is necessary to raise the reputation of my shop. And if I’m thrown into the street or into jail, all I’ll think about is how to take advantage of the publicity.”
“For clothes,” he said. “Does it not strike you as absurd, to go to such lengths, when English women, as you say, are oblivious to style? Why not give them what they want?”
“Because I can make them more than what they want,” she said. “I can make them unforgettable. Have you drifted so far beyond the everyday concerns of life that you can’t understand? Is nothing in this world truly important to you, important enough to make you stick to it, in spite of obstacles? But what a silly question. If you had a purpose in life, you would give yourself to it, instead of frittering away your days in Paris.”
He should have realized she’d strike back, but he’d been so caught up in her passion for her dreary work that she took him unawares. An image flashed in his mind of the world he’d fled—the little, dull world and his empty days and nights and the pointless amusements he’d tried to fill them with. He recalled Lord Warford telling him, You seem determined to fritter away your life.
He
