Duchess of Montendre had a son—something which is still not verified—and if he is still alive, I think he would have surfaced before now.’
Sophia shook her head. ‘If it is a scheme, it is very ingenious, and Mademoiselle de Cressy must be very bold to attempt to carry it off.’
‘Or very greedy.’
‘Or very desperate.’ As she had been. Desperate almost beyond reason, and utterly heedless of the consequences. Sophia’s stomach churned at the memory, that constant feeling of panic as she searched for a solution, any solution to her own dilemma.
‘Sophia?’ Jean-Luc lifted his hand from hers as soon as she opened her eyes. ‘You look as if you are about to faint. Can I get you some water?’
‘No.’ She clasped her hands tightly together, trying to disguise the deep, calming breaths she was being forced to take. Never again. That was why she was here, wasn’t it? Never again. She could not afford to draw parallels between herself and this Juliette de Cressy, must not allow herself to imagine that they had anything in common. More than anything, she must not allow any sympathy for the woman to jeopardise her own future. ‘I’m fine,’ she said thinly. ‘Perfectly fine. So, where do we go from here?’
He looked unconvinced by her smile, but to her relief, he did not question her further. ‘Establish you as my wife, first and foremost. Introduce you to Mademoiselle de Cressy, which will be in in the presence of Maxime. Try to verify the existence of the lost heir. Try to verify the marriage contract. I have a very long list of tasks, which I will not bore you with.’
‘I won’t be bored. I’d like to help.’
He looked startled. ‘Your role is to play my wife.’
‘Doesn’t a wife help her husband? What do you envisage me doing, if not that?’
Jean-Luc shrugged in a peculiarly Gallic manner. ‘What does a wife do? I have never been married, perhaps you can tell me.’
Almost, she fell for the trap he had laid, but she caught herself just in time, and smiled blandly. ‘Why don’t you let me think about that, come up with a plan of my own, which we can discuss.’
He laughed, holding up his hands in surrender. ‘Very well. I have made arrangements for you to visit the modiste to select your trousseau tomorrow. There will be time before that for me to introduce you to the household. The day after that, a tour of the hôtel. And after that, I am happy to hear your ideas. I do have a very competent housekeeper though, I’m not expecting you to burden yourself with household matters.’
‘At the very least she will expect to take her instructions from me.’
‘Do you know enough of such things to instruct her?’
‘I would not offer if I did not.’
He leaned forward, resting his head on his hand to study her. ‘I was expecting The Procurer to send me an actress.’
‘I’m sure that there are some actresses capable of managing a household.’
‘You are not an actress.’
She rested her chin on her hand, meeting his gaze, reflecting the half-smile that played on his lips. ‘A better one than you, Jean-Luc, for your motives are quite transparent.’
‘But I’m right, am I not? You are not an actress?’
‘I have never been on the stage.’
‘No, I thought this morning, when I first caught sight of you, that your beauty was too ethereal for the stage.’
She could feel herself blushing. She ought to change the subject, to break eye contact, but she didn’t want to. ‘I’m tougher than I look.’
‘Of that I have no doubt. To come all the way to France, alone, even with the assurance of The Procurer’s contract, demonstrates that you are made of stern stuff. And now you offer to help me with my search for the truth, too.’ He reached over to cover her free hand with his. ‘Beautiful, strong and brave, and clever too. I am very glad to have you on my side, Sophia.’
For some reason she was finding it difficult to breathe. ‘We are both on the same side, Jean-Luc.’
‘I like the sound of that. I am not so arrogant as to imagine that I and only I can resolve this mess, Sophia. It’s true, I am accustomed to making all my own decisions, but one of the reasons they are sound is that I take account of other opinions. I would very much appreciate your help. Thank you.’
‘Thank you.’ No man had been interested in her opinions before. No man had been interested in her mind at all. That’s why she was feeling this strange way, light-headed, drawn to him, even enjoying the touch of his hand on hers. Until he withdrew it, broke eye contact, and sat up straight.
‘We are agreed then. However, before we begin the difficult task of proving that Mademoiselle de Cressy’s story is without foundation, there is the small matter of convincing Mademoiselle de Cressy that we are married.’
‘Can we do that? We don’t have any paperwork. What if she tries to verify our story while you are trying to prove her story wrong?’
‘My lawyer has informed her that we were married in England. As to paperwork, it hasn’t occurred to her to ask, perhaps because she doesn’t believe you exist.’
‘So, when do you plan to produce me as evidence?’
‘As soon as we can prove to ourselves that we can be convincing.’
Sophia pursed her lips. ‘You think we need some sort of dress rehearsal?’
He smiled at that. He really did have a very nice smile. It was easy to return it. ‘Tonight,’ Jean-Luc replied. ‘We will have dinner, just the two of us, with the attendant servants looking on. It will be a gentle introduction.’
‘You think so? In my experience, servants are the group most difficult to fool.’
‘Then we will know, after tonight, that if we can fool my household we can fool Paris society, and more importantly, Juliette de Cressy, yes?’
‘Yes.’ Was there a chance that Paris society would contain any visiting English society likely to recognise her? She could not possibly enquire, for to do so would be to betray herself. But The Procurer would not have sent her here if she had considered it a possibility, would she, for then she would have failed in meeting Jean-Luc’s terms, and The Procurer was reputedly infallible. She had to take confidence from that.
‘What is worrying you, Sophia?’
She gave herself a little shake. ‘Nothing. Save that we must concoct a love story, mustn’t we? People will ask how we met, won’t they, and how our whirlwind romance developed.’
‘Whirlwind romance,’ Jean-Luc repeated slowly. ‘I am not familiar with that phrase, but it is—yes, I like it. We will come up with a love story tonight worthy of your Lord Byron,’ he said, his eyes alight with mischief. ‘We dine at seven. I took the liberty of sending your maid out for an evening gown. I had no idea whether you would have anything suitable with you. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘There
