Moonlight Over Paris(48)
“He will. He was working earlier and thought he might be a bit late. But he’ll be here.”
Sara and Gerald were there, too, and though they had been at their house in St.-Cloud for some weeks it was the first time she’d seen them since the summer.
“When are you going to visit us?” Sara asked. “You must all come out and have lunch one day. The children are forever asking when their Ellie is going to visit.”
“We will, I promise. Let me finish showing my friends around, and then we’ll talk some more.”
“We must. You look beautiful tonight. Is that a Vionnet gown?”
“It is. Does it suit me?”
“Admirably.”
Helena had led her friends through the petit salon, the library, and the breakfast room, and she’d just finished her first glass of champagne, when she caught sight of Sam.
His dinner jacket was so perfectly tailored that it must have been made for him, and he was so very handsome and unfamiliar that her heart skipped a beat. He advanced across the room, his eyes never leaving hers, his gaze keen and appreciative. Normally his appearance was rather disheveled, to put it mildly, but tonight he was the very epitome of aristocratic elegance. If she didn’t know better, she’d have assumed he was to the manor born.
He stopped when he was an arm’s length away, not seeming to notice their friends. And then he smiled, a slow and easy smile that made her knees feel like jelly and her heart race in her chest.
“Good evening, everyone,” he said, and he shook hands with étienne and kissed cheeks with her and Mathilde and Daisy, and the moment between them, when it seemed as if they’d been the only two people in the room, evaporated.
“Where is your aunt?” he asked. “I didn’t see her when I came in.”
“I’ve no idea—making the rounds, I expect. We’re seated near her at dinner.”
A footman came forward with glasses of champagne on a silver tray, and they all accepted one, even Sam. She sipped at hers slowly, savoring the way it fizzed against her tongue, and was startled when he bent his head to whisper against her ear.
“Do you think I should ask for a beer? How would that go down in this crowd, d’you think?”
“Not well,” she said, and giggled helplessly. It was the champagne, of course; giggling was for schoolgirls. “They probably drink champagne with their petit déjeuner every morning.”
“Attention, s’il vous pla?t!” Vincent, looking very distinguished in a corded silk tailcoat, had appeared at the threshold to the dining room, and was clapping his hands to gain the guests’ attention. “Mesdames, messieurs, le d?ner est prêt.”
THE DINING TABLE, which normally accommodated ten or twelve diners, had been fitted with enough leaves to bring it to a good thirty feet, and it now stretched the entire length of the chamber. Elaborate flower arrangements, ornate Georgian candelabra, and epergnes brimming with out-of-season fruit ran down the center of the table, which had been set with her aunt’s sterling silver flatware, bleu celeste Sèvres porcelain, and Baccarat crystal.
Agnes was seated at the head of the table and had honored Helena and her friends by placing them nearby: Sam was at her right, with Mathilde and Daisy occupying the next two spaces. On the opposite side of the table, étienne sat next to Agnes, with Helena at his left.
The identity of the person who was to sit at Helena’s left remained a mystery until nearly everyone had found their seat; only then did a vaguely familiar figure take his place at her side. It was the man she’d met at Vionnet the other week, the nephew by marriage of Madame Balsan. She racked her brain for his name . . . Monsieur d’Albert. No, d’Albret. That was it.
All was well during the first course, which consisted of lobster bisque with a remove of truite à la Véronique. The table was too wide for her to easily join in the conversation between Sam, Mathilde, and Daisy, and étienne was engaged in charming her aunt. That left Mr. d’Albret. Fortunately his manners were impeccable, and he had some interesting things to say about aviation and his time with France’s Aéronautique Militaire during the war.
“While I cannot account myself an ace, I did have my share of kills,” he said, dabbing at his mustache with the corner of his napkin.
“I suppose it was terribly dangerous.”
“But of course. Only the best and bravest ever dared to become aviators.”
Helena happened to look across the table, where Sam was engaged in conversation with Daisy. She couldn’t be certain, but something told her that he had overheard.
“What are you doing now?” she asked her dinner partner.
“I have decided to pursue the Orteig Prize,” he announced with gusto.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “I’ve heard of it. A challenge—”
“It is the greatest challenge of our age. Monsieur Orteig is a hotelier in America, and he has promised twenty-five thousand dollars to the first man who completes a nonstop flight across the Atlantic between New York and Paris.”
That was enough to induce Sam to join the discussion. “Orteig issued the challenge five years ago, and not a single attempt has yet been made. Most people think it’s impossible.”
Helena stared at him, taken aback by his skeptical attitude. He’d been the one to tell her about the prize, and to her best recollection he’d been enthusiastic when speaking of the challenge. Why he should now dismiss it out of hand was puzzling indeed.