Enchantée(107)

She had been so wrong. She had been an idiot, a fool. But there was still time, if she could find him. Time to persuade him.

“Lazare!” she called out. “Where are you?”

Her legs wobbled from working the glamoire. She stumbled against a tree, its bark rough under her hand, and stopped to catch her breath. If she could not find Lazare, she needed to find the stables and Madame Théron’s carriage. And go home.

There—through the trees, along the run of iron fence leading to the stables. Something was moving. Surely it was a man? In a pistachio-green coat?

“Lazare? Wait!” She stooped under a branch and ran toward the fence. “Lazare?”

“If only I knew where that bastard was.”

Camille froze.

“But I suppose you don’t, either,” the Vicomte de Séguin said, stepping from behind a hedge. In the darkness, the silver embroidery on his waistcoat and cuffs glimmered. It felt as if years had passed since he and Lazare had shouted at one another, but here he stood, unnaturally fresh, as if he had just stepped out of his dressing room. He bowed. “I was sure it was you, Madame de la Fontaine. Or should I call you by your real name?”

“I hardly know what you mean,” she said, as coldly as she could.

Séguin smiled silkily. “I’ve just been down to the stables and, deplorable as it may be to both of us, the Marquis de Sablebois is already on his way back to Paris.”

“Quel dommage,” she said with a nonchalance she did not feel. It was not safe here, in the shrubbery, with him. She’d no idea what he was capable of. Or what he might decide he wanted from her. Keeping her back straight, she picked up her skirts and willed her shaking legs to move faster. “I must return home myself.”

“Shall we walk to the stables together, then? I have something to convey.”

There was nothing she would like less, but no matter how fast she walked, in her big skirts and her stays, she could not outpace him.

“You come from a tête-à-tête with Sablebois, I’m guessing? I cannot imagine that he was happy to learn of your use of magic. I remember he has a particular dislike of it.”

“Don’t speak of him.”

Cool as ever, Séguin kept pace with her. “Remember when I read your palm and gave you some advice? Not everyone at court is a lover of magic—or magicians. Hélas, those golden days are long gone. You wouldn’t wish your secret to get out?”

Camille started. Would he expose her? Was this how he threatened Chandon?

“Whatever scheme it is you have going—winning lots of money, entrancing young noblemen, or just having a magnificent time—it is finished if the king learns what you really are. He hates magicians. I was just remarking on this to the Marquis de Chandon.”

“And what if I told the queen about you?” Camille countered. “What if I told them all that you are a magician?”

“Be my guest. Tell them. See how they respond to flimsy charges brought by a so-called baroness from the provinces,” he said with a sneer, “against the last remaining member of my ancient family. Expose yourself to their questioning and eventual ridicule when they discover who you are. I dare you.”

A gauntlet, tossed to the ground.

She had nothing to match Séguin’s reputation.

She was not as far as she’d hoped from that girl running in the street, tiny roll clutched in her hand, bare feet filthy under her petticoats. But Camille was not going back there, no matter what. She steadied her anger and her fear, channeling them as she would have channeled her sorrow to turn a card or a coin to something she could use. Séguin had nearly proposed to her; he wanted something from her. She didn’t yet know what it was, but surely it was valuable, and if she played carefully, she might discover it. “I thought you were my friend,” she said smoothly. “Or has that changed?”

In the half-light, it was hard to see his face. “Of course, mademoiselle,” he said, kissing her hand. Camille fought the revulsion that clawed at her throat.

At the stables, she watched him step into his phaeton and drive back to the courtiers’ wing of the palace. When she called for her own car riage, a groom appeared from one of the stalls, a wine bottle dangling from his hand. “Everyone’s left, mademoiselle. Haven’t you heard?”

She shook her head dumbly.

“We’ve destroyed the Bastille! Set the prisoners free! Taken its arsenal of weapons! Paris is on fire!” He punched a fist into the air. “Now all of you will have to answer for what you’ve done.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, stupidly.

“You haven’t heard? We attacked it—all the people of Paris. Liberated the prisoners! Several men,” he said, “lost their heads.”

It had come, then. The riots that Papa had predicted, the rising bread prices, the merciless taxation—the changes Papa had foreseen were galloping toward them.

The groom’s face swam before her as she tried to think. Sophie was in Paris. She needed to return immediately. “But the carriage? It can’t have driven back to Paris on its own!”

“Anything can happen on a night such as this,” the groom crowed. “Anything!”

Camille wanted to slap him sober. “Is there no one who can drive me?”