Enchantée(17)

“Mademoiselle,” the boy said to Camille, “do you know this girl?”

“She’s my sister.” Camille clasped Sophie’s hand and kissed it. “How do you feel?”

“Well enough.” Sophie blinked and tried to smile. “How pretty everyone is!” she said to the girl with the fan. “What a marvelous hat!”

The raven-haired girl laughed. “Fashion is the first thing you think of? It is lovely, isn’t it? I bought it at Rose Bertin’s.”

Camille glared at the boy. “Tell me what happened.”

“First, may I offer my deepest apologies,” he said as his strange, golden eyes met hers. Like the girl, he looked about the same age as Camille. He was elegantly dressed, fair and handsome, though his mouth seemed as likely to curve into a sneer as a smile. “Just as your sister was stepping into the street, the horses shied at a flag. My coachman pulled them up immediately; rest assured, they did not touch her.” He smiled faintly. “It was my friend the marquise’s scream you heard, not your sister’s.”

“?a alors,” said the girl, her emerald eyes snapping. “What else was I to do, Vicomte? Allow your wild animals to run over this darling girl?” Her voice had a warning edge to it. “Never mind your reputation would be destroyed beyond mending if she’d been hurt.”

Vicomte. Marquise. Of course it was a pair of aristocrats who’d nearly mown down her sister. They were as heedless as they were rich. Camille helped Sophie to sitting. “Come, ma chèrie, we’ve got to be going.”

“So quickly?” There was a little color in Sophie’s cheeks now, though she swayed a little.

“We’ll take you in the carriage,” the boy said. “It’s no bother—in fact, I insist.” He held out a ringed hand to Sophie.

But before Sophie could take it, Lazare appeared at the edge of the circle, breathing hard, his hand on the vicomte’s shoulder, pushing him aside. “Your sister! What’s happened?”

“She fainted, that’s all,” Camille said, relieved that Lazare was finally there. “Thanks to—the marquise—she’s quite well now.”

“All in a day’s work,” the marquise said, dropping her sal volatile into her purse.

Lazare bowed in her direction before his eyes went like arrows to the vicomte. “He was involved?”

“It was the horses!” the marquise said. “And a flag that ought to be torn to shreds, and a girl’s sweet, sensitive nature. Nothing more.” She smiled fondly at Sophie. “No harm done.”

Lazare exhaled. “Are you well, mademoiselle?”

“How could I not be, when the kindest people in all of Paris are taking care of me?” Sophie said prettily. She took the vicomte’s hand as he helped her to stand.

Taking in the little scene, Camille could practically see the wheels spinning in Sophie’s head. Here she was, rescued by a nobleman with a fine nose and golden eyes! And a carriage painted Wedgwood blue and gold! She had stumbled into her very own fairy tale and she was in no rush to leave it. Camille bit her lip as the vicomte said something in Sophie’s ear that made her laugh.

However well-intentioned this boy might be, she needed to get her sister home. “Thank you, messieurs, madame, for all your help.” As both Lazare and the vicomte started forward, she held up her hand. “We won’t need a carriage. A walk will be just the thing to revive us.”

The vicomte bowed. “As you wish. Do accept my infinite apologies for having frightened you both. When we reach the stable, I shall whip my coachman and my horses to teach them a lesson.”

“Hush!” The marquise slapped his arm with her fan. “They’ll think you’re serious.”

“Of course, I’m only jesting,” he said, but Camille wasn’t certain he was. He passed a piece of paper to Sophie. “If there’s anything,” he said kindly, “anything at all, mademoiselle, please do not hesitate.”

“He needn’t go so far as that,” Lazare said curtly.

“I only go as far as my morals compel me, monsieur,” the vicomte tossed back.

Lazare ignored him, staring over the other boy’s head as if he were suddenly fascinated by the treetops.

Sophie ducked her head. “Merci, Monsieur le Vicomte.”

Good-byes and well wishes were traded and a moment later, the two aristocrats were stepping into the carriage, the breeze tousling their silken garments, the driver closing the gilded door behind them, and the horses stepping out briskly. Camille, Sophie, and Lazare watched as the carriage disappeared down the narrow streets.

Sophie sighed happily.

“Feeling well enough to go home?” Camille asked, as nicely as she could. She didn’t blame Sophie—not exactly. But how could she have taken what must have been the vicomte’s card? To acknowledge a relationship of sorts with a nobleman such as he?

“Perhaps Monsieur Mellais will accompany us?” Sophie tilted her head and smiled at him.

“We couldn’t trouble you—” Camille began. The thought of him coming to their stooped building in the dingy rue Charlot made her cringe. It was like her bruised eye; she wished she were not ashamed of it, but she was.

Lazare’s face fell. “I must be going, in any case. Good day to you, mesdemoiselles.” He lifted his hat and turned away.