Enchantée(31)

“I meant, do you have any?” The boy heaved a theatrical sigh. “I suppose the answer is no.” He pulled a fat gold watch from his pocket and frowned at it. “I must run. Are you still determined to attend the Comte d’Astignac’s party?”

Heat flamed up her neck. “It wasn’t that—”

He lowered his voice. “I only ask because that idiot guard is plodding over to us and he’s brought a friend. I believe they may throw you out.” Camille was about turn around when the boy closed his fingers around her wrist. His grip was surprisingly strong. “Don’t look at them.”

She tried to pull away. “What are you doing, monsieur?” she hissed.

“Saving you from those wretched guards.”

“Monsieur!” the guard called from behind them. “A word!”

“Come on!” Her hand in his, the boy in the lavender suit whisked her across the landing and into a gloomy hall. Endless rows of doors, portraits, damask wallpaper, and curlicued gilt sconces unfurled in front of them. “Down here! Hurry!” He raced along the parquet, holding the pommel of his sword so it wouldn’t bang his leg. Camille ran beside him, the snuffbox jouncing in her pocket. Finally, he slid to a stop in front of one of the doors.

Camille pulled her hand free. Though he was charming—almost as irresistible as Versailles—she knew better than to go into a room with a strange boy, especially an aristocrat. “Thank you for saving me, monsieur. I can find my own way out.”

“Those guards are slow, not stupid, and you’d have to fly over them if you wanted to get downstairs. You’d better come in. I saw the way you tried to brazen your way into the comte’s party. You’d most certainly be wanted.”

He’d seen that, too? “What would I be wanted for?”

“Isn’t it enough, to know you’d be wanted? I must confess, it’s usually enough for me.”

“Oh?” What was he talking about?

“Alors, what could one be wanted for?” Rings flashing, he nonchalantly ticked off reasons on his fingers. “Treason, perhaps? Forgery? Love? Foul play? It’s none of those, at least not at the moment.”

Baffled, Camille asked, “What, then?”

“Cards, madame! You wished to play, and our fourth is late. He always has more pressing engagements. But tell me, what could be more important than cards?”

“Nothing, apparently.” Exhaling, Camille felt some of the tension leave her body. He wanted her to play cards. Cards! It was just what she had been seeking and here it was, in the palm of her hand. For once Fortune’s wheel was spinning in her favor.

“Bien! I see we’re of like minds.” He held out his ringed hand to her. “Come, we’re playing lansquenet.”

She hesitated. She needed a game where she could turn cards, and lansquenet was not it. Still, what other chance would she have? She did not dare to throw this one away. And whoever the players were, surely they would eventually tire of lansquenet and want another game.

“Perhaps,” the boy said in an undertone, “you’ve come unprepared to play? Because if that’s the problem, not to worry. I’ll front you some livres to start.”

What would a baroness say if she had no money to play? Camille realized she had no idea. “You mustn’t think—”

“Oh, I hardly ever think,” he said cheerily. “Though I may regret it this time. I bet you’ll be a ruthless player. A veritable shark.”

“Not at all. But on those terms, who could resist?”

He clapped his hands together. “Excellent! I would kiss you! But perhaps we don’t know each other well enough for that? At least, not yet.” He bowed low. “étienne Bellan, Marquis de Chandon.”

Camille swallowed. A marquis? So young? But what else had she expected—this was Versailles, after all. Everyone would have either money or a title. She dropped into a curtsey, willing the name she’d stolen from the portrait to glide off her tongue as nonchalantly as the boy’s had. “Cécile Descharlots, Baroness de la Fontaine.”

“Incredibly wonderful to meet you,” he said, flinging the door wide open. “Après vous!”





18


The room he led her into was strangely made—oval, without any corners. Where corners would have been, marble statues lounged in niches built into the creamy-white walls. Gilded flowers ran along the seam where the wall met the ceiling and the floor was covered in a rose-colored carpet. Under the chandelier, in the center of the room, four chairs were pulled up to an oval table strewn with cards and heaps of coins and candy-colored betting chips. A boy in a military uniform reclined in one of the chairs, his chestnut-brown hair tied with a dark-blue ribbon; next to him lounged a raven-haired girl, her feet on his lap, lazily fanning herself. When she spotted Camille, she snapped her fan closed. “Mais, c’est merveilleuse! Chandon, you are a genius!”

“I am exceptional, am I not? We needed a fourth, and voilà! Here she is!” He gave Camille a dazzling smile. “Madame la Baroness, may I introduce you to my friends? This gorgeous creature is Aurélie—Madame de Valledoré.”

As the girl turned around, Camille froze. It was the marquise from the Place des Vosges. The one who’d been in the carriage that had nearly hit Sophie. What were the odds that of all the young aristocrats in Paris, she would be here? As before, she was dressed in a simple but unbearably rich lilac gown, her dark hair unpowdered and pinned up except for one gleaming curl that lay gracefully on her shoulder. Around her neck she wore a necklace made of three strands of pearls, the largest the size of grapes.