Enchantée(92)

Sophie murmured, “It was perfect, except for the candles. Someone should have taken better care of them. What’s the point of all the lovely flowers if they can’t cover up the smell of the candles? Couldn’t you smell it, Camille?” She yawned and snuggled her head against Camille’s shoulder.

“Smell what?”

“Snuffed candles.” Sophie’s eyelids fluttered. “When I was dancing with the vicomte, all I could smell was the stench of snuffed candles.”

“Like the smell of the glamoire box, Sophie? Like fireplaces? Burned wood?”

Did her sister know the smell of magic? Had she realized what Séguin was?

But Sophie was fast asleep.

It doesn’t matter now, Camille thought, as she slipped off her cloak and tucked it around Sophie’s shoulders. Her cheeks were flushed, her mouth slightly open, like a child’s. Against her best judgment, Camille had let her go to the masquerade. Grace à Dieu nothing had happened to her. It would have been Camille’s fault and she never could have forgiven herself.

Séguin had come dangerously close.

And she had been too caught up in her own agony to notice.





46


“What’s this?” Camille said when the maid came in the next morning. She and Sophie were drinking chocolate in their dressing gowns and Camille was rubbing her aching forehead, trying not to think of the masquerade, Lazare’s talk of kisses, the blond girl—or Séguin’s predatory smile. It was not going well.

“A delivery for Mademoiselle Durbonne,” the maid announced.

A footman in navy-and-citron livery stood on the landing, his face hidden by the potted orange tree he was holding. The maid waved him forward.

Sophie sat up expectantly in her chair. “This is early, isn’t it?” she said.

“With all respect, I do not make these decisions, mademoiselle,” the footman said as he staggered in.

“Is there a card?” Sophie asked.

“I must set this down. Immédiatement.” The servant lunged forward, the pot braced against his hip. “Where?”

“By the window will be best,” Camille said. They both watched as he lowered it to the floor and spun the gilded pot so that its prettiest side faced them.

“It’s lovely,” Camille mused. It was clearly a costly gift. The tree glowed with tiny fruits the size of a baby’s fist. She recalled her first day at Versailles, when she’d looked out over the orangerie where the gardeners were working. Now she knew firsthand how, when the trees bloomed, their sweet perfume made the palace a paradise. A gift from someone at Versailles, then?

“Who—?”

From a pocket, the footman presented Camille with a small, folded note. The thick paper was pale gray, her name curving across it in black loops: Mademoiselle Durbonne.

“At your service, mademoiselle.” In a moment he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

“Do you know, I dreamed of oranges last night?” Sophie squeezed in next to Camille on the sofa. She ran her fingers across the swirling letters. “Oh, how romantic, Camille! To have something from Lazare!”

Camille held the note out to Sophie. “You open it.”

“Why? It’s for you.”

With slow fingers, Camille lifted the wax seal and unfolded the paper. The handwriting was unfamiliar. She cleared her throat and read.

Mademoiselle,

No blossom could smell as sweet, nor any fruit, entice as sweetly as you.

In memory of that enchanted evening—

Your Most Ardent Admirer



Sophie gasped, her hand over her mouth.

Camille frowned. “What does it mean?”

“Oh, Camille, I’m so sorry,” Sophie stammered. “I think it’s for me.”

“For you?” A hot blush crept up Camille’s neck. “But how?”

Sophie reached for Camille’s hands and clasped them tight. “Don’t be angry, please.”

“What evening could this boy possibly be talking about?”

“The ball?” There was a sudden edge to Sophie’s voice.

She hadn’t seen all of Sophie’s partners last night, but she’d seen the one who mattered. Only Séguin would do this, trying to turn a girl’s head. “You may absolutely not accept his gifts. He will get the wrong impression—”

“What a fantastic idea!” Sophie crowed. “The more I refuse, the more intrigued he will be.”

“That is not a fantastic idea!” Séguin cheats, Chandon had said. She thought of the time that Séguin had suggested—hadn’t he?—that Camille marry him, on that warm afternoon when they were playing paille maille. She felt again the deliberate, repulsive caress of his fingers when they’d danced. What game was he playing with Sophie?

“He’s not to be trusted. Once, at Versailles—”

“I’ve heard enough about your experiences at Versailles. What I say to the vicomte is none of your business.” Sophie crossed her arms. “You’re simply jealous it’s not from Lazare.”

Her words were a slap. Camille felt the blood rise in blotchy spots in her cheeks. “You have no idea.” She wished desperately to tell Sophie all the things that unsettled her about Séguin, that Chandon had warned her about him. But what good would it do to tell her he was a magician? Nothing could overturn her belief that money and a title were what mattered in a husband.