This Duchess of Mine(19)

“I must be at my most elegant,” she told Brigitte a moment later. “I shall go to visit the marquise. I caught a glimpse of her on the king’s yacht last night, so I know that she is currently in London.”

Brigitte’s eyes widened and she set to work with the concentrated fervor of a lady’s maid whose work would be judged by the best—her rival femme de chambre. A few hours later Jemma tripped into the marquise’s drawing room, fit to dine with Queen Marie Antoinette herself.

She was wearing, unusually for her, a wig. Unlike the rather tatty and (she felt) dirty wigs that she commonly saw in ballrooms, hers was made of white curls so delicate that they shone like spun sugar in the morning sunlight. They rose to an exuberant height, but rather than supporting an entire birdcage with its songbird or anything of that ridiculous nature, Mariette had simply tucked a few pale blossoms among the curls.

With it she wore an exquisite morning gown of the same pink as the blossoms, the skirts caught back to show a deeper, rosy underskirt with a border of amber gold. The pièce de résistance, to Jemma’s mind, was her shoes: delicate high-heeled slippers in rose-colored silk, with tiny gold buckles.

She had been seated a mere twenty minutes before the marquise appeared. Jemma rose, dropping into a short curtsy. It was a signal honor, indicating that she was overlooking their difference in rank. The marquise fell into a deeper curtsy, the sort that recognized the delicate compliment Jemma had just given her, and topped it with an expression of deep respect.

Finally they managed to seat themselves, on opposing sofas, naturally, given the width of their skirts. The marquise was even more elegantly attired than was Jemma. As a matter of course, the marquise never wore any colors other than black and white, a rather eccentric notion that complemented her dark eyes and hair. This morning her gown was white and embroidered with elaborate swirls of black silk.

Jemma thought about that costume while they went through the motions of drinking tea and chatting about the riots. Hadn’t Elijah once said that the marquise looked like a chessboard?

“How do you find yourself?” Jemma asked, watching the marquise over the edge of her teacup. “The last time I saw you, you were on your way to Lincolnshire…” She allowed her voice to trail off in a tactful invitation.

The marquise’s eyebrows drew together. “I did locate my husband, or at least where he had been. There was a village where he stayed with this—this putain that he followed to England. I made my footmen inquire.”

The pained edge to her voice made her humiliation clear. “Apparently he and the woman were together, and then he suddenly left. She stayed a mere day or two longer—”

“At least they are no longer together!” Jemma exclaimed. “He left her.”

“Yes.” Louise’s tone lightened. “The villagers were very clear about that. Henri simply left. He must have been desperate to get away from her; there was some talk that he discarded his clothing in the inn where they were staying, though I don’t hold with that notion. Henri is not the sort to travel without proper accoutrements. I expect he went back to France.”

She picked up a lemon tart. “I found it hard to believe that he ever left France for this woman, even in the throes of the deep love he felt.” She spat the last sentence.

“Will you follow him across the Channel directly?” Jemma enquired.

“Absolutely not,” the marquise said. “Can you imagine? He might think that I pursued him to England because of some anxiety about his degenerate activities.” She magnificently ignored the fact that she had followed her husband for just that reason. Instead she gave a careless shrug. “I couldn’t be less concerned about what he does, and he is perfectly aware of that fact. I shall stay here for as long as I please. London is an enchanting place, of course.”

Jemma translated that statement into a declaration that Louise would stay in London just as long as necessary to assure that her husband dared not question her presence in this country.

It was time for an insult, one ruthless enough to send Louise directly into a towering fury. Jemma shook open her fan and held it so that it covered the lower part of her face, as if she were preparing to say the unsayable. Fans were so useful to the art of the insult. She pitched her voice low and confidential. “My dear marquise, if you’d ever like some guidance in the matter of husbands, you need not do more than ask.”

Louise narrowed her eyes. “Advice of what sort, dear duchess?”

“It’s a mere suggestion,” Jemma said. “But have you considered altering your—” She waved her hand as if she couldn’t even think of the word.