“My what?”
“We must be frank between ourselves, must we not?” Jemma said, lowering her fan to chin level to bestow a lavish smile. “I mean, of course, between close friends like ourselves.”
“Naturellement,” the marquise said, every inch of her rigid body showing just how much she disliked frankness.
“You wear the most sophisticated costumes in the French court. Your ensemble is only equaled by that of Marie Antoinette herself. Your face is always exquisite, your—”
“Exactly so.” Coldness sliced through Louise’s words.
“And yet.” Jemma sighed. “One cannot ignore the fact that you look…oh just slightly…like a chessboard, dearest marquise. What man wants to sleep with a chessboard? You do not dress like a woman who wants to seduce, but like a woman who wants to impress. To be noticed.” Then she added, as a kindly afterthought, “Though you are, of course, a most beautiful woman.”
Louise appeared to be grinding her teeth.
“My husband never strays,” Jemma said, closing her fan. “And why is that, Marquise? Why is that?”
“It certainly isn’t because you yourself have remained chaste,” the marquise said flatly.
“Alas, that is so true,” Jemma said. “So, so, so true. And yet my dearest Elijah never wandered during all the years I lived in France, never even looked at another woman. I wish for nothing more than for you to have the same happiness.” Her smile was guaranteed to scrape the marquise’s nerves like the squeal of rats in an alley. “Dear friends should always look out for each other’s best interests.”
“So you believe that Henri took this woman to Lincolnshire because he dislikes my élégance?” One had to admire the marquise’s command over her voice. She conveyed withering scorn with nothing more than a shading of tone.
It was time to move in for the kill. “My husband,” Jemma said, “never, but never, looks at another woman. And why is that, my dear marquise? It is not only because my clothing is perhaps, shall we say, just slightly more graceful than your dogged wearing of black and white, but also because I do not wear my heart on my sleeve.”
Little white marks had appeared on either side of Louise’s nose. “This English term…I do not know it. Where is my heart?”
“Out for everyone to see. You never flirt. You stay to the side of a ballroom and gaze at Henri with your heart in your eyes. You—”
“So now my heart is in my eyes?”
“Of course, most people do feel sympathy, though there are always the unkind who mock. You might try to seem a bit indifferent, my dear. A passion so flamboyant is bound to garner pity.”
“Ah,” the marquise said. “Pity.”
“Elijah never looks at another woman,” Jemma repeated, a bit worried about whether she was overdoing it.
But the marquise’s nails had curled in such a way that strips of delicate paper shredded off her fan.
“I know!” Jemma said, sitting up as if suddenly inspired. “You might strive to create a bit of a scandal here in England. Something that would cause a rumor to fly home to Paris, convincing your husband that he is not the only one to enjoy himself with matters of the heart.”
Louise gave a savage little laugh. “You don’t think that I should have trouble finding someone willing to overlook my chessboard?”
“Oh, no, no, no,” Jemma cried. “You mustn’t take me too literally. When you say chessboard, it truly sounds as if I meant you were flat in the bodice, and of course I would never say such a thing! I have no doubt but that many men are delighted with a, shall we say, more modest offering.” Her eyes gently slid away from the marquise’s entirely adequate bosom, as if she were excusing a serious flaw.
She continued, “Of course, women can be so cruel to each other. Why, the other day a bumbling lady of my acquaintance referred to you in the most disparaging terms—she is really hopelessly ill-bred—oh yes, I believe she mentioned a bird. Could it have been a crow?” She gave a shrug. “At any rate, I defended you. I told her that you were the only woman I considered to have the wit and charm to rival the great courtesans.”
Louise drew in a sharp breath.
“I mean that as the greatest compliment,” Jemma added. “You could have any man you wished. If you put your mind to it.”
She paused. “Other than my dear Elijah, of course. He is so very devoted.”
“I don’t care for English men,” the marquise said, chomping down on a lemon tart. “For the most part they are quite brutish in their manners. Their bows are too unformed, too unrefined.” She waved her hand in the air. “They lack that sense of élégance that characterizes the French court. The beauty of the French poise and discretion.”