Page 7 of Evie and Louis: The Story so Far

“Right!” Vivien said, clapping her hands. “Arabella is done, Florence, it’s your turn.”

Florence blanched. “Oh, is it?”

“Yes,” Vivien said with determination. “Bring forth the hat!”

Arabella watched as Cat hurried around to Florence and held out the hat, but her gaze drifted back to her own dare. She stared at the faded writing in consternation, wondering how on earth it would help her win Louis César for herself.

19th June 1839, Mrs Grantham’s ball, Knightsbridge, London.

Louis smiled as he peered around the corner and found his quarry.

“Et voila, I thought I might find you here.”

Miss Evie jumped and pressed a gloved hand to her heart. “Oh, Monsieur le Comte, you gave me a start.”

“Forgive me,” he said, giving her a deep bow.

She grinned at him, showing an unexpected glimpse of dimples. “No forgiveness required. Indeed, I expected you but not so early in the evening.”

Louis proffered the glass of lemonade he held, his voice grave. “I came to rescue you from the punch.”

A frown puckered her smooth forehead. “I beg your pardon.”

“Some enterprising young person has… er… doctored the punch, to make it—and the evening—more interesting, I fear.”

“Really? No wonder it tasted so delicious.”

It was Louis’s turn to frown as he regarded her. “How much have you drunk? It’s at least three parts gin, and exceptionally potent.”

“Only a few sips,” she said with a laugh.

Louis looked to the glass she had placed on the bench beside her and swiftly exchanged it for the lemonade. “A fair trade.”

“Hardly,” she retorted with a little moue of displeasure. “I was enjoying that.”

“Ah, all the most delicious pleasures are the forbidden ones,” he said with a sigh, giving her a wink.

She burst out laughing, holding up a plate of delicate pastries to him.

“My seamstress would agree with you. She scolds me dreadfully every time she must let out my frocks, but if I must attend all these wretched balls, it’s inevitable. They are so dull, yet the hostesses will put out such appetising food. What is one to do?”

He watched as she handed him the titbits she had selected and gave her own plate a mournful glance.

“Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die,” he suggested, popping one of the pastries into his mouth and chewing contentedly.

“Well, the dying bit sounds rather extreme, but other than that, yes.” Evie flashed him a grateful smile and picked up a small tart. “Try these, they’re divine.”

She was quite correct. They sat in happy silence for a while, enjoying their supper.

“Are you having an affair with Mrs Armstrong?”

Louis choked.

“Oh, dear, I’m sorry. I should have waited until you stopped chewing,” she said, not looking the least bit sorry and in fact rather amused. She pounded him on the back and handed him her lemonade. “Would you like some?”

The wicked girl looked far too innocent, all wide-eyed.

“Wretch,” he managed, getting his breath back. “What the devil do you mean by asking me such a thing?”