Page 47 of The English Wife

“Like a rich pastry, the comte is best in small bites.” She slipped an arm through Bay’s, limpid and clinging. Her smile was like a candied violet, a precious bit of confectionary, stiff with sugar. “May I claim a wife’s privilege, Sir Hugo, and retrieve my husband?”

“But of course, my dear. I cede him to you.” The cabochon ruby in Sir Hugo’s cravat glimmered sullenly, the deep red of freshly spilled blood. “For the moment.”

NINE

Paris, 1894

June

“What an appalling man.” It was all Georgie could trust herself to say.

“Yes. He is.” Bay summoned up a shadow of a smile as he offered Georgie his arm. “Shall we have that picnic?”

They purchased their hamper, but the savor had gone out of the potted goose liver. They set out their blanket near the large round fountain, too far from shade. The sun burned down on Georgie’s inadequate hat, and the colors of the garden seemed flat and hard, the flowers too garish, the water too bright. The squawks of the puppeteer and the delighted cries of the children grated on Georgie’s ears.

“What did you think of the Comte de Montesquiou?” Bay propped himself on one elbow, his pose a pretense of ease. “He is one of the sights of Paris.”

“I was a sight more interested in his companion. What did he say to you, Bay?”

Bay bowed his head, pretending great interest in a confection of chocolate and cream. “They say the crystal ring on Monsieur de Montesquiou’s finger contains a single tear, but he won’t tell anyone whose. Some say it’s Lamartine’s, others the empress Josephine’s.”

“In that case,” said Georgie tartly, “who did Sir Hugo stick to get the blood to fill his cravat pin?”

“It’s a ruby, I think,” said Bay helpfully, but dropped his eyes to his pastry again at Georgie’s hard look.

“What did Sir Hugo want, Bay? And don’t tell me it was merely to congratulate you on your nuptials.”

“He recognized you from the Ali Baba.” Bay set the pastry aside, uneaten. “I told him the truth.”

“Which is?”

“That you were a gentlewoman.” Bay didn’t raise his head. With difficulty, he said, “He … understood.”

Her husband was a very bad liar. Georgie supposed she ought to be grateful for that. It was one of the qualities she generally admired in him, his earnestness. “What was the price of his understanding?”

The color rose up to the tips of Bay’s ears. “Five hundred francs. I don’t mind the money, Georgie.”

“You might have told me.”

“I didn’t want to worry you.” Bay plucked a blade of grass, bending it between his fingers. “It was bad luck running into Sir Hugo.”

“You knew that we ran the risk of discovery when you married me.” She sounded sharper than she’d meant to. But she minded. She minded terribly that their peace had been disturbed. Over the past month, there were times she had believed herself entirely what she pretended to be. “He won’t be satisfied with five hundred francs.”

“No.” Bay hesitated and then said, “He has invited us to join his party at the Grand Prix. I am to pay him the next installment there.”

“To fund his adventures at Le Chabanais?” It was the most expensive whorehouse in Paris, patronized by the Prince of Wales, among others. Georgie found herself suddenly angry. “You can tell Sir Hugo to find another banker. You won’t frank him again.”

Bay pressed his eyes shut. “What else are we to do, Georgie? If he makes good on his threats—”

“Then we’ll tell the world a thing or two about him.” Her voice was strident. Georgie made herself lower it, leaning her head close to her husband’s. To the world, they must have been the picture of a courting couple, but her words were anything but lover-like. “Actresses hear things, Bay. There was a girl hurt a few years ago while Sir Hugo and his friends were playing at their Hellfire Club. An actress. And that’s only the tip of it.”

Kitty. Her face hard and old beneath her paints. Dozens of others. It would be a wonder if his lordship didn’t have the pox.

“Well? Don’t you imagine Sir Hugo’s rich fiancée might want to know some of the details?”

Bay sat back on his heels, lines on either side of his mouth. “Blackmail for blackmail?”

It was a good job he’d married her; her husband was too good to survive on his own. “Call it measure for measure. Or self-defense, if you will. You’d hardly hold your fire if someone pointed his pistol at you, would you?”