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“What’s got into you?” the head footman snapped. “No dawdling! Quick now, help with the trays.” He gave her another shove towards the doors.
I can do this, Anna told herself, her mind still reeling. I can get through the evening without being recognised. All she had to do was keep her distance from St John. Dressed as a page boy, she was practically invisible.
Anna groaned.
He would recognise her. He had eyes as sharp as a hawk’s, and he saw things that everyone else did not.
It would be a disaster.
She drew in a deep breath to steady herself.
Calm, Anna, calm. Keep your wits and it will all turn out fine.
Somehow.
Just then, the door opened, and the last guest strolled in. Lithe and slim, with dark hair tousled rakishly over his forehead, he was dressed as only a tulip could be. His shirt points were so high they nearly jabbed his cheeks. He shrugged off his cloak and tossed his cane to the footman, who caught it deftly. Then he strolled nonchalantly up the stairs, turning the heads of every single female nearby.
Anna’s jaw dropped.
Jules.
* * *
Anna clutched the tray tightly, her fingers white-knuckled as she struggled to keep the champagne coupes from slipping. She stepped into the salon, her back deliberately turned towards Jules, who was standing to the side, chatting with a gentleman. In front of her, Marchmont and St John stood in the middle of the room, engrossed in conversation.
“Do you remember Talavera?” Marchmont gestured animatedly. “When we held the hill through the night and into the next day amidst that dreadful cannon duel? The Spanish panicked and dropped their weapons, but we stood firm, until the French finally gave up.”
“Of course I remember,” she heard St John reply. He had his back turned to her. “That victory was hard-won.”
Anna could feel sweat trickling under her wig, her heart pounding in her chest. What should she do now? In front of her stood St John; behind her, Jules, her brother. Neither could discover her presence here.
She scanned the room. To her right, a cluster of women chatted. To her left, she might be able to slip through the crowd and blend in with the other footmen near the fireplace, if she was careful. Without thinking, she stepped sideways, narrowly avoiding Marchmont’s energetic gestures.
As she moved, Mrs Marchmont glided forward, hands outstretched. “Comte de la Vallière. What an honour.”
Anna nearly jumped out of her skin and veered sideways.
Jules bowed gracefully, then kissed her hand with practised charm. “The honour is mine, madame.”
Of course, Jules knew how to charm when he wanted to.
“We’ve heard such stories about you,” Mrs Marchmont continued. “Pray, they aren’t true, are they?”
The surrounding women leaned in, eager to hear more.
Jules offered an angelic smile. “Which stories, madame? Perhaps the one where my father, who was Louis the Sixteenth’s Grand Écuyer, almost succeeded in smuggling the King and Queen out of France? Alas, we know how that ended…”
The women erupted into whispers, and a thin, pale lady in an overly white dress—Miss Marchmont—spoke up. “Yes, that story too,” she giggled behind her hand. “But we’re much more interested in hearing how you fared in…” She paused dramatically. “Marshalsea.”
Jules sniffed, waving the topic off with a casual flick of his hand. “Oh, that? A mere adventure, I assure you, ladies. Nothing more.”
Anna stifled a groan, rolling her eyes. Oh, Jules. Not Miss Marchmont! What was he even thinking, setting his cap at her? And what about everyone else? Truly, she would never understand the ton. Jules’s stint in debtors’ prison, instead of marking him as a social outcast, seemed to have had the opposite effect, elevating him to some bizarre form of celebrity status. It baffled her how his misadventures, which should have tarnished his reputation, now had him paraded about like some sort of charming rogue. It was probably his title. A commoner in debtors’ prison was deplorable. An impoverished French comte was another story altogether. That was, quite irresistibly, romantic.
Just as her focus was drawn to him, she failed to notice Marchmont approaching her. She looked up and found him standing before her, still conversing with St John, and her heart nearly leapt from her chest. She steadied the tray, trying to control her trembling hands.
Marchmont picked up two champagne coupes, and, without glancing at her, handed one to St John. Anna’s gaze was drawn irresistibly to St John, unable to tear herself away. It had been so long since she’d seen him, his long limbs, the unruly waves of his hair, those piercing pale green eyes…
St John accepted the glass with a nod, lifting it in a silent toast to Marchmont. And then, he looked directly at her. His eyes met hers, holding her in place. The rest of the world faded away in an instant. The noise of the salon, the people milling about, it all disappeared.
