Chapter Eight
As soon as Giselle closed her door the next morning on the footman who’d brought her breakfast, she strode to her table to open the two surprise letters on the tray.
One was on Amber’s stationery, and she begged Giselle to forgive the delay in notifying her that she and Gus had arrived early in town.
But their husbands had business to conduct and they all came posthaste.
Amber also told her to open the other letter on her tray if she had not already.
The second note was paper of a delicate ivory, scented with lemon verbena, and Giselle knew at once whose it was.
Tickled as a child that the letter most likely came from one of her mother’s best friends, Giselle tore it open.
Oui, miraculous! Madame élisabeth-Louise Vigée-Le Brun, the famous portraitist of Marie Antoinette and so many other royals and dignitaries, not only currently visited Brighton, but she invited Giselle to luncheon tomorrow.
Giselle had had no idea the famous portrait painter was here in town.
Furthermore, the lady had discovered she too was in Brighton.
How that had occurred was no mystery. The answer had to be that her friends, Amber and Gus, had sent word to Madame Le Brun that Giselle was here in Brighton.
Amber and Gus not only knew the famous portraitist from their years in France, but also that Giselle had known the artist had been one of her mother’s good friends.
The Frenchwoman knew that Giselle would not refuse her invitation.
Giselle sat with a smile and sigh, her reverie providing glimpses of her childhood.
She remembered well her mother’s and the lady’s laughter in each other’s company.
In her family’s Paris house in the Rue du Bac, Giselle had studied madame’s work as she painted portraits of her parents.
Later, the artist had come to their chateau on the Loire and painted one landscape of their verdant forest along the rushing river.
Taken by her mother to view Le Brun’s studio in Paris, Giselle fell in love with the ability to produce not only landscapes true to a leafy tree, but creations of others’ faces in hues and shades so real that the people could step off the canvas into the world.
Giselle had not seen Madame Le Brun in many years.
The lady had fled Paris and traveled over much of the Continent since the royal Bourbons had been guillotined twelve years ago.
Her visits to any notable man or woman in any part of the world were duly reported by newspapers everywhere.
She made her way among the titled, rich, and famous, many of whom she had met when she was the favored artist and portraitist of Queen Marie Antoinette.
Giselle had endeavored to be as good, though she knew her skills at painting people would never equal madame’s. She stuck to scenery, landscapes, and seascapes, and called herself useful, if never brilliant.
That Madame Le Brun was here in Brighton was a joy to learn. That the lady invited her to meet her for luncheon at her rented home was a boon.
Giselle felt her spirits lift. She would enjoy renewing their friendship.
More than that, she felt content that Gus and Amber were also in town to talk about her progress.
She’d tell them about the failure of Jacques Durand’s man to meet her the other night, and about the seeming disappearance of the guard they had hired to shadow her.
Both Gus and Amber, with their husbands, and their ties to Scarlett Hawthorne’s espionage network, would not only have answers for her. They would have solutions.
She strode to the window overlooking the bustling streets of the town and the wide, welcoming shoreline shimmering in the sunlight.
She’d not had the pleasure of seeing Lord Carlisle since yesterday in the Lanes.
She dared to hope that he would not be invited to the artist’s little soirée.
She doubted he would know Madame Le Brun, but then, he was a marquis, titled and therefore, to some extent or another, part of London Society. If he came, so be it. She would cope.
She inhaled, her confidence returning. She had much to do—and she would do it best if she cast off her stubborn fascination with the dashing Lord Carlisle.
*
“Gigi! Gigi!”
Giselle spun on the stone walk to the sound of a child calling the name her own mama had used for her. “Bella!”
The little girl broke from her father’s grasp. She ran toward Giselle, her chubby arms up and waving at her.
Instinct had Giselle opening her arms wide as she bent to catch the little girl to her. “Good afternoon, dear Bella. Where are you off to?”
Carlisle towered above them. The sun silhouetting his agile form, he radiated a new joy to her day. As he always did. “Wonderful to see you, Giselle. Forgive Bella her new name for you. She has adapted it to her own abilities.”
With Bella clinging to her legs, Giselle admired the elegance of him.
He wore pale breeches, a peach-colored silk waistcoat, and an apple-green-and-taupe tweed frockcoat of soft wool.
Her mouth watered. “I don’t mind at all.
Gigi is a perfectly good name. My mother used to address me that way.
You have given me happy memories today. Thank you, Bella! ”
The little girl giggled.
Carlisle shifted and Giselle saw his smile, brilliant as the sun. “Bella and I walk to the new carousel in the market square. A ride on a few horses is in order, you know. Where are you off to on this fine day?”
“I go to a reception. An old friend has invited me to relive our pasts.”
“How lovely. Well…” He hesitated, but then took a step closer. “Why not join my sister and me for dinner?”
“Oh, I would not intrude.”
“You’d be a welcome addition to our little group. Even her beau joins us.” He took her hand and squeezed it affectionately. “Brighten my evening, won’t you?”
Her heart swelled. “Sir, you are too complimentary.”
“Allow me to be more so. Join us. Please.”
“I will. I will. Thank you.” She had a lump in her throat at his tender words. She surmised the gaiety of meeting old friends contributed to her sense of freedom—and abandon to accept his invitation. She tipped her head toward the walk north. “I must go.”
“Eight o’clock.”
“Eight it is.” Unable to contain herself, she grinned at him.
“That’s the look I appreciate. You, happy with me.”
She blushed.
“And that look too, my dear Gigi.”
“I must go.”
He tsked. “Quelle damage.”
“You are incorrigible, sir.”
“Only for you.”
Reluctantly, she pulled her hand from his. “Until tonight.”
*
Clive stood watching her leave him and felt her departure as keenly as if the sun had dissolved. Eight o’clock seemed an eternity away.
She crossed the street, a graceful mirage in celestial blue.
Then he spotted a man furtively parallel her action, matching her pace.
Clive scooped up Bella into his arms and trailed behind them.
The man never diverted from his path. He was tracking her, stalking her. Thin as a stick, he was an ugly creature with the largest beak nose. Certainly he was no fine gentleman.
Who in hell was he? And what did he want with her?
Clive winced. He could not be the person she should have met outside the hotel the other night. If he were known to her or had an appointment to meet her, he would have no need to track her. He could approach her and talk.
When Giselle at last climbed the steps of a grand house and pulled the knocker, she was admitted immediately by the butler. For now, she was safe inside.
What to do to ensure that fellow did not hurt her?
Clive would hurry back to the hotel, ask Terese to take Bella to the carousel, and get Langley to help him find a man to guard Giselle. Today. Now!
She would be at her reception, he hoped, for at least an hour. That was all he had to ensure she was safe, unharmed. And he would do it.
After years of loneliness and self-doubt, he had found a woman he wanted for his own. He would not lose her.
Not to anyone.
She could be his.
Would be his, forever.