Chapter 8
Eight
If you ever receive advice from a Frenchwoman, take it to heart.
When my husband entered the room, I was so stunned by his attire that I curtsied mutely—which Burnsby ignored. He pranced straight across the room to join Sophonisba.
The tartan designed by his mother resembled an outlandish chessboard, purple and green competing for attention.
The pleated skirt stopped just above bulbous-yet-bony knees, and thick white stockings stopped just below.
A black-handled dagger was tucked into the top of his hose, as if he might have to fight off a marauding tribesman at any moment.
“He’s still wearing that abomination?” Lance groaned, switching to English. “I had hoped it was a fever dream of my childhood.”
“He adores wearing that plaid,” Ophelia said dismissively. “Aunt Mima had a seamstress make up a gown in the pattern, but he forced her to discard it.” Her lip curled.
It seemed only the legitimate few were allowed to wear the Burnsby weave.
I wouldn’t be one of them.
As Sophonisba and Burnsby sauntered back to us, I once again had a disorienting feeling that the earth was moving under my feet.
“Where is your bride?” Burnsby asked Lance, irritation edging his voice.
“Colette’s toilette takes some hours. She is a treasured confidant to Empress Josephine, particularly in sartorial matters.”
Burnsby liked that; he gave his heir an approving smile. “While I cannot condone your living in a foreign clime,” he pronounced, “one must recognize that our dear king and queen feel some kinship with their French counterparts.”
Given Lance’s expression, I was certain that a withering comment would follow, but Sophonisba intervened with a gush of conversation—sallies in our tournament, since she addressed my husband as “Bunny,” “lovie-pie,” and “big boy.”
I caught Godric’s gaze when she called Burnsby the latter. The affront in his eyes made me choke back a hysterical giggle.
“Your conversational style requires amendment, Miss Ainsworth,” he stated. “You offer insult to Lady Burnsby.”
(Snap!)
My husband intervened without even glancing at me. “I’ve known Sophie since we were young. Her endearments reflect our enduring friendship.”
“We’ve been Sophie and Bunny since the day we met,” Sophonisba exclaimed.
Godric appeared as appalled as I felt, which was comforting. I found myself shifting closer to him, as if his glowering strength would deflect further humiliation.
Sophonisba put her hand on my husband’s cheek. “I’ve known Bunny since he was widdle, and now—”
I held my breath to see if she would remark on how “big” he’d grown, but thankfully she was interrupted by the door opening.
“Here is my darling wife now,” Lance said. My attention was caught by his voice: Why did he sound so amused, as if he were relishing a joke?
His bride paused in the doorway, flipped open a painted fan, and inspected everyone in the room with mischievous, seductive eyes, her red mouth an impudent curve.
Lancelot’s wife was one of most beautiful women I’d ever seen, her cheekbones high and her figure impeccable.
And she was of a different race.
Her skin was reddish-brown, a tone accentuated by a magnificent evening gown of blush satin, cut low and square in the bosom, and adorned with lace and diamond rosettes. Her thickly curling hair was piled high on her head and held in place with glittering pins.
Diamond pins.
“Father will have an apoplexy,” Ophelia whispered as we all gathered to be introduced.
True, Burnsby would have preferred a pallid Englishwoman. He shot Lance a furious glance, even as his lips curled in a sour greeting.
“Lady Burnsby, Lord Burnsby,” Lance said, “may I introduce my wife, Countess Marmont?” He aimed a smile like a burning arrow at his father. “In case you hadn’t seen the announcement in the Times, Napoleon granted me an estate and title.”
The countess’s smile broadened, and she curtsied, bowing her head respectfully before her father-in-law.
Burnsby swelled like a toad about to sing an evening serenade, and for a moment he seemingly couldn’t bring himself to bow.
If he’d been angry at the race of the lady who would carry on his name, Lance’s new rank left him outraged to the bone. As opposed to paying obeisance to the Burnsby title, his heir had jumped several rungs ahead in the aristocracy.
His grandchildren would presumably become heirs to a French estate more impressive than the Burnsby holdings (a London townhouse, a modest Scottish country house, a haunted abbey).
At length, Burnsby managed to bow, his face red with suppressed emotion.
“It is a true pleasure, Lady Marmont,” I said, dropping into a low curtsy.
She snapped her fan shut and surged forward, taking both my hands in hers. “There you are!” she cried.
Her smile was infectious. “Here I am,” I agreed wryly. “Congratulations on your marriage.”
“My name is Colette, and I understand yours is Genevieve. We shall be the closest of friends, since we were both foolish enough to marry into such a disreputable family.” She flicked a glance at Sophonisba.
Goodness! She didn’t pull her punches. I couldn’t help thinking how refreshing it was to hear a woman speak her mind without fear. Colette had charm to go with her confidence. All my fears that she and her husband were chuckling behind my back faded into nothingness.
Burnsby sucked in an offended breath, but Lancelot began laughing.
“I would be happy to address you as Colette,” I said.
“Regardez.” She nodded toward the mirror. We were of a height, and—I don’t mean to be immodest—if we stood together at the court in St. James, the two of us would outshine the rest.
“I can’t wait to walk through Versailles arm in arm with my mother-in-law,” Colette said.
“Darling, may I introduce Miss Ophelia Burnsby, my half-sister?” Lancelot said. The fact he was now introducing a girl technically in the schoolroom suggested he had no intention of introducing Sophonisba to his wife.
(It’s a sign of how discombobulated I was that the oversight occurred to me. I stepped back, struck by the idea that Lancelot’s choice of bride hid an element of revenge.)
“What a stunning young lady you are!” Colette cried. “I’m hideously jealous of your eyebrows.”
Ophelia turned pink. “You are?”
Burnsby made a stifled noise as he noticed Ophelia, scanning her head to toe. He opened his mouth, perhaps to command her to leave, but I caught his eye.
My gaze scalded him. To my satisfaction, he snapped his lips shut and pivoted away to whisper to Sophonisba.
Burnsby just met the real me for the first time. Not his fault, since I rarely share genuine emotion.
Lancelot turned in a leisurely fashion to Godric, emphasizing the fact he was not introducing Sophonisba. “Colette, may I introduce my dearest friend, Sir Godric Everley?”
The bride snapped open her fan again, examined Godric up and down, and twinkled at him. “I am honored that you traveled into this wilderness to meet me, Sir Godric. I hope to host you in Paris. My friends will be very happy to learn that Lance is not the only délicieux Englishman.”
Burnsby cleared his throat, stepped forward, and introduced Sophonisba as a “world-famous opera singer.” Given my inability to faint, I decided to pretend to be in another room, if not another country.
(The same advice a bride receives about the marriage night, which is an odd coincidence.)
“Most notably in Paris,” Sophonisba gushed. “The city of l’amour. That’s where we met.”
I managed not to wince.
“The birthplace of arts, opera, and philosophy. No refinement would exist without the world’s most glorious city.”
“Then I assume you performed in the Théatre National de la rue de la Loi, Miss Ainsworth?” the bride asked with a charming smile.
“Certainly,” Sophonisba said uneasily.
For the first time, it occurred to me to wonder how Sophonisba had managed to achieve worldwide fame, since she’d been immured in the Highlands throughout the tenure of Burnsby’s last two wives.
“After dinner, you must treat us to a brief concert. Opéra-ballet is so popular in the Théatre National, or so my father has told me. Naturally, I was never allowed to attend because of its reputation. Unmarried ladies are so easily scandalized. Might you entertain us with a dance as well?”
Burnsby intervened, claiming that serious musicians like Miss Ainsworth remained in one spot without any disgraceful wiggling.
“I am certain that opera singers’ low reputation is undeserved,” the bride cooed, with an air of perfect innocence. “Do regale us with your triumphs.”
Beside me, Godric sighed and said in a low voice, “Lancelot married a female version of himself.”
“What does that mean?” I inquired.
“He is a barrister, as I am, but he rules the courtroom by being entertaining, inflammatory, and flamboyant. On the basis of those skills, he’s risen to be a consul to Napoleon, an expert on all things judicial.”
“You are ‘treasured’ by the English king,” I pointed out.
“By offering solid evidence that convinces the jury of my argument.”
“Berating people in the courtroom instead of entertaining them? Mima described it as browbeating,” I said sweetly.
He cast me an unfriendly glance. “The countess knows full well that the Théatre National was established recently, which means that Sophonisba could not have performed there. Like Lance, she plays cat and mouse with her victims.”
“I’d like to watch him in the courtroom,” I said, as Colette covered her face with her fan, hiding (I was certain) a mocking expression. Her husband’s sneer was thinly veiled, if that. “How far will he go to entertain? Does he falsify evidence?”
“Never. Lance lures his opponents into lying and deploys their mistakes to theatrical effect.”
Colette abruptly turned away from Sophonisba and moved to my side, tucking one of my arms through the crook of her elbow. “We ladies shall sit over there,” she announced, nodding toward a far sofa. “Ophelia, do join us. Lance, dispatch someone with champagne, won’t you?”