9. Once Upon a Silver Gown
ONCE UPON A SILVER GOWN
G enevieve Courtenay was not very good at sitting still. Especially not when her father was monologuing. Particularly not when he was monologuing about their place in the history of European Kings.
But the Earldom of Rae and hence the entire Courtenay lineage, Vi always wanted to counter, weren’t kings of anything.
She knew better though. In fact, she had known better since he’d grounded her for saying just that years ago.
She’d spent the next two Christmases at the boarding school for being a ‘disrespectful brat.’
However, it was still nothing but the truth. Her mother had been the king’s sister. Since King Aleric had heirs, there’d been close to zero chances that Vi’s mother would ascend to the throne. And then her death at childbirth took care of that particular dream for Charles.
Her father himself, as the current Earl of Rae, was a descendent of William the Conqueror, but then who wasn’t?
The man had more descendants than Genghis Khan.
Okay, that was an exaggeration on her part.
But many. The man had many. Most British nobility deemed themselves to be in some way connected to the ginger menace. And so were the Raes.
She blew her too long, ginger bangs out of her face and couldn’t suppress a smile at her own train of thought, then quickly schooled her features, but it was too late.
“And what exactly is so funny, Genevieve?”
Her father was glaring at her, her stepsisters were elbowing each other in expectation of an evisceration, and her stepmother just turned the page of the issue of Poise Magazine she was perusing and read on.
“Ah… Nothing, father?”
“And yet you were acting foolishly. Care to explain yourself?”
Vi scrambled for something, anything useful to throw her family, who were out for their pound of flesh, and came up short. Her father stood, and she closed her eyes.
Here it comes.
Just then, the trill of her phone sounded from her messenger bag and interrupted the tension. She all but flew to the sofa, pulling out the ringing device.
“Hi Chiara.”
The room froze and fell silent. Vi wanted to laugh again at how these people, who claimed blue blood in their veins, were so easily impressed by a famous name.
“I apologize for interrupting what I’m sure is an exciting evening, Ms. Courtenay—” Vi wanted to wrap herself in the low notes of that velvety voice.
“No, no, please, how can I help you?” Her father’s face lost some of its rigidity, and he sat back down, his eyes gleaming with a light Vi did not like at all. In fact, this avariciousness where Vi’s employment was concerned gave her a decidedly ominous feeling.
On the other hand, Gwyneth was watching her with a curious expression of something very close to actual approval.
“I was wondering if you have a gown to wear for the Blackthorne Ball.” The voice sounded far away, like Vi was on speaker while Chiara was doing something at a distance from the phone. Which she probably was. The woman was always working.
“A gown for the Blackthorne Ball? I am sure I will find something?” She felt ridiculous repeating, but Gwyneth’s expression grew even warmer, and she nodded slightly. It seemed like, for the first time in a long time, she had done something right.
“All right, then, Ms. Courtenay. But if you’d like my help to alter it, since I imagine it won’t be yours…”
Gwyneth must have guessed what was going on, because she smiled wanly and nodded again as Vi hurried to answer.
“Yes, yes, that’s very generous… I will stop by tom—” Gwyneth’s frown had Vi coughing and correcting course, “Tonight! If you’re still at Lilien Haus?
” Gwyneth had gotten up and motioned for Vi to follow her.
Chiara chuckled in her ear, and it sent shivers down Vi’s spine.
As if intuiting her predicament, Gwyneth just shook her head.
“I will see you soon then, Ms. Courtenay.” The line went dead, and Vi found herself in the inner sanctum. Gwyneth’s closet. It was probably larger than Vi’s shoebox apartment. Granted, the closet did also house several hundred shoeboxes.
She stood gawking, since the abundance of riches filling every cubbyhole, every shelf, never ceased to amaze her. Gwyneth returned with a long garment bag, the logo unmistakable on the front.
Vi’s eyes went wide, but Gwyneth simply handed it to her and turned off the light in the magnificent space.
“As your father is prone to say—though god knows why, since you never listen to him anyway—don’t screw up, Genevieve.”
* * *
Vi skipped more than walked the few blocks to Rue Saint-Honoré, the gown in the garment bag giving her wings better than any energy drink ever could.
“I’m going to the ball!” She yelled as she passed Zizou who was quietly smoking on his corner and just shrugged, extinguishing his cigarette before motioning for her to wait.
He went inside and returned a few minutes later with a small basket that resembled the traditional picnic variety.
Indeed, a corner of a baguette was sticking out of it, and a checkered red and white cloth covered the rest.
“Leftovers. No olives. Now run along,” he grouched at her after practically shoving the basket in her hands.
“Zou…”
“Monsieur Zizou to you.” He tsked and lit another cigarette, waving her away. “And make sure Madame Conti eats something. She’s wasting away.”
Ah , Vi almost smiled. Almost. But who’d understand Zizou, who had the most obvious case of pining for Madame Conti, better than she did? The fact that he flat-out refused to call her anything other than “Madame Conti” warmed Vi’s heart.
Take that, Frankie!
And she would make sure his request, worded more like an order, would be fulfilled.
Madame Conti would eat tonight, because despite her always taking care of others, she never looked after herself.
Must be all the herding-of-dragons skills she mentioned.
Vi smiled at that. Only Chiara could make something challenging endearing.
* * *
Which was a travesty, really, Vi thought as Chiara unpacked the basket and her eyes danced with merriment and delight. Someone should imprint those emotions on this beautiful face, because Chiara, above all, deserved to be happy. It suited her so well.
Binoche made herself a nuisance around their ankles, despite her bowl being full to the brim with wet food.
Vi gave her a meaningful look, but the cat studiously ignored her by loudly demanding her due from her mistress.
Chiara, in turn, chose not to pay attention to the little chocolate ball in favor of discovering the treasures Zizou had bestowed upon them.
“He’s a good man, Zizou. Surly, but good. And for whatever else, he is an amazing cook.” Chiara took out several carefully wrapped items. Vi preferred to look at the beautiful hands rather than at the food. Then what Chiara said caught up with her.
“ Whatever else? ”
Chiara stopped halfway into inventorying the basket, but the smile that followed didn’t reach her eyes.
“He’s a man of mystery and a Jack of many trades, Ms. Courtenay. Just… don’t cross him.”
That previous sense of foreboding returned, and Vi made herself appear busy unwrapping the sandwiches while her heart hammered.
Returning her gaze to her host who, with an indulgent smile, watched the cat saunter out of the kitchen with a prized piece of salami in her mouth, Vi racked her brain to try to recall the train of thought their conversation, so rudely interrupted by whatever cryptic warning Chiara had imparted on her earlier, had been on.
When the topic came back to her, Vi wanted to mention that, lately, she’d had no way to appreciate Zizou’s great cooking, since her lunches always tended to disappear, but remembering how the last incident had gone, she chose to let it go and lighten the mood instead.
“He is surly, all right. And he’s aware you haven't been eating. Which isn’t surprising, I guess. Maybe he isn’t just a chef but also a spy and that’s why you don’t tell me more. Doesn’t matter, I don’t want to know anyway. La-la-la.”
Chiara’s smile brightened, and this time it reached her eyes as she bit into a large pear, juice coating her lips. Vi’s hands twitched, wanting to reach out, to touch, to lean in and taste those lips that were undoubtedly sweet, even without the fruit making them look more luscious and delicious.
She swallowed hard. God, ‘hopeless’ wasn’t even close to how bad she had it.
The dictionary didn’t have the words to describe how deeply and terribly Vi was gone for this woman.
A woman who was now lifting fruit-stained fingers to her mouth, savoring the taste, making those absolutely illegal sounds of contentment, of satiation.
If these sounds emanating from Chiara weren’t outlawed yet, they damn sure better be, and soon.
“ Whatever else he is , Zizou has been on his corner in his bistro for quite some time. He saw us move Lilien Haus from the other part of town to Saint-Honoré a few years ago. And I appreciate his friendship. He has been very good to us from the beginning, feeding us, catering our events, and doing all those other super-secret things that you don’t want to know about.
No, don’t look like that. The man caters like an angel. ”
Vi faked a grin, happy for the banter and the distraction from all the nefariousness that may or may not be happening, and was about to launch into another litany of ‘la-la-las’ , when Chiara reached across and covered Vi’s insolent mouth with her hand.
And suddenly both of them stopped, standing very still, skin on skin, their eyes full of each other. Vi’s, she knew, were all longing, and Chiara’s held something she couldn’t discern. Something hot was burning in those amber depths.
Chiara had touched her before. She’d had to, since she’d pretty much transformed Vi into her personal mannequin, and she had once silenced her in exactly the same fashion. But this was different.