Portrait of a Scandal. ANNIE BURROWS
turning on her heel. ‘And it’s mademoiselle,’ she threw over her shoulder as she stalked along the corridor to the nursery.
‘How are you, my little sweet pea?’ she said as she strode into Sophie’s room. All her irritation vanished the moment Sophie leapt to her feet, ran across the room and flung her arms round Amethyst’s waist.
‘Feel better this morning, do you?’
‘Yes, Aunt Amy! I have such a lovely view out of my window,’ she said, tugging her across the room to show her. ‘I have seen so many people walking by. The ladies wear the most enormous bonnets so you can’t see their faces and their skirts look like great big bells swinging along the street. And the buildings are all so tall, and grand, but the people who go into them are all muddled up.’
‘Muddled up?’
‘Yes. You can’t tell who the house belongs to by watching who goes in. Not at all. I thought that one over there...’ she pointed to the hôtel immediately across the street ‘...must belong to someone very important, because a great big coach drew up last night and people dressed up in fabulous clothes got in, but then this morning, some people came out looking as though they were going to work. A man with a leather satchel and a quite poor-looking woman carrying a bundle...’
‘I expect it is the same as this house, then,’ she explained. ‘Each floor is rented out to someone different. The grand people with the coach would have the ground floor and the woman with the bundle probably lives up in the attics somewhere.’
Sophie’s brow wrinkled. ‘Are we very grand, then?’
‘Because we have rented the ground floor of this house?’ Amethyst smiled. ‘No. We are not grand at all. Only...quite well off.’ Fabulously well off, thanks to her aunt’s shrewd business brain. And, lately, to hers. People who knew she’d been her aunt’s sole beneficiary expected her fortune to dwindle, now that she was at the helm. Only a trusted few knew that her aunt had trained her in every aspect of managing her vast portfolio, after discovering she, too, had a knack with numbers. An ability to spot an opportunity for investment that others overlooked, which stemmed, in part, from a refusal to accept the general consensus of opinion in the masculine-dominated world of finance.
‘I just wanted,’ she explained to the inquisitive child, ‘you and your mother to have the best that money could buy for our little adventure.’
‘Where is Mama?’
‘She is not feeling well this morning. I have told her to stay in bed.’
Sophie’s face fell.
‘She will not be coming out with us today, but Monsieur Le Brun has promised that he will show you a lot of very interesting things.’
‘But Mama won’t see them. I would rather she was with us...’
‘Yes, so would I,’ Amethyst replied with feeling. A whole day sightseeing with Monsieur Le Prune, without Fenella’s soothing presence to act as a buffer between them, was bound to end in them having words. ‘But you can tell her all about them when we come home. And perhaps buy her a little present to cheer her up.’
Sophie’s face lit up. ‘A monkey. I saw a man with a monkey go past just now, wearing a red jacket and cap.’
‘No, sweet pea. I do not think your mama would enjoy having a monkey for a pet.’
Sophie looked thoughtful. ‘No, I suppose not. She...likes quiet things, does she not?’
‘Yes.’ That was very true. Sophie had much more of an adventurous spirit than her mother. She wouldn’t be a bit surprised if she didn’t take after her rather reckless father in temperament, though she was a miniature image of her mother, with her light-brown hair and soft, smoky blue eyes.
‘We could buy her a picture. She would like that, wouldn’t she? Are there shops that sell pictures?’
‘I am sure there must be.’ For there were certainly plenty of artists about. Infiltrating restaurants and invading people’s dreams...
She shook herself. He had not invaded her dreams on purpose. It was her own stupid fault for spending the last few moments before she fell asleep savouring the way it had felt to have him come to her and beg for custom. And then imagining all sorts of other ways she could make him rue the day he’d spurned her for that horsey-faced female, simply because her father had a seat in Parliament in his pocket, rather than just a modest parish to govern. In her dreams, he’d gone from crouching on that canvas stool, to kneeling at her feet, begging forgiveness and swearing that he’d made a terrible mistake. That he’d been punished, for years, for the callous way he’d broken her heart. And only a kiss from her lips could assuage his torment...
She’d felt most uncomfortable when she awoke. Gracious heavens, she didn’t want him to beg her for kisses, or anything else. She was well rid of him. She’d told herself so every time she’d seen his name in print in conjunction with tales of his ineffectiveness, or lack of loyalty to his party and the men who’d sponsored his career. And eventually, when his penchant for sordid sexual scandals got so out of hand that no amount of pressure from his influential family could undo the damage, she had incontrovertible proof.
He was no good.
And she’d had a lucky escape.
‘I’m ready!’
She blinked to see Sophie hopping from one foot to the other, her coat buttoned up, her bonnet tied neatly under her chin.
Time to go out.
And push the feckless, faithless Nathan Harcourt from her mind. She had better things to do with her day than think about him. About how much more handsome he was than she had remembered. How much more vital and alive as he crouched with his pencil in his hand in that restaurant than he’d seemed as a young man. He’d strolled through the ballrooms of polite society, in those days, with a jaded air, as though nothing and nobody could possibly interest him. That had been the cynical ploy of a rake, of course. When he’d deigned to pay her a little attention, it had made her feel there must be something special about her to have dissipated the pall of boredom hanging over him. And when he’d smiled at her that first time, in response to some silly quip she’d made, as though it had been something brilliantly witty, she’d felt as though she’d met the one person in the world who completely understood her.
A little grunt of vexation escaped her mouth, which made Monsieur Le Brun, who was waiting for them in the hall, start guiltily.
She didn’t correct his assumption that she might be cross with him. It would keep him on his toes.
Besides, before the end of the day, she was bound to be.
Sophie skipped up to him and smiled. ‘Aunt Amy says you are going to show us lots of interesting things. Do you know where the man with the monkey lives?’
His face softened. It was amazing the effect Sophie was beginning to have on him. Even though she’d suspected him of lying about his willingness to take charge of a party that included a child, he had never exhibited the slightest sign of impatience with her. He might have fretted about the delay to his schedule, but he’d never taken out his frustration on her.
‘I know Paris well, but alas,’ he replied with a shrug, ‘I do not know everyone who lives in every house. Especially not now, when my city is so full of visitors. But I can show you the best of it. We shall commence,’ he said, gesturing with his hand to the hall door, ‘with a stroll along the Boulevard.’
Amethyst grimaced. ‘Should I have worn pattens?’
Monsieur Le Brun drew himself up to his full height.
‘The Boulevard has gravelled walkways along both sides, shaded by trees. You will not need to worry about soiling your gowns when walking there, I promise you.’
‘Hmm,’ she said, pursing her lips. Well, she would soon see.
* * *
But