her milk-white reputation. Jemma knew it wasnât for the sake of virtue itself; Louise was so besotted by her loose fish of a husband that she likely never even looked at another man.
The only way Louise would dance to her tune would be out of rage. That posed a challenge: to convince the marquise to attempt a seduction of Elijah, without that lady having the faintest idea of her intentions. It would be a fiendishly difficult task. Machiavellian, really.
Jemma finished her toast, forcing herself to read the paperâs account of the prisonersâ riot. Before recapture, the prisoners had burned a number of houses, though they were barred from a large area of the city due to the forethought of the citizens, who had defended themselves by erecting impenetrable barriers.
The Morning Post issued a challenge to the mayor of London and to Pittâs cabinet: How had it come to pass that common citizens had to defend themselves, using brooms and trash cans? Why wasnât the Queenâs Royal Regiment called in to quell the violence of these criminals?
Jemma couldnât bear to read any longer. It just made her think of the speeches Elijah would undoubtedly be called upon to make in the House. She threw the paper aside and rose.
âI must be at my most elegant,â she told Brigitte a moment later. âI shall go to visit the marquise. I caught a glimpse of her on the kingâs yacht last night, so I know that she is currently in London.â
Brigitteâs eyes widened and she set to work with the concentrated fervor of a ladyâs maid whose work would be judged by the bestâher rival femme de chambre . A few hours later Jemma tripped into the marquiseâs drawing room, fit to dine with Queen Marie Antoinette herself.
She was wearing, unusually for her, a wig. Unlike the rather tatty and (she felt) dirty wigs that she commonly saw in ballrooms, hers was made of white curls so delicate that they shone like spun sugar in the morning sunlight. They rose to an exuberant height, but rather than supporting an entire birdcage with its songbird or anything of that ridiculous nature, Mariette had simply tucked a few pale blossoms among the curls.
With it she wore an exquisite morning gown of the same pink as the blossoms, the skirts caught back to show a deeper, rosy underskirt with a border of amber gold. The pièce de résistance, to Jemmaâs mind, was her shoes: delicate high-heeled slippers in rose-colored silk, with tiny gold buckles.
She had been seated a mere twenty minutes before the marquise appeared. Jemma rose, dropping into a short curtsy. It was a signal honor, indicating that she was overlooking their difference in rank. The marquise fell into a deeper curtsy, the sort that recognized the delicate compliment Jemma had just given her, and topped it with an expression of deep respect.
Finally they managed to seat themselves, on opposing sofas, naturally, given the width of their skirts.The marquise was even more elegantly attired than was Jemma. As a matter of course, the marquise never wore any colors other than black and white, a rather eccentric notion that complemented her dark eyes and hair. This morning her gown was white and embroidered with elaborate swirls of black silk.
Jemma thought about that costume while they went through the motions of drinking tea and chatting about the riots. Hadnât Elijah once said that the marquise looked like a chessboard?
âHow do you find yourself?â Jemma asked, watching the marquise over the edge of her teacup. âThe last time I saw you, you were on your way to Lincolnshireâ¦â She allowed her voice to trail off in a tactful invitation.
The marquiseâs eyebrows drew together. âI did locate my husband, or at least where he had been. There was a village where he stayed with thisâthis putain that he followed to England. I made my footmen inquire.â
The pained edge to her voice made her
The only way Louise would dance to her tune would be out of rage. That posed a challenge: to convince the marquise to attempt a seduction of Elijah, without that lady having the faintest idea of her intentions. It would be a fiendishly difficult task. Machiavellian, really.
Jemma finished her toast, forcing herself to read the paperâs account of the prisonersâ riot. Before recapture, the prisoners had burned a number of houses, though they were barred from a large area of the city due to the forethought of the citizens, who had defended themselves by erecting impenetrable barriers.
The Morning Post issued a challenge to the mayor of London and to Pittâs cabinet: How had it come to pass that common citizens had to defend themselves, using brooms and trash cans? Why wasnât the Queenâs Royal Regiment called in to quell the violence of these criminals?
Jemma couldnât bear to read any longer. It just made her think of the speeches Elijah would undoubtedly be called upon to make in the House. She threw the paper aside and rose.
âI must be at my most elegant,â she told Brigitte a moment later. âI shall go to visit the marquise. I caught a glimpse of her on the kingâs yacht last night, so I know that she is currently in London.â
Brigitteâs eyes widened and she set to work with the concentrated fervor of a ladyâs maid whose work would be judged by the bestâher rival femme de chambre . A few hours later Jemma tripped into the marquiseâs drawing room, fit to dine with Queen Marie Antoinette herself.
She was wearing, unusually for her, a wig. Unlike the rather tatty and (she felt) dirty wigs that she commonly saw in ballrooms, hers was made of white curls so delicate that they shone like spun sugar in the morning sunlight. They rose to an exuberant height, but rather than supporting an entire birdcage with its songbird or anything of that ridiculous nature, Mariette had simply tucked a few pale blossoms among the curls.
With it she wore an exquisite morning gown of the same pink as the blossoms, the skirts caught back to show a deeper, rosy underskirt with a border of amber gold. The pièce de résistance, to Jemmaâs mind, was her shoes: delicate high-heeled slippers in rose-colored silk, with tiny gold buckles.
She had been seated a mere twenty minutes before the marquise appeared. Jemma rose, dropping into a short curtsy. It was a signal honor, indicating that she was overlooking their difference in rank. The marquise fell into a deeper curtsy, the sort that recognized the delicate compliment Jemma had just given her, and topped it with an expression of deep respect.
Finally they managed to seat themselves, on opposing sofas, naturally, given the width of their skirts.The marquise was even more elegantly attired than was Jemma. As a matter of course, the marquise never wore any colors other than black and white, a rather eccentric notion that complemented her dark eyes and hair. This morning her gown was white and embroidered with elaborate swirls of black silk.
Jemma thought about that costume while they went through the motions of drinking tea and chatting about the riots. Hadnât Elijah once said that the marquise looked like a chessboard?
âHow do you find yourself?â Jemma asked, watching the marquise over the edge of her teacup. âThe last time I saw you, you were on your way to Lincolnshireâ¦â She allowed her voice to trail off in a tactful invitation.
The marquiseâs eyebrows drew together. âI did locate my husband, or at least where he had been. There was a village where he stayed with thisâthis putain that he followed to England. I made my footmen inquire.â
The pained edge to her voice made her
Similar Books
