Page 39 of To Love A Spy
“Very much.” Valencia lowered her voice to a matching murmur. “Though New Haven is rather dull.” She paused. “Itis so provincial, even for America. And seeing as its college was founded to teach the clergy, the city is quite straitlaced.”
“Ah, my condolences.” He winked. “We shall have to make sure that you enjoy your stay here. Paris is anything but provincial.”
Fluttering her fan, Valencia turned her profile to the lamplight, aware that the man’s gaze was caressing her face, her bosom . . .
A smile drew her lips upward. It was rather nice to be the subject of such obvious admiration, even though the Frenchman would likely be flirting with anyone wearing skirts. Flowery words, florid sentiments—the fisherman and farmers who frequented her tavern were not much given to poetry.
Mersault edged his chair closer. “Tell me, does your husband permit you to explore our city on your own?”
“Thomas?” She gave a tiny toss of her curls. “I have my ways of getting him to accede to my wishes.”
“I am sure you do,” he replied with a throaty chuckle.
“Pray, do share yourbon motswith the rest of us, Mersault,” said Lynsley rather loudly.
“I was merely pointing out some of the notable people in attendance to your wife, Monsieur Daggett.” The Frenchman’s words came out smooth as butter. “There, in the second tier, is General Penaud, commandant of the Imperial Guard, who is notorious for his insatiable appetite for Breton oysters and beautiful women.”
“Does everyone misbehave in this city?” growled Lynsley. As yet, his manner was not overtly upset, but the tone implied trouble could be brewing if his wife were too attentive to other men.
“It is an unfortunate weakness of us Parisians, monsieur,” answered Mersault.
Levalier gave a slight cough. “Let us not give Monsieur Daggett the wrong impression of our city, Gaston,” he murmured, then quickly changed the subject. “Do you attend the theatre often at home, monsieur?”
“New Haven has little to offer in way of theatrics,” replied the marquess stiffly, his gaze lingering on Valencia just an instant before returning to the stage.
“Jean-Louis tells me your city is known for its institution of higher learning,” said Levalier’s wife.
Lynsley gave a gruff nod. “Yes, Yale College is considered one of America’s finest. My father, Naphtali Daggett was appointed to the first professorship, and later served as its president. When the British raided the city during our War of Independence, he fought with a company of students despite his advanced age and was taken prisoner during the fighting. The beating he received from his captors cut short his life. He died the next year from his injuries.”
“Then you have personal reason to feel no love for the Redcoats,” remarked Mersault.
“Indeed. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to see your Emperor boil the Lobsterbacks in oil. In New England, we steam them in seaweed and serve them with melted butter.”
Levalier laughed. “Speaking of cuisine, sir, I should like to hear more of your own trading business. You deal in spice from the Caribbean?”
“Nutmeg and mace from Grenada, along with cacao from Mexico. Of late, though, I have been dealing with a merchant in Martinique for a special type of sugar.” Lynsley proceed to explain the merits of soil and climate for each of the Leeward Islands in excruciating detail.
Valencia repressed a smile as she watched the faces of the Frenchmen grow glazed with boredom. Was there any subject that the marquess could not discourse on with intelligence? Hisbreadth of knowledge was remarkable. A fact which was helping him play the role of a prig to perfection.
Prig.Reminded of the previous night, she felt a faint tinge of color steal to her face. Shehadbeen out of line. Outrageously so. She had no right to provoke him, to pry into his personal life. But somehow, her temper had got the better of her.
She had not apologized. She had felt too awkward and unsure to broach the subject. And Lynsley, drawing no doubt on centuries of good breeding, had acted as though the incident had never occurred. Just like a consummate gentleman.
No—just like a patient schoolmaster overlooking the transgression of an unruly student.
Slanting a look at him from under her lashes, Valencia wondered if he would ever see her as naught but an errant fledgling. A blot on the Academy record book.
She had given him precious little reason to respect her judgment. From the earliest days at the school, her temper seemed to get the better of her in his presence.
Trouble. She had been naught but trouble.
The soft swoosh of the rising curtain reminded her that the mission must take center stage. Focusing her eyes straight ahead, Valencia resolved that her own mordant musings would from now on remain hidden in the wings.
“Madames et monsieurs . . .”
The play passed pleasantly enough, with each act drawing enthusiastic applause from the audience. However, she listened with only half an ear, intent on rehearsing her own lines for the coming supper engagement. She would prove to the marquess that she, too, could play the role she had been trained for without a slip.
“Did you enjoy the acting, Mrs. Daggett?” inquired Mersault as the curtain dropped on the final scene.
