Page 2 of A Sham Betrothal
“You are very wise,” Grégoire assured him and held out his elbow for Basile to take so they might carry on their path down the street. But Basile had already turned back to the object of his interest and was forced to step aside to allow the Englishman to exit thepâtisserie. Following him was the charming Englishwoman whose expressionremained obscure. Had one not heard herréplique, one might have imagined her spiritless.
On impulse, he swept off his hat, extended his leg, and bowed before the woman, who greeted the gesture with a startled glance. Before she could protest, he spoke to her in rapid French.
“Madame, I beg you will forgive me the forwardness of my address when we have not been presented, but I could not help but wonder if you wished to be rescued from your stupid escort or whether you are bound through the ties of marriage and therefore beyond the hope of deliverance. Behold in me”—he bowed again—“yourchevalier, should you need it.”
The lady’s face tinged with pink as her eyes widened in surprise. She opened her lips as though to answer, but none appeared ready on her tongue. The Englishman turned to see who had dared to address her and frowned.
“What is this, Sophie? I say, sir?—”
Armand had been watching Basile curiously and he now stepped forward. “Have no fear of improper address, madame,” he added in French, gallantly coming to Basile’s aid. His friend must have sniffed an opportunity to encourage romance. “May I present Monsieur Basile Gervain,Marquis deVerdelle in Champagne. If you attend the salons here in Paris or even in Versailles, you may meet him everywhere. Quite unexceptionable, Monsieur Gervain.”
The Englishwoman turned now to Armand, before replying in flawless French, a smile lurking in her eyes. “He is your friend, then?”
Armand bowed low before her. “I have that honor, madame.”
The lady nodded graciously as though one strangervouching for another was a common occurrence. She brought her regard back to Basile. “It isMademoiselleTwisden, and although I am quite able to rescue myself, I appreciate your concern.”
“Sophie, it is not a proper thing to speak to strangers on the street.” The Englishman was clearly struggling to follow what was being said and allowed his irritation to show. “I must remind you that as an English lady, you will certainly be prey to whatever designs they may have upon you.” He juggled the packages from Stohrer into one hand and reached for the sword at his side, but this was done with more show than fire. He did not appear as one eager for battle. Or one capable of it.
Basile bit back a grin—rarely was he so diverted—and addressed the man in perfect, although faintly accented English. “Why sir, we in France do not propose duels to chance-met strangers. You might crush your delicious pastries.” He bowed and introduced himself. “I was reminding Sophie that we had already met in London and that I was pleased to discover her here in my own country.”
“Met?” The Englishman turned an astonished look to Sophie. “Where in London? Did you give him leave to use your Christian name?”
A tiny furrow appeared in Sophie’s brow, then disappeared as fast. “Oh…why, we were introduced at Lady Betteridge’sal frescopicnic, and our mutual friends insisted we all dispense with formality.” Sophie smiled at Basile. “Was that not so?” A quick wit this one.
“Indeed,” Basile responded, meeting the Englishman’s gaze with an innocent expression before turning it back to the charming Sophie. “Well, this is chance-met. Now that you are in Paris, I hope to accord you the same welcome you gave me. How long have you been here?”
“We arrived yesterday.” Sophie’s eyes held an amused expression that delighted him. She was not an easy one to overset. It only confirmed his knowledge that he rarely made mistakes in his gambles.
“Quelle chance pour moi!” What a lucky stroke. They had crossed the line from strangers to acquaintances, and he might flirt with ease. He would continue in English now that he had secured her interest right from under the nose of her escort.
“Madame Dubigny is sending invitations to her card party tomorrow night, and I know several Englishmen who will be in attendance—along with everyone of note in Paris. I will make sure to procure an invitation for you both. Where might I send them?”
“10 rue des Saints,” Sophie replied promptly. “I am staying in the lower rooms with my grandmother. And Mr. Cholmsley here, who has agreed to be our escort in Paris, is residing at Number 12.”
“I do not know that we will be free tomorrow night,” the Englishman replied primly. “We must visit the English embassy and see to our own acquaintances here. I believe Mr. Charles Arlington, diplomaticattachéto the ambassador, will be expecting our visit.”
“Charles will be at the party. He told me so himself,” Basile replied urbanely. “You may be sure to meet him there.”
Mr. Cholmsley’s furrowed brows showed how little he liked this ready answer, but before he could speak, Sophie accepted his invitation.
“I am quite sure my grandmother, Mrs. Elizabeth Twisden, and I will be delighted to attend. She has not been in Paris for many years, and must still have acquaintances who will be glad to meet her again. If this event is as grandas you say, she must certainly be well-placed to rekindle friendships there.”
Basile gave her the full force of his regard as he nodded. “I, for one, shall be delighted to make your grandmother’s acquaintance and will include an invitation for… Mrs. Twisden, you said?” Sophie nodded, and he went on. “I believe I had not met her in London. It was your…mother that I’d had the privilege to meet, was it not?”
The Englishman frowned. “Sophie?—”
She hastened to reply in French with a strained smile. “You would not have met my mother for she died at my birth. And before you bring up my father, he died three years ago as well. I have only my grandmother.”
“No,” Basile corrected himself as though suddenly remembering. “It could not have been your mother. An older companion? My memory does not serve.”
“Sophie,” the Englishman said again, more imperatively.
She smiled and curtsied. “It must have been my friend’s mother, Mrs. Vance. It was lovely to see you again, Basile.” Mr. Cholmsley turned away to march forward, and she had only time to give Basile an impish grin before following her escort down the street.
He watched her go, her trim figure trailing the Englishman’s. She turned her head to the side as a carriage rode by, giving a glimpse under her bonnet of tiny curls on a slender neck. Grégoire cleared his throat next to him. “What’s this game, Gervain?Ma foi, in all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you accost a pretty stranger on the street. I take it you don’t know her?”
“Not yet,” Basile replied, waiting until…Oui!She turned back to look at him, giving him a glimpse of her charming face that now showed a hint of shyness. He had hoped shemight look back. “But if I must beconvoquéto Paris to pay homage to our most dear Louis XV, only to stand on its sweltering streets until I receive permission to return to mydomaine, I might as well amuse myself.”
