The Viscount Always Knocks Twice by Grace Callaway
Chapter Eight
“How absolutely sporting of you to arrange this, Gabby,” Vi said.
It was an hour before supper, and she and Polly were following their hostess down the hallway toward Madame Monique’s suite, where they would have a private audience with the diva. The skirts of the girls’ evening gowns swished over the thick carpeting.
Gabby chuckled. “You’re welcome. This meeting will be brief, but you’ll have more time to converse at supper. I’ve put you and your family at my table with Madame Monique.”
“Smashing,” Vi breathed.
“There’s only one hitch to my seating plans.” Gabby huffed out a breath. “Father insisted that I place Viscount Carlisle next to me.”
At the mention of Carlisle, Violet experienced—on top of everything—a swift tug of guilt. She’d engaged in an illicit (albeit entirely unplanned) embrace with Gabby’s potential suitor. It went against her code of honor, her very nature, to betray a friend. True, the other girl hadn’t seemed at all interested in Carlisle… but what if her feelings had changed?
As Violet searched for some casual way to bring up the topic, Polly said, “How are things going with Carlisle?”
“Terribly. I dread each and every encounter,” Gabby said with feeling. “He never smiles, we have naught in common, and I’ve had better luck carrying on a conversation with a house plant. The truth is he makes me horribly nervous. And you know what I do when I’m nervous: I chatter. And chatter. Over supper last night, I carried on a conversation with myself for two whole hours.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as all that,” Polly said soothingly.
Vi wasn’t so sure. Because Gabby could out chatter a magpie. It was part of her charm.
“Trust me, it was.” Gabby came to an abrupt halt, her blue eyes beseeching. “If you see me talking too much tonight, give me a kick under the table, will you?”
“I can’t kick you,” Polly protested.
“I’ll do it.” Vi figured she owed Gabby the favor. Clearing her throat, she said, “Are you certain you’re not interested in him, Gabby?”
“Yes. Absolutely. Not only does he lack conversational skills, he’s so…”—Gabby shuddered—“large.”
Vi flashed back to the feel of Carlisle’s hard, aroused body pinning her to the wall. Heat fluttered at her core, the tips of her breasts tingling. She couldn’t deny that she found his brawny physique powerfully stimulating. His thick, muscular thigh had felt so good wedged between her legs, and the way he’d touched her, his big hands roaming with such exquisite care…
No, get your mind out of the gutter! Remember he used you—merely to prove a point.
She swallowed. “You have a problem with his, er, size?”
Gabby’s red curls bobbed emphatically as she led them around a corner. “I prefer a gentleman who is less overwhelming in every respect. More refined, if you know what I mean. Not short, but a nice manageable height that doesn’t give one a crick in the neck when one is speaking to him.” Her eyes grew dreamy. “Someone who likes to spend hours having cozy chats in front of the fire, who likes to shop, who likes cats more than dogs—”
“Why does he have to prefer cats over dogs?” Vi wanted to know.
“Because I do. And my ideal husband and I would agree in all things.”
Polly looked doubtful. “I’m not sure marriage works that way.”
Vi had to agree with her sister. The couples in their family tended to be as passionate in their conflicts as they were in their love for one another.
“That’s how my marriage would work,” Gabby said fiercely, “if I were given a chance to decide my own fate.”
“Won’t your father allow you to choose your husband?” Vi asked.
“He’ll consider my wishes, but he has his own ideas as well.”
“Surely you would be the best judge of the husband you’d want,” Vi said reasonably. “You’re the one who has to live with the fellow after all—”
A loud shatter startled her, drowning her out. She heard raised female voices coming from behind the closed door up ahead. For once, she wished she’d paid more attention during her lessons with Monsieur Le Roche. The argument was happening in rapid-fire French, and she couldn’t comprehend a thing.
“What’s going on?” she said.
Polly shook her head. “They’re talking too fast for me to—”
The door flung open, and Josephine Ashe stormed out. She was still dressed in the clothes from her performance, angry color blotching her cheeks. She stopped short at the sight of them.
“Miss Ashe.” Brow furrowed, Gabby said, “Is something amiss?”
“It’s nothing—nothing at all.” Miss Ashe dropped a hasty curtsy. Ran a hand through her cropped blond locks. “I was just on my way.”
“Oh. Well, of course. Don’t let us detain you—”
Before Gabby finished speaking, the juggler was already halfway down the hall.
“Crumpets.” Vi stared after Miss Ashe. “What was that about?”
“As the English like to say, it was much ado about nothing.”
Vi spun in the direction of the sultry, accented voice. Posed in the doorway, Madame Monique was draped in a flowing robe of pink chiffon, her dark coronet studded with pearl-tipped pins. “My visitors have arrived, I see.” She waved an imperious hand. “Come.”
Polly slid Vi an uncertain glance.
Vi wasn’t going to let some squabble get in the way of meeting her idol. Tugging Polly along, she led the way toward the acrobat’s suite. “Thank you for the invitation, Madame.”
“I must be off. See you all at supper?” Gabby said.
The diva inclined her head.“And if you could be so kind as to have a new looking glass delivered, Mademoiselle Billings? The current one has suffered a mishap.”
As Violet followed Madame Monique into the suite, she thought mishap might be a euphemism. The looking glass above the vanity had been smashed to smithereens. The remnants of a broken vase mingled with shards of glass upon the vanity and surrounding carpet. A maid with a severe grey bun and weathered countenance was on her knees, cleaning up the mess.
“Laisse, Jeanne,” Madame Monique chided. “I’ll send for someone to take care of it.”
“It is no trouble, Madame—”
“Have a care with your hands, yes? They are far too valuable to risk doing such work.” The acrobat’s tone was gentle yet firm.
Jeanne rose stiffly. “As you wish, Madame. I shall prepare your toilette.” For an instant, she studied Vi and Polly with rheumy, shrewd eyes before shuffling off.
Vi and Polly followed Madame Monique into the adjoining sitting room, which boasted a view of the gardens on the west side of the house. Dusk saturated the sky with red, purple, and orange. The lights of the stables winked in the distance.
As soon as they were all seated, Vi blurted, “I’ve been following your performances since I was a girl, Madame Monique. It is the utmost honor to meet you.”
“How kind, Miss Kent.” The Frenchwoman reposed as sinuously as a cat, curling her feet beneath her on the damask chaise. “Let us be friends. To you, I am Monique.”
Madame Monique wants to be friends… with me?
“Then I’m Violet, and this is Polly,” Vi said in a giddy rush.
Polly shyly wriggled her fingers in greeting.
Leaning forward, Vi said, “Your feats, Monique—they are incomparable! I have so many questions I want to ask you. How do you keep your balance standing on one leg on a moving horse? I’ve practiced and practiced and whilst I can stand, the instant I try to lift the other leg—”
“Pardon.” Monique’s brows arched. “Am I to understand that you were attempting acrobatics?”
“Yes—though not in London, of course,” Vi said hastily. “Back in Chudleigh Crest, the village where I grew up, there was an open field behind our cottage. I’d just put on my trousers and—”
“Your trousers?”
“Well, not mine, really. I filched them from my brother Harry. The point is,” Vi said, “I practiced and practiced but could never sustain a one-legged pose for more than a second.”
The Frenchwoman stared at her. “You are an unusual miss, are you not? Quite the ingénue. I see now why you are so popular with the gentlemen.”
Something about the other’s scrutiny made Vi uncomfortable. “But I’m not—popular, that is.”
“There’s no need to play the coquette with me, chérie. I saw you at the performance this afternoon. Surrounded by a herd of young bucks,” Monique said in light tones, “and sitting next to a handsome young Adonis.”
“You mean Wick? He’s a chum,” Vi said quickly, “as are the others.”
After a pause, the acrobat gave a laugh as floaty as her leaps. “How delightfully modern you are. A woman after my own heart.”
The awkward feeling ebbed from Vi, pleasure thrumming in its place. The heroine of her childhood had complimented her on being modern and thought they were similar? Outstanding.
“Now you were asking about balance,” Monique said.
“Yes?” Vi was poised at the edge of her seat.
“The secret, my dear, is to trust one’s natural instincts. Those who fear to let go end up falling. To succeed, do not fight the moment, but rather,”—the diva flicked her fingers—“reap its glorious uncertainty.”
Vi tried to make sense of the advice. “You mean I shouldn’t be afraid of falling?”
“Fear leads to failure. To conquer fear, one must lean into it, laugh in its face. One must be bold, remorseless, willing to take any risk when it comes to art and life. Alors, you wish to know the secret to success?”
Vi nodded fervently.
“Don’t be fooled by love. Trust no one but yourself, and let nothing stand in your way.”A feverish glow lit Monique’s eyes. Although she was looking at Violet, her gaze seemed focused on something only she could see. “Be LaBelle Dame sans Merci.”
A shiver coursed down Vi’s spine. As much as she admired Monique, the other’s philosophy seemed a bit… ruthless. Then again, she told herself, if one’s job was to jump through a ring of fire day in and day out, such an unflinching attitude was probably necessary.
“Do you have, um, any specific pointers?” she asked. “When it comes to technique, I mean?”
Monique’s attention snapped back to her. “Lean into gravity’s pull rather than away from it. Use your arms for balance.” The Frenchwoman’s tone was crisp. “And train your horse so that you ride as one, each compensating for the other. I practice riding blindfolded.”
“Blindfolded? Now why didn’t I think of that?” Thoroughly impressed, Vi said, “I shall try that at the first opportunity—”
Jeanne’s voice came from the doorway, a diffident murmur of French.
“I am being summoned.” Monique rose in a graceful swirl of pink chiffon. “Please excuse me.”
Vi hopped up, as did Polly.
“Thank you for your time,” Vi said gratefully, “and for your excellent advice.”
“Tout le plaisir était pour moi.” Monique’s lips curled up at the corners. “I look forward to furthering our acquaintance over supper, ma chère. A performer must know her audience, after all.”
