Marguerite Kaye - From Courtesan To Convenient Wife

‘A whole flock of geese, by the sound of it. It sounds daunting in the extreme.’

Jean-Luc grinned. ‘There is no finer lawyer than Maxime, and no better friend, but the reason he is so successful in his chosen profession is because he is a cautious man, and the reason I am so successful in my chosen profession—or one of them—is that I recognise when it is necessary to cast caution to the wind.’

He returned to his seat behind the desk, picking up his quill again. ‘Maxime is right, though, it will not be a simple matter to prove I am not this Duke’s son. There have been many cases in France over the last few years, of returning émigrés or their apparent heirs, claiming long-lost titles and estates. With so many of the nobility and their dependents dead, so many papers lost, estates ransacked, it is very difficult to prove—or to disprove—such claims. And even if they prove to be true, in most cases, the reward is nothing, or less than nothing, you know? What money existed has long gone, along with anything of value which could be sold or stolen. No one really cares, you see, if Monsieur le Brun turns out to be the Comte de Whatever, if only the name is at stake.’

‘So it would be, ironically, easier for you to accept the title than to reject it?’

‘Equally ironically, acquiring a title, especially such a prestigious one, would, in the eyes of some, be of value to my business. It would,’ Jean-Luc said with a mocking smile, ‘be more prestigious to buy wine from the Duc de Montendre that from Monsieur Bauduin.’

‘But it is not a mere title which mademoiselle would have you claim, but a wife. And another family. Another history.’

‘None of which I desire.’

‘No, but Mademoiselle de Cressy does. Which begs the question, if she is the real Juliette de Cressy, and the contract is valid, if her father really was the Comte, then why didn’t he pursue it when he was alive?’

Jean-Luc nodded approvingly. ‘A good question, and one which you can be assured I asked her. She told me that her parents vowed never to return to France. For them, the country was tainted for ever by the Revolution, which is perfectly understandable—Paris must for them have been a city redolent with terrible memories. Her betrothal to the son of the Duke who was the Comte’s best friend, was a sort of family myth, she said, a story that she was told, and that she believed to be just that—a story. It was only when her father died, and she discovered the marriage contract in his papers, that she realised it was true. His death, she openly admits, left her penniless, for his pension died with him.’

‘So she came here, to Paris, to claim her only inheritance, which is you.’

He shook his head. ‘According to her family tale, as Mademoiselle de Cressy tells it, the Duke sent his son to Cognac in the very early days of the Revolution, to keep him safe, to be raised in secret by a couple named Bauduin, until such a time as he could safely reclaim him. Only his best friend, the Comte de Cressy, was aware of the ruse, and the Comte and his wife fled France around about the same time as their daughter now claims I was sent to live in Cognac. And so it was to Cognac Mademoiselle de Cressy went first, when her father died. And from there, she claims, traced me to Paris—not a difficult thing to do, since my business originated in that town and the office which I keep there today bears my name. This element of her story is, obviously, the most dubious, and equally obviously, impossible to either prove or disprove.’

Sophia frowned, struggling to assimilate the tangle of implications. ‘You think she had the contract and the baptism certificate in her possession, and that she targeted you to play the long-lost heir?’

Jean-Luc spread his hands on the blotter. ‘I am one of the wealthiest men in France. My parents are dead. I have no siblings. And she believed me to be single.’

Sophia couldn’t help thinking that when Jean-Luc himself was added to the equation, it was not surprising that Mademoiselle de Cressy had elected him. ‘Do you think she has taken account of the risk that the real son of the Duc de Montendre might turn up in Paris?’

‘It is fifteen years since Napoleon allowed the first of the émigrés to return, and almost four since the Restoration. If the fourth Duc and Duchess of Montendre had a son—something which is still not verified—and if he is still alive, I think he would have surfaced before now.’

Sophia shook her head. ‘If it is a scheme, it is very ingenious, and Mademoiselle de Cressy must be very bold to attempt to carry it off.’

‘Or very greedy.’

‘Or very desperate.’ As she had been. Desperate almost beyond reason, and utterly heedless of the consequences. Sophia’s stomach churned at the memory, that constant feeling of panic as she searched for a solution, any solution to her own dilemma.

‘Sophia?’ Jean-Luc lifted his hand from hers as soon as she opened her eyes. ‘You look as if you are about to faint. Can I get you some water?’

‘No.’ She clasped her hands tightly together, trying to disguise the deep, calming breaths she was being forced to take. Never again. That was why she was here, wasn’t it? Never again. She could not afford to draw parallels between herself and this Juliette de Cressy, must not allow herself to imagine that they had anything in common. More than anything, she must not allow any sympathy for the woman to jeopardise her own future. ‘I’m fine,’ she said thinly. ‘Perfectly fine. So, where do we go from here?’

He looked unconvinced by her smile, but to her relief, he did not question her further. ‘Establish you as my wife, first and foremost. Introduce you to Mademoiselle de Cressy, which will be in in the presence of Maxime. Try to verify the existence of the lost heir. Try to verify the marriage contract. I have a very long list of tasks, which I will not bore you with.’

‘I won’t be bored. I’d like to help.’

He looked startled. ‘Your role is to play my wife.’

‘Doesn’t a wife help her husband? What do you envisage me doing, if not that?’

Jean-Luc shrugged in a peculiarly Gallic manner. ‘What does a wife do? I have never been married, perhaps you can tell me.’

Almost, she fell for the trap he had laid, but she caught herself just in time, and smiled blandly. ‘Why don’t you let me think about that, come up with a plan of my own, which we can discuss.’

He laughed, holding up his hands in surrender. ‘Very well. I have made arrangements for you to visit the modiste to select your trousseau tomorrow. There will be time before that for me to introduce you to the household. The day after that, a tour of the hôtel. And after that, I am happy to hear your ideas. I do have a very competent housekeeper though, I’m not expecting you to burden yourself with household matters.’

‘At the very least she will expect to take her instructions from me.’

‘Do you know enough of such things to instruct her?’

‘I would not offer if I did not.’

He leaned forward, resting his head on his hand to study her. ‘I was expecting The Procurer to send me an actress.’

‘I’m sure that there are some actresses capable of managing a household.’

‘You are not an actress.’

She rested her chin on her hand, meeting his gaze, reflecting the half-smile that played on his lips. ‘A better one than you, Jean-Luc, for your motives are quite transparent.’

‘But I’m right, am I not? You are not an actress?’

‘I have never been on the stage.’

‘No, I thought this morning, when I first caught sight of you, that your beauty was too ethereal for the stage.’

She could feel herself blushing. She ought to change the subject, to break eye contact, but she didn’t want to. ‘I’m tougher than I look.’