The comte rolled his eyes as the Scotsman walked away. “A bit too earnest, isn’t he?”
Arianna regarded him over the rim of her wineglass. “Mr. Kydd seems to believe very strongly in his ideas. You think that is a bad thing?”
“Ca depend—that depends,” answered Rochemont. “He’s a puppy, and in their exuberance, puppies are easily led.”
An interesting observation.
“My husband’s uncle has great regard for Mr. Kydd’s intellect.”
“Ah, well, who am I to argue with such a distinguished diplomat.” He lowered his voice to a silky murmur. “But let us leave politics to the men who find such discussions stir their blood. Moi—I prefer to talk of other things.”
Arianna repressed a laugh. Good God, do most ladies find such ham-handed flirtations flattering?
“Such as?” she inquired, deciding to play along for the moment. He was, after all, going to be involved in the upcoming Conference, and despite his professed laissez-faire attitude toward politics, he had a lot to gain or lose from the negotiations, depending on how the new French King viewed England and the émigré community in London.
“Oh, take a guess,” he said.
“I’m not very good at parlor games,” she replied.
“Non?” His laugh had a teasing effervescence, like a mouthful of champagne tickling against the tongue. “I have a feeling you would be very good at anything you put your mind to, madame.”
“Oui?” She held his gaze. “How so? The fact is, you hardly know me.”
“Ah, but I am, with all due modesty, a very good judge of women—”
“I daresay there isn’t a modest bone in your body,” interrupted Arianna.
“Ha! You see! You have a certain spirit . . . a je ne sais quoi . . .” His chuckle stilled. “The truth is, you intrigue me. I sense hidden facets . . .”
A chill skated between her shoulder blades. “What makes you say that?”
Rochemont pursed his lips and subjected her to a lengthy study. “You have an aura of mystery about you. I find it very intriguing.”
“You are mistaken, sir,” she said softly. “As I told you before, ladies are allowed little opportunity to do much of interest.”
“Assuming they obey the rules,” he pointed out.
“True.” The comte, she decided, was not quite as frivolous as he appeared. It would be wise to remain cool—but not too cool. A closer acquaintance could prove useful, especially if he was the prey referred to in the decoded document. Keeping an eye on him might allow her to see what wolves—or foxes—were stalking his steps.
After another sip of her wine, Arianna asked, “You think society can function without rules?”
“Ah, now that is a question we could discuss all night.”
“I had the feeling that you prefer to spend the midnight hours engaged in activities other than talking.”
He laughed again. “Conversation with you is so stimulating, Lady Saybrook.”
“Be that as it may, I shall have to cut this one short. I see Mellon is about to ring the supper bell, and he has asked me to partner Mr. Kydd.”
“Lucky dog,” said the comte. “I console myself with the fact that I overheard you tell the puppy that you will be traveling to Vienna after all. I hope that we may continue to get to know each other better there.”
“We shall see,” murmured Arianna.
“I will take that as a yes.”
“Does that mean you never take no as an answer?” she asked.
“I am so rarely asked to,” was his response.
A man used to getting what he wants. No doubt Vienna would be filled with such hubris. Power, pleasure, privilege—a volatile mix if ever there was one.
As Saybrook had said, they would have to dance a very careful pas de deux through the ballrooms of the Austrian capital—one small slip and the intrigue could ignite, like gilded gunpowder—a burst of flame, a sudden death, shattering of hopes for peace at last.
The ormolu clock showed the hour to be well past midnight when the guests began to drift out to the curving staircase and down to the carriages waiting in Grosvenor Square.
“Thank you for keeping Kydd company, Lady Saybrook,” murmured Mellon. In the candlelight, the tawny glow of his port reflected the mellow tone of his voice.
From what she could tell, the evening had gone well, with cheerful toasts to camaraderie and cooperation punctuating the convivial dinner conversation.
“He sometimes grows a trifle impatient during these affairs,” Mellon went on. “But I’m sure he will learn that they are important. Diplomacy depends on personal relationships, not just government policies.”
“It was my pleasure,” she replied, watching the Scotsman take his leave. She had done her job—Saybrook and Henning should be done with their mission. “I find him quite interesting.”
For reasons I can’t describe.
“I hope you were not too bored. I know these gatherings are not to your taste either.”
“There is much that I must grow accustomed to, sir,” said Arianna carefully. “If I appear to move slowly, it is because I do not want to make a misstep.” And fall flat on my arse.
Mellon took a long sip of his port before answering. “A careful assessment of any situation is, in my opinion, always wise.”
The conversation felt a little like moonlight and mist, silvery swirls of subtle nuances blending and blurring into one another. Dancing in and out of shadows, never quite touching.
Angling her gaze to meet his, she asked, “Is it also your opinion that one should ask for help if that situation is proving hard to sort out on one’s own?”
His expression remained neutral. “My opinion is that it is not a weakness to ask for help. In my work I’ve come to realize that new perspectives on a problem can often be of great help in spotting a solution.”
“A wise reply,” she said softly. “But then, I expected no less from you.”
Swirling the last of his wine, Mellon lifted the glass and watched the ruby-dark liquid spin in a slow, silent vortex.
Arianna asked herself whether she was making an error of judgment. Perhaps it wasn’t her right to share family secrets . . .
Ah, but I am family, she reminded herself.
Drawing a deep breath, she made her decision. “Given your sentiments, I am hoping that you might consent to help me with a very delicate situation.”
His expression remained polite but his eyes turned wary.
God only knew what he expected—a confession of murder. Or infidelity?
“It concerns . . . Sandro’s sister.”
Mellon cleared his throat with a cough. “I fear you are confused, Lady Saybrook. Sandro has no sister.”
“Actually, he does. Though whether she is a legitimate sibling or simply the late earl’s by-blow lies at the heart of the problem.” Arianna went on to explain Saybrook’s surprising discovery among his father’s papers concerning the young lady currently boarding at Mrs. Martin’s Academy in Shropshire. “Her name is Antonia, and she is registered as the daughter of a Spanish noble—a purely imaginary one, according to the letters left by Sandro’s father. He chose to disguise her identity while he decided how to make public his secret marriage to another foreigner—and a commoner at that.”
Mellon expelled a harried sigh. “I confess, you could knock me over with a feather. My brother spent a great deal of time in Catalonia, but he never breathed a word about having another family.”
“Sandro was equally shocked,” replied Arianna. “His father’s notes revealed that an Englishwoman has been set up with an annuity, and acts as Antonia’s guardian. The woman knows the truth of the girl’s birth, but has told her that Sandro is a distant relative. For now, he lives with this charade, but I know he would very much like to acknowledge the truth and see that she takes her rightful place in English Society.”