Claire started down one of the paths and spotted Allegra huddled with Laura and the Valcours at one of the tables. Allegra smiled. Claire waved a hand in greeting, wondering if she’d stepped into some kind of alternate dimension where she and Allegra might actually be friends.
She continued toward the back of the property. The torches were more sparsely placed as she got farther away from the terrace, the night reaching out to her with inky fingers from the darkness beyond the path. She thought of the man who’d followed her to Layafette and picked up her pace, hurrying for the arbor and the safety of Xander’s arms.
Two final torches marked the end of the path just in front of the arbor. Claire stepped into the shelter of a wooden structure that had been a meeting spot for the two of them since they first began their secret affair.
Candles were lit atop the iron table, white lights casting a golden glow from the wisteria vines above. She peered into the shadows.
“Xander?” She didn’t know why she was whispering. There was no reason why she shouldn’t be seen having a simple conversation with him. But the night seemed to hold its own secrets, and their meeting suddenly seemed like one of them. “You there?”
He stepped out of the darkness, and she sucked in her breath. She sometimes forgot how beautiful he was, but now, as he came toward her in his tuxedo, the candlelight flickering across his smooth skin, there was no denying it.
He pulled her into his arms, holding her for a minute before he leaned back to get a better look at her. His eyes roamed her hair and face, traveling the length of the green dress that skimmed her body in all the right places.
“You look stunning,” he said.
She smiled. “Thank you. You don’t look so bad yourself.”
He narrowed his eyes, appraising her. She wondered if it was her imagination that there was a teasing glint in the upturn of his full mouth.
“I think you just need . . .” He turned around, heading for the table and pulling something from one of the chairs. “One more thing.”
The box he handed her was large and flat. Wrapped in simple, glossy white paper, it was finished with an enormous green silk bow.
“What is this?” she asked, looking from the box to him. “It’s for me?”
He nodded.
“Xander . . . You didn’t have to get me something.”
“Open it.”
She took the box to the table and began removing the thick paper. “This is crazy.” She lifted the lid. “You shouldn’t have done this. I didn’t get you anything.”
“It’s just a little something.”
She peeled back the tissue paper inside the box, her eyes coming to rest on a garland of white peonies. “But . . . what is it?”
He reached around her, his body brushing hers as he lifted the item out of the box.
“You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to,” he said. “I know you don’t like headpieces. It just . . .” He cleared his throat. “It’s different. It made me think of you.”
He held the headpiece up. The white peonies were open and lush, wound with peacock feathers that came to an exotic point in the front, a large jewel, as green as her dress, dangling like a teardrop. Green ribbon in more shades than she could count trailed off the back of it. It was almost casual, breathtaking in its understatement.
“Xander . . .” Tears stung her eyes. This was just like him. To give her something that celebrated both her individuality and the heritage she couldn’t seem to deny. “If I’d known a headpiece could so beautiful, I would have chosen it myself.”
“You like it?”
“Like it?” She threw her arms around his neck. “I love it. Thank you.”
He peeled her arms away and placed the headpiece on her head, adjusting it a couple of times before he slid in the combs that were built into the sides to hold it in place. When it was secure, the emerald rested against her forehead, the ribbons trailing through the curls down her back.
“How does it look?” she asked.
“Almost as gorgeous as you.” His voice was low, his eyes hooded with a desire Claire recognized from the times they got a little too carried away.
She smiled, but it only lasted a second. “Wait . . . What am I going to tell my parents?”
The light seemed to drop from his eyes, his jaw tensing. “I’ve taken care of it. Sophie helped me pick it out. She’ll say it’s a gift from her. No one will question it. She’s always adored you.”
Claire stepped toward him, regret clogging her throat, making it difficult to speak.
She touched his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .”
“It’s fine.”
“You know I love you.”
His laugh was bitter. “In secret?”
She swallowed hard. “I know how it sounds, but I’m protecting you as much as myself.”
He ran a hand through his hair, turning away. “Right.”
Claire searched for something to say. Something that would make him understand. That would bring back the magic of the moment before she’d reminded him that their differences were still there, just as glaring as they always were.
Then, the murmur of voices caught the air through the distant sounds of the band playing on the terrace. It was different from the conversation and laughter of the guests sitting at the outdoor tables. This was the sound of two people arguing but trying to keep their voices down.
And it was coming from behind the carriage house, just beyond the arbor.
Xander’s gaze met hers, a silent question in his eyes. She slipped off her shoes in answer and moved past him, out of the arbor.
They stepped carefully across the gravel pathway, the tiny rocks digging into the tender bottoms of Claire’s bare feet. The voices grew louder as they approached the big doors of the carriage house.
Continuing past the front of the old building, they stepped onto the grass that ran along one side, stopping when they came to the end of the structure.
The voices were louder now. Claire could hear some of what was being said, first by a man, his voice a low rumble, and then by a feminine one Claire recognized.
She swiveled her head to look at Xander, wondering if he recognized it, too. She could see in his eyes that he did.
And he should. Because it was the voice of his mother.
EIGHT
“The Guild wasn’t there when I needed it,” the man said. “And neither were you. Did you . . . accountable?”
Estelle Toussaint’s voice whispered. “I’m sorry . . . the rules, Max.”
Claire tried to piece together the snippets of conversation, drifting like smoke through the night. She leaned forward, peering around the side of the building. She felt Xander’s body against her back, his breath near her ear, and knew that he was looking, too.
It took a minute for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. At first, she continued to hear pieces of conversation, but couldn’t find their source. Then, she made out a faint gray smudge near the trees behind the carriage house. She blinked a couple of times, willing her eyesight to sharpen.
It was Estelle all right, her silver gown a shimmery column in the darkness, just as Claire had thought. But as surprising as it was to see Xander’s mother having a secretive conversation behind the carriage house while her guests attended the ball, the identity of her companion was even more shocking.
Claire would have sworn it was the older man from Dauphine Street, the one who had arrived in the company of Eugenia Comaneci. True, it was dark. But there was something familiar about the tip of his head, the harsh set of his mouth. His chiseled jaw visible even in profile.
And that wasn’t all. Even as she tried to make out his features through the shadows, cold sweat sprang to her forehead. A wave of nausea hit her as the same dark energy she’d felt on Dauphine reached out from where the man stood.