CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Ingenue and the Newcomer
Ilinger at the fete far longer than I’d like, reluctant to leave Adam to his own devices. Should something else transpire, some other crafty piece of drama, I cannot afford to be left in the dark.
At the same time, my stately oracle’s masque begins to chafe. The fete has devolved into a sloppy bacchanal, and I grow heartily sick of making conversation with soused aristocrats. The vicomte alone has attempted to paw me thrice. Should there be a fourth time, I will be sorely tempted to fling my wine into his face, social niceties and my livelihood be damned.
My patience fraying, I retreat to the sidebar for a moment to gather myself.
“Are you quite all right?” the young woman beside me asks, in a voice so light and sweet it barely carries over the festive ruckus. “Pardon the presumption, but you do not entirely look as if you are enjoying yourself.”
Though the question comes across as somewhat impertinent, the tone itself is not. When I turn to look at her, I find that she is perhaps seventeen, comely and well attired, but clearly not highborn.
“I hope that was not too forward,” she says timidly, shrinking a little under my openly appraising regard. “I am only asking because I wish to leave, myself, but would not want to offend our host.”
“I rather doubt you would,” I reply sourly, glancing over at Adam, who is sampling a bunch of grapes dangling from the Vicomte de Couseran’s hand. “He seems far too busy cavorting with his more esteemed guests to even notice. If you do not mind my asking, how did you come to be here at all? Are you a friend of Adam’s?”
“Oh, no,” she says with a fetching flush, her skin dramatically pale for someone with such dark eyes and hair. “I saw a show of his only last week, and then he bought me some wine after. When he invited me to a fete, I was so flattered, and I thought …”
She bites her lower lip, sighing a little. “In truth, I am not sure what I thought. But, mon Dieu, I did not expect anything like this!”
“You mean he did not warn you the devil would also be stopping by?” I ask dryly, sipping my wine, half wishing to laugh at our shared predicament. “How very thoughtless of him.”
The girl giggles so adorably it teases a real smile from me. She really is so refreshing in comparison to the overdone fops and cloying grand dames that take up all my time. Perhaps, in a different time or place, we might have become friends.
“At least I’m not the only simpleton taken unawares, non?” she mutters, then claps a mortified hand over her mouth. “Not that you are a simpleton, of course, I did not mean to—”
“I did not think you meant to say so,” I reassure her, giving her shoulder a light squeeze. “Tell me, what is your name?”
“Oh, how rude of me—I am Mademoiselle Claude de Vins des Oeillets,” she adds, dipping into a curtsy. “No one of any particular note, I’m afraid. My parents are both actors of some renown, but the family art of artifice seems to have ended with them. I am certainly no great comedienne.”
“In my experience, there are far worse afflictions than a lack of artifice,” I reply, making her smile again. “Take it from me. You are entirely charmante just as you are.”
“Thank you,” she says, bobbing another endearing, unnecessary curtsy. “And are you a friend of Adam’s?”
“Something like that. Though I would call us more colleagues than friends. I’m the Sorceress La Voisin, in service to the Marquise de Montespan.”
“Truly?” Her rosy mouth drops open, eyes flying wide. “You are the maîtresse-en-titre’s divineress? But you, you are so young! It must be très glamereux, being in such a grand lady’s employ.”
“Would you perhaps like to find out?” I ask her, a wisp of an idea taking shape. “If you are interested, something might be arranged.”
I know the marquise recently lost a trusted companion who doubled as her lady’s maid, and has been woebegone over the loss. I’m sure she would be quite as taken with the novelty of this girl’s artlessness as I am.
And given the way the wind is blowing, it would not be unwise to begin protecting myself. There would be worse things than having someone in the marquise’s household firmly in my debt.
“What?” the girl breathes, as if not daring to believe her luck. “You think the maîtresse-en-titre may have some need of me?”
“Stranger things have happened, chère,” I say, taking her by the arm. “Come, and I will tell you what I’m thinking.”
On the morrow, I wake better disposed. Before I left the fete, I made the introductions between Mademoiselle des Oeillets and the marquise, and just as I anticipated, my patroness was instantly taken with the girl. Enough to accept her on the spot as a replacement for her lost lady’s maid.
Now all I must do is continue to cultivate my friendship with Mademoiselle des Oeillets, and, gently but insistently, never let her forget to whom she owes the elevation in her rank.
And there is more wind to fill the sails of my restored mood. Tonight, I have a reading scheduled for someone new, a noblewoman who sought me out on her own rather than yet another of the marquise’s stale sycophants. The novelty of a session with a stranger has yet to lose its savor, and as she seats herself in my pavilion, I stir eagerly in my chair.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” she says, adjusting her voluminous velvet manteau over her legs and flashing me a wan flicker of a smile, vanishing almost as soon as it appears. “Illustrious as your roster is, I thought I might have to wait weeks if not months to meet with you.”
“I make it a point to set time aside for newcomers,” I tell her, inclining my
