had run mad.”
“Is that one of the rumors?” He laughed with wholehearted amusement. “I suppose that is to be expected. No, I’m not mad—but then, madmen never realize their insanity, do they?”
“No.” She backed up a step. “No. It was good to meet you, my lord.”
“Is the lesson done for the day?” Her retreat rather surprised him. “I suppose you want to go at it slowly.”
“Yes, my lord. The lesson is done, and you should go at it slowly.” She took another step back. “Perhaps it might be wise to return to your rooms and rest. Take it all slowly.” She stepped back, and back.
At that moment, he spotted his quarry. As he had hoped, the sunshine had brought Comte de Guignard and Monsieur Bouchard out for a stroll.
“There they are!” At once Jude sunk back into his role as a dilettante and a coxcomb, examining his cravat as best he could, twisting his fingers in his hair to create an extravagance of curls on his forehead.
“Yes. There they are. Of course. Excuse me.” Turning, Lady Pheodora fled back up the path.
Staring after her, he said, “What an odd girl. She’ll never have a career that way,” and without another thought for her, he hurried to catch de Guignard and Bouchard. His tall walking cane touched the ground with every step, and in an affected voice, he called, “Wait! Comte! Monsieur! Oh, wait, I don’t want to splash my clothes with these nasty puddles!”
As the men glanced at him, he saw the contempt they didn’t bother to conceal. They didn’t feel they had to. They thought him oblivious to any insult, and that meant he played his role well. But they didn’t stop.
So he called, “I was hoping to meet you most excellent gentlemen. I’ve brought you each a gift. It’s only a trifle, a snuffbox, but I think you’ll find the gold work is quite admirable, and the jewels are of wonderful clarity and cut.”
The bribe stopped them in their tracks. Extending their hands, they accepted the boxes he offered, the boxes Celeste had given him. Bouchard, a short, stout man with an amazingly large black mustache and an equally amazing shiny bald head, pocketed his immediately and returned to puffing on the fat cigar he smoked at any possible occasion. But de Guignard opened his box and examined it. Jude thought if he’d had a jeweler’s glass, he would have popped it in his eye and assessed the stone right there.
The comte was a man of perhaps forty-five, thin, tall, and handsome, with a gray, well-trimmed beard along his jaw. He spoke fondly of the days of Napoleon and France’s position at the heights of power—and Moricadia’s rise on its coattails. He also treasured an overweening grudge against the English, who had stripped their glory away, and at the same time, a tight-lipped resentment for the French, who looked down on the Moricadians. He wasn’t an easy man to understand; yet he liked gold and he liked women, and on those traits Jude pinned his hopes.
Satisfied by the quality of the gift, de Guignard nodded brusquely. “Thank you. It was good to have seen you.”
Jude grasped their arms before they could turn away. “You can’t go off yet! I wanted to ask how you liked the opera last night. I thought the soprano sang off-key, but perhaps that’s because she’s Mr. Throckmorton’s mistress. That’s enough to throw any woman off her stride!”
The two men caught their breaths. They looked at each other. Moving in unison, they separated enough to allow him to walk between them.
“ C’est vrai? She is Monsieur Throckmorton’s mistress?” Bouchard’s English was strongly accented.
Jude fell in beside them without any indication of the triumph he experienced. The thing he did well, the thing which had led him to create this silly and vapid personality, was his ability to dissimilate. “But of course she is! It’s a quiet affair. Mr. Throckmorton has a reputation to maintain, because his very pretty wife”—Jude lowered his voice and the
“Is that one of the rumors?” He laughed with wholehearted amusement. “I suppose that is to be expected. No, I’m not mad—but then, madmen never realize their insanity, do they?”
“No.” She backed up a step. “No. It was good to meet you, my lord.”
“Is the lesson done for the day?” Her retreat rather surprised him. “I suppose you want to go at it slowly.”
“Yes, my lord. The lesson is done, and you should go at it slowly.” She took another step back. “Perhaps it might be wise to return to your rooms and rest. Take it all slowly.” She stepped back, and back.
At that moment, he spotted his quarry. As he had hoped, the sunshine had brought Comte de Guignard and Monsieur Bouchard out for a stroll.
“There they are!” At once Jude sunk back into his role as a dilettante and a coxcomb, examining his cravat as best he could, twisting his fingers in his hair to create an extravagance of curls on his forehead.
“Yes. There they are. Of course. Excuse me.” Turning, Lady Pheodora fled back up the path.
Staring after her, he said, “What an odd girl. She’ll never have a career that way,” and without another thought for her, he hurried to catch de Guignard and Bouchard. His tall walking cane touched the ground with every step, and in an affected voice, he called, “Wait! Comte! Monsieur! Oh, wait, I don’t want to splash my clothes with these nasty puddles!”
As the men glanced at him, he saw the contempt they didn’t bother to conceal. They didn’t feel they had to. They thought him oblivious to any insult, and that meant he played his role well. But they didn’t stop.
So he called, “I was hoping to meet you most excellent gentlemen. I’ve brought you each a gift. It’s only a trifle, a snuffbox, but I think you’ll find the gold work is quite admirable, and the jewels are of wonderful clarity and cut.”
The bribe stopped them in their tracks. Extending their hands, they accepted the boxes he offered, the boxes Celeste had given him. Bouchard, a short, stout man with an amazingly large black mustache and an equally amazing shiny bald head, pocketed his immediately and returned to puffing on the fat cigar he smoked at any possible occasion. But de Guignard opened his box and examined it. Jude thought if he’d had a jeweler’s glass, he would have popped it in his eye and assessed the stone right there.
The comte was a man of perhaps forty-five, thin, tall, and handsome, with a gray, well-trimmed beard along his jaw. He spoke fondly of the days of Napoleon and France’s position at the heights of power—and Moricadia’s rise on its coattails. He also treasured an overweening grudge against the English, who had stripped their glory away, and at the same time, a tight-lipped resentment for the French, who looked down on the Moricadians. He wasn’t an easy man to understand; yet he liked gold and he liked women, and on those traits Jude pinned his hopes.
Satisfied by the quality of the gift, de Guignard nodded brusquely. “Thank you. It was good to have seen you.”
Jude grasped their arms before they could turn away. “You can’t go off yet! I wanted to ask how you liked the opera last night. I thought the soprano sang off-key, but perhaps that’s because she’s Mr. Throckmorton’s mistress. That’s enough to throw any woman off her stride!”
The two men caught their breaths. They looked at each other. Moving in unison, they separated enough to allow him to walk between them.
“ C’est vrai? She is Monsieur Throckmorton’s mistress?” Bouchard’s English was strongly accented.
Jude fell in beside them without any indication of the triumph he experienced. The thing he did well, the thing which had led him to create this silly and vapid personality, was his ability to dissimilate. “But of course she is! It’s a quiet affair. Mr. Throckmorton has a reputation to maintain, because his very pretty wife”—Jude lowered his voice and the
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