Read Chapter 20: The Pianist's Family

Julien stood in the doorway of his mother's sitting room, the late afternoon light falling across the Persian carpet between them like a barrier he could not cross. The Comtesse de Valois sat with perfect posture in her armchair, a cup of tea cooling at her elbow, her eyes fixed on the window as if she had not heard him enter.

"Maman." His voice was steadier than he felt. "We must speak about Evie."

"Must we?" She did not turn. "I thought we had finished speaking about her. I thought the matter was settled when the truth about your little American became apparent to everyone in Paris who matters."

"The truth is more complicated than what you heard at the salon."

Now she turned, and her gaze was cold enough to frost the windows. "I heard that she is not a widow. I heard that she fled New York under a cloud of scandal. I heard that she has been passing herself off as something she is not. Tell me, Julien, which part of that is complicated?"

Julien crossed the room and stood before her, forcing her to look up at him. "What if I told you she is the granddaughter of the Comte de Saint-Simon?"

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. His mother's teacup rattled as she set it down too quickly. "That is not possible. The Comte has no grandchildren. His only daughter—" She stopped herself, something flickering behind her eyes.

"His only daughter died young. That is what the family has always said." Julien pressed his advantage. "But what if she did not die? What if she was sent away, and her child was raised in America, ignorant of her heritage?"

"Julien, this is absurd. Where did you get such a story?"

"From Evie herself. She has her mother's locket, with an inscription inside—a dedication from the Comte to his daughter, Marie-Josèphe." He watched his mother's face carefully. "You know that name."

For a moment, the Comtesse's composure cracked. Her hands, clasped in her lap, tightened until the knuckles went white. Then she recovered, smoothing her skirts with deliberate calm. "I know the name. Marie-Josèphe was the Comte's daughter. She was sent to a convent in Normandy after a scandal—a liaison with a man beneath her station. She died there of fever. That is the official story, and it has never been questioned."

"Perhaps because no one wished to question it. Evie's mother did not die in Normandy. She went to America, changed her name, and had a daughter. A daughter with the Comte's blood in her veins."

His mother rose, her movements sharp and angry. "Even if this were true—and I do not grant that it is—what would you have me do? Embrace her? Welcome into my home a woman who has already proven herself a liar and a schemer? A woman who may be illegitimate, the product of a scandal that disgraced her family before she was born?"

"She is not a schemer." Julien's voice rose despite himself. "She is a woman who has survived by her wits in a world that has given her nothing. She did not know about the Comte until yesterday. She did not come to Paris seeking an inheritance. She came seeking her sister."

"Her sister? The one who disappeared? The one connected to whatever sordid business she fled in New York?" His mother laughed, a brittle sound. "You are a fool, Julien. You have let this woman's voice—and her other charms—cloud your judgment entirely."

"I love her."

The words hung in the air between them. His mother's face went very still.

"You cannot love her," she said finally. "You cannot love a woman who has compromised you, who has lied to you, who has no position, no fortune, no name—"

"She may have a name. A considerable one. The Comte de Saint-Simon is an old man, isolated and without heirs. If Evie is his granddaughter, if she can prove her lineage, she would be one of the most eligible heiresses in France."

His mother's eyes narrowed. "And if she cannot prove it? If this locket is a pretty fiction, a story she has invented to entrap you?"

"Then I will love her still."

The words came out simpler than he intended, and truer. His mother stared at him for a long moment, and something in her expression shifted—not softening, exactly, but conceding a point she had not wished to acknowledge.

"You are determined, then."

"I am."

"And if I refuse to see her? If I refuse to give her my blessing?"

"Then I will lose you." Julien's voice cracked. "And I do not wish to lose you, Maman. I wish you could see her as I do. I wish you could hear her sing, see the way she lights up a room, feel the warmth of her heart. But if you force me to choose—"

"Do not." His mother raised a hand, cutting him off. "Do not make threats you will regret. I will see her. I will meet this woman who has so thoroughly bewitched my son. But I make no promises about my response."

Julien exhaled, a breath he had not realized he was holding. "That is all I ask. Just meet her. Give her a chance to speak for herself."

"I do not do this for her," his mother said sharply. "I do this for you. And I will expect you to remember that."

---

Evie had never felt so out of place as she did standing in the Comtesse's parlor, her best dress suddenly feeling cheap and foreign, her gloves too tight, her smile too bright. Julien stood beside her, his hand finding hers and squeezing gently.

"You are magnificent," he murmured. "Whatever she says, remember that."

The Comtesse entered, and Evie had the strange sensation of being measured and found wanting before a single word was exchanged. The older woman's gaze swept over her—her dress, her shoes, her posture—and her lips thinned almost imperceptibly.

"Madame Hart." The Comtesse's voice was formal, cool. "My son tells me extraordinary things about you."

"Extraordinary things happen to me often, Madame la Comtesse." Evie kept her voice steady, her chin high. "I have learned to expect them."

The Comtesse's eyebrow arched. "Indeed. Sit. We have much to discuss."

The conversation that followed was excruciating. The Comtesse asked pointed questions about Evie's upbringing, her education, her family. Evie answered truthfully where she could, deflected where she must, and tried not to flinch when the older woman's questions edged toward the scandal in New York.

But she did not lie. She could not. She had been caught in too many lies already, and Julien's hand in hers was a reminder that honesty—painful as it might be—was the only path forward.

Finally, the Comtesse sat back, studying Evie with an expression that was impossible to read.

"You are not what I expected," she said at last.

"I rarely am."

That startled a laugh from the Comtesse—brief, surprised, quickly suppressed. "You have spirit. I will grant you that. And you clearly love my son, or you would not have endured this interrogation without fleeing."

"I would endure far more than this for him."

The Comtesse's gaze softened, just slightly. "Perhaps you would. Perhaps you are not the schemer I assumed." She stood, smoothing her skirt. "I will give you a chance, Madame Hart. I will not welcome you with open arms—that would be too much to ask, even for my son's sake. But I will not stand in your way. Prove yourself worthy of him, and you may find me less formidable than I appear."

Evie rose, curtsying with grace she had learned from watching other women do it. "I will do my best to prove worthy of him, Madame la Comtesse. He deserves nothing less."

The Comtesse's eyes flickered with something that might have been approval, and then she swept from the room, leaving Evie and Julien alone in the sudden quiet.

Julien turned to her, his eyes bright. "You did it. You won her over."

"I do not know about won," Evie said, her knees suddenly weak. "But I survived. That will have to be enough for now."

He pulled her into his arms, and she buried her face in his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of him. For a moment, she allowed herself to believe that everything would be all right—that they had weathered the storm, that the family would accept her, that they might find Lily and face whatever came next together.

But even as she held him, a cold whisper of doubt threaded through her mind. The Comtesse had agreed to meet her, yes. But Evie had seen the calculation in the older woman's eyes. Whatever ground she had gained today, it was not trust. It was strategy.

And somewhere in Paris, the man who owned her debt was still out there, still waiting, still holding the threads that connected Lily's disappearance to the baron, to the orphanage, to secrets that Evie had only begun to unravel.

She pulled back from Julien, forcing a smile. "I should go. I have the meeting with the baron tomorrow."

"I will come with you."

"No." She touched his cheek. "This I must do alone. But knowing you are here—waiting for me—it will give me strength."

He looked like he wanted to argue, but he nodded. "Be careful. Please."

"I will."

She left the house with her heart full and her mind spinning. She had won a battle today, perhaps. But the war was far from over. And as she walked into the fading Parisian light, she could not shake the feeling that she was walking toward something she could not yet see—something that would change everything.