Read Chapter 20: The Duchess's Favor

The morning light filtered through the lace curtains of the Duchess's private salon, casting delicate patterns across the parquet floor. Camille sat perched on the edge of an ornate bergère chair, her gloved hands folded in her lap, still uncertain how she had come to be here.

The invitation had arrived at dawn, delivered by a liveried footman who had waited in the rain until Marie answered the door. The Duchess of Montreuil—one of the most formidable hostesses in Paris, a woman whose salons could make or break reputations with a single whispered word—wished to speak with her. Privately.

Camille had dressed carefully, choosing her plainest but most elegant gown, and had rehearsed a dozen conversational openings on the walk over. None of them mattered. The Duchess dispensed with pleasantries the moment the servant closed the door.

"You have made quite an impression on Senator Devereux," the Duchess said, settling into a chaise longue with the fluid grace of a woman who had never known a moment of uncertainty in her life. "He speaks of you often. Not fondly, mind you. But often."

Camille's throat tightened. "I cannot imagine what the Senator and I would have in common, Your Grace."

"No?" The Duchess's mouth curved into something that was not quite a smile. "He says you are a woman of unusual conviction. That you refused his offer of patronage with remarkable... vigor."

So Devereux had spoken of their confrontation. Camille's fingers tightened on the fabric of her skirt. How much had he told? How much of her threat had he dared to repeat to a woman of the Duchess's standing?

"I am an actress, Your Grace. Conviction is part of the craft."

The Duchess laughed—a genuine sound, warm and surprisingly youthful. "Oh, I like you. I do. That is why I asked you here." She leaned forward, her eyes sharp despite their age. "I am going to make you an offer, Mademoiselle Moreau. I hope you will be wise enough to accept it."

Camille waited.

"My cousin is the artistic director of the Lyceum Theatre in London. A man of impeccable taste who is perpetually searching for fresh continental talent." The Duchess produced a letter from the side table, sealed with crimson wax. "This is an introduction. He will give you a role within the week—not a lead, not yet, but a respectable part with room to grow. London is forgiving of ambition in a way Paris is not. You could build a career there. A life there."

Camille stared at the letter. London. She pictured grey skies and unfamiliar streets, a city where no one knew her name or her sins.

"Your Grace, I—"

"Do not interrupt me." The Duchess's voice remained pleasant, but there was steel beneath it. "I have lived in Paris for sixty-three years. I have watched a thousand pretty young women rise and fall, and I have learned to tell the difference between those who will survive and those who will be devoured. You have something rare, Mademoiselle Moreau. But rare things are hunted." She tapped the letter. "You have made enemies. Powerful ones. Ones who do not merely threaten—they act."

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but why would you extend such generosity to a stranger?"

The Duchess was quiet for a long moment. "Because I was once a young woman with more courage than sense, and I made a choice that cost me everything I loved." She looked away, toward the window. "I do not know what you have done. I do not want to know. But I recognize the look in your eyes—the look of someone who has crossed a line and cannot uncross it."

"The line was crossed for me, Your Grace. I did not seek it out."

"Few of us do." The Duchess smiled, and for a moment Camille saw the ghost of the girl she must have been—fierce, frightened, determined. "Take the letter. Go to London. Let Paris burn without you."

Camille's hand moved toward the letter, almost of its own accord. London. A new name, maybe. A new life. She could vanish into the fog and become someone else entirely. Henri's debts would remain here, but the Baron's reach was long—though surely even he could not extend into another country. And Julien—

Julien.

The thought struck her like cold water.

"There is someone," Camille said slowly, "who needs me here."

"The journalist." The Duchess's expression flickered. "Devereux mentioned him. Julien Beaumont, the muckraker. He has made his share of enemies as well."

"You know of him?"

"Everyone knows of him. He is the rat gnawing at the foundations of several very fine houses." The Duchess's voice was dry. "If you stay for him, you will hang with him."

"It is not only for him." Camille thought of Henri, still ignorant of the danger circling their family. Of Odette's daughter, whose future hung on revelations she did not know existed. Of the Comte de Vasseur, whose name she had not yet spoken aloud to anyone but Julien. "There are people who cannot leave. People who would be destroyed if I simply... vanished."

"You cannot save everyone, child."

"I know." Camille's voice cracked, just slightly. "But I can try to save some."

The Duchess studied her with an expression that might have been respect, might have been pity. Then she set the letter down on the table between them.

"I will keep it for a week," she said. "If you change your mind before then, it is yours. After that, I will assume the offer is declined and the letter will be burned."

"Your Grace—"

"Do not thank me. Thank your own foolish heart." The Duchess rose, smoothing her skirts. "But I will tell you one thing, since you have chosen to stay. Devereux is a buffoon, but he is not the lion you should be watching for."

Camille's blood went cold. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that Devereux acts with the courage of a man who knows someone else will clean up his messes." The Duchess's eyes were flint. "The question is not whether you can defeat him. It is whether you can survive the man who cleans up after him."

The Comte. She meant the Comte de Vasseur.

"Who is he?" Camille asked, though she knew she was betraying how much she already understood. "The man behind Devereux?"

The Duchess moved toward the door, pausing with her hand on the handle. "You were right to be afraid of Devereux. But you were wrong about why. He is not dangerous because he is powerful. He is dangerous because he is connected to something far larger than himself—something that has consumed better men than him and will consume you just as easily."

"Then what am I supposed to do?"

The Duchess turned, and for the first time Camille saw genuine warmth in her face. "You could have taken the letter. You could have fled. You did not." She reached out and touched Camille's chin, tilting it up like a mother examining a child. "When I was young, I believed that courage meant being unafraid. I have since learned that it means being afraid and staying anyway. You have that. Whatever you have set yourself against, hold on to that."

She released Camille and opened the door. "Go home, Mademoiselle Moreau. But do not take the long way. Paris is watching you, and not all the watchers are friendly."

Camille rose on unsteady legs, the weight of the ledger still pressing against her ribs beneath her dress, the camera heavy in her satchel, the locket cold against her breast—three secrets, three nooses, three reasons she could not run.

"Your Grace," she said, stopping at the threshold. "If you had taken the offer—when you were young—would it have been worth it?"

The Duchess's smile was sad. "I will never know. I stayed, and my love died anyway, and the enemies I made consumed my children one by one. My grandchildren do not speak my name." She shrugged, a gesture of terrible finality. "Perhaps I should have run. But I have never once regretted staying."

Camille nodded, and stepped out into the corridor.

The door closed behind her, and she stood alone in the sudden silence, holding a week of possibility she knew she would never use. Somewhere in Paris, the Baron was watching her. Devereux was sharpening his knives. And the Comte de Vasseur was waiting in the dark between them all.

She walked quickly, taking the shortest route home, her heart pounding with every step.