Free The Garden Intrigue by Lauren Willig Page B

might be moved to generosity. The blaze of diamonds that adorned Mme. Delagardie’s person bespoke a careless affluence. Marston wouldn’t be the first to use a rich widow to refill his coffers; it was a trope as old as Chaucer.
    On the other hand, there were plenty of other rich women out there, taller ones, bustier ones, ones more convenient to Boulogne. For Marston to have hied himself all the way to Paris to a house from which he had been banned, he must have a reason more compelling than an overdue boot maker’s bill.
    “Should you be in need of assistance,” Augustus directed himself to Marston, “I should be more than delighted to convey your amorous sentiments into verse for the delectation of the object of your affection. For a small but reasonable remuneration, of course.” He plucked delicately at one flowing sleeve. “I call it Service à la Cyrano.”
    “Service à la what?” Marston appeared less than overjoyed by the interruption. One might even call his tone belligerent.
    To Augustus’s surprise, Mme. Delagardie answered for him. “Cyrano. In Rostand’s play, Cyrano de Bergerac takes on the wooing of the fair Roxanne on behalf of a handsome but…less verbally inclined officer.”
    Augustus inclined his head to Marston. “Poetry, Monsieur, has long been the food of love. Perhaps you might like a small measure of assistance from a chef of long experience?”
    Marston was not amused. “When I need help, I’ll ask for it.”
    “Perhaps you ought to ask the lady.” Augustus directed a flowing bow in Mme. Delagardie’s direction. “A canto does more than cologne can to win the affections of a lady to a man.”
    A muffled snort emerged from behind Mme. Delagardie’s fan.
    Reddening, Marston turned to Mme. Delagardie, deliberately blocking out Augustus. “We can resume this later. Alone.”
    Mme. Delagardie snapped her fan shut. “You needn’t bother. I shouldn’t want to put you out. Good-bye, Monsieur Marston.”
    Marston pressed a last, lingering kiss to her palm.
“Au revoir, Emma.”
    His tone was that of a lover, but his eyes were as calculating as a Cheapside moneylender’s. That was Marston for you, venal to the core.
    As for Mme. Delagardie, she watched her former lover go, but her expression was anything but amorous. In fact, if Augustus hadn’t known better, he would have said she appeared distinctly annoyed. Her lips were tight and her fan beat an impatient tattoo against her hip.
    “Bother,” she said, with feeling.
    “If I was interrupting…” Augustus fished.
    Mme. Delagardie blinked, as though she had forgotten he was there. Augustus found this unaccountably annoying. He had large, flowing sleeves and carried an oversize paper scroll. He wasn’t exactly inconspicuous. And yet he appeared to have entirely escaped the notice of Mme. Delagardie.
    “Oh, Mr. Whittlesby,” she said, confirming his initial impression. “Did you want something?”
    “Me? To what wants could a humble servant of the muse possibly lay claim?” When he thought she had suffered enough, Augustus relaxed his pose. “It is not my wants, lady, but yours that bring me to your side on this fateful eve.”
    “I would have called it more fearful than fateful,” muttered Mme. Delagardie.
    “Fearfully fateful, then,” said Augustus. “Flora’s fairest flower informs me that you might have need of the assistance of an amanuensis for your amateur endeavors in the realm of Thespis.”
    “My what?”
    It was late and Augustus was tired. “I hear you’re writing a masque,” he said bluntly. “I thought you might desire my aid.”
    Mme. Delagardie was silent for a moment. He had her attention now, but not necessarily in a good way. “I see,” she said, and she sounded surprisingly weary. “Are you offering to hire yourself out? Is this another sideline, like the Service de Cyrano?”
    Would she be more likely to collaborate with him if she thought she wasmeant to pay for the pleasure? Some