The Chevalier (Châteaux and Shadows) by Philippa Lodge Page B

slipped into the room, walking as silently as he could. He remembered to pose when he stopped to glance around, then eased sideways behind some seated ladies. He nodded to the gentlemen who stood at the back, waving handkerchiefs and holding their hats under their arms as they posed gracefully with their walking sticks. Manu had forgotten his hat entirely, he suddenly realized. And his court sword, which was rather plain when compared to the ones he saw at other gentlemen’s hips. It was too late to go back, so he bowed to one gentleman who looked vaguely familiar and tiptoed so very, very slowly that surely the actors would not notice he was moving.
    He was nearly halfway around the room and sweating profusely when he spotted his mother’s pinched profile when she turned her head to the lady next to her. He saw Mademoiselle de Fouet seated behind his mother’s high hat, leaning from side to side to see the actors. A ripple of laughter went through the front rows of the crowd, the ones who might conceivably be paying attention and able to hear the dialogue. Manu drew in a sharp breath when Mademoiselle de Fouet looked at the gentleman to her right and smiled demurely. He took a moment to study her graceful neck with just a few curls bouncing against it. She said something to the gentleman, and Manu had an irrational rush of jealousy. The man turned and revealed himself as an ancient, longtime friend of the baronesse’s, who frowned at Mademoiselle de Fouet and turned sharply back to the actors. The Comte of…something. D’Yquelon, maybe. One of his mother’s particularly pious friends. His son was the worst hypocrite of Manu’s acquaintance, giving lip service to piety but leading a debauched life. Manu glanced around and wondered how many more hypocrites were around him.
    “Psssst!” Someone hissed behind him and he looked over his shoulder. Some gentlemen about his age standing against the wall waved him out of the way. Ah. There was d’Yquelon’s son across the room. Manu nodded, but the man didn’t appear to see him, which was fine, since Manu remembered he didn’t like the man. Manu looked around for d’Yquelon’s godson, Lucas de Granville, whom he did like, as he slipped toward the wall to find an empty spot between glittering coats and puffed, beribboned sleeves which nearly steamed from the heat. He regretted not paying for gold braid on his dark red coat. He blended all too well into the burgundy curtains.
    Still, he watched the back of Mademoiselle de Fouet’s head as he shifted from one foot to the other to alleviate the discomfort, wishing his handkerchief were at the very least embroidered instead of plain, brownish linen. He fanned himself with it anyway, trying to copy the other gentlemen’s elegant wrist movements. Every now and then someone in the cluster of young men would stare at him before turning back to his friends.
    Finally, the play was over, and Emmanuel hadn’t heard more than the shouted parts. His shirt was stuck to him, his face red, his nicest coat smelled like his armpits, and his feet were swollen. He wondered why anyone would do this evening after evening when they could be riding. Or strolling in the gardens. Or making love.
    His gaze went to Mademoiselle de Fouet, and he pushed away from the wall and tromped toward her as directly as he could through the buffeting crowd. At last he arrived next to her just as some older gentleman was helping the baronesse to her feet. She swayed slightly, and Manu was distracted from Mademoiselle de Fouet long enough to hold out a hand to steady his mother, who didn’t thank him. But it was also just long enough for the decrepit man next to Mademoiselle de Fouet to hold his elbow out to her and Manu to miss his chance.
    “What took you so long?” His mother’s voice carried rather too well as the people around them turned to see who was receiving the latest tongue-lashing.
    “I was in the back and didn’t want to interrupt the