Coronets and Steel Read Free Page B

back in my seat, drawing a deep breath.
    Then a light baritone voice at my side asked—in French, the familiar tu —what I thought of the ballet.
    I gave my grandmother’s French shrug, said something noncommittal, and he went on to ask if I would like to join him in a drink.
    The definite tone of familiarity was not intimate or insulting. It was more like recognition, which was too unsettling for me to feel anything but wary, and so I refused, again politely. But firmly.
    The exchange was brief, but I managed a fast check-out. He had a quantity of beautifully barbered collar-length thick dark hair, fine-stranded and glossy, a square face with classically refined bones, and he wore an expensive-looking dark suit. He’d turned slightly in his seat; a well-shaped hand lay negligently on the balcony. On that hand I saw a big, square-cut sapphire, glittering with the unmistakable bling of the Real McCoy. I perceived irregularities in the face of the stone—the carvings of an honest-to-historical-romance signet ring. The ring, his posture, even the marks of tiredness under his eyes and smudging his aristocratic cheekbones (The Smudge, I decided, of Dissipation) . . . he would have been perfect in Pelham black and ruffles.
    I cut my gaze away, but not before the thought hit me: Mr. Darcy.
    “You’re laughing,” he said in French. “What is it, my invitation or my accent?”
    His tone was only mock-insulted; a smile curved his lips, but his brows lifted slightly in question. Again, I got that sense that something was going on, and I had no clue.
    “Neither,” I said. “But you can speak English if you want.” His French was good, but his diction was more English than French.
    Sure enough, he went on in English that sounded like he’d been educated at Oxford or Cambridge as he made a comment about the performance, to which I readily replied. I was tempted by my surroundings (which I felt required some dash) to fake a British accent for the fun of it. But my courage failed me and I replied in my bland Los Angeles accent, until the lights dipped and I turned my attention back to the stage.
    Nothing marred my enjoyment of the rest of the performance.
    When it had ended, I clapped until my hands smarted as the principal dancers took bow after bow.
    When I stood up, I discovered that Mr. Darcy was gone.

FOUR

    H IS IMAGE LINGERED. So, as I walked back to my pensione, the air soft and the lights twinkling in the trees, I let my imagination spin out a story that had to be more interesting than his real life as a lawyer or software salesman or insurance guy. I dressed him in Corinthian garb and imagined him gambling all night at White’s with Lord Alvanley and Charles James Fox, then, having either won or lost fifty thousand pounds—his reaction would be the same for both—he would get up from his table with that same cool air, and in the dim light of dawn embark on a curricle race up the Great North Road. Or a duel at dawn in the Place des Vosges in Paris.
    Next morning, the first thing I saw in the bleak light was my wallet. My flat wallet. I would never regret the ballet, or the dress (so I told myself) but I could only stay through one more night if I wanted to get to Scotland and tour Clan Murray’s old hangout.
    It was with a sense of defeat that I shoved my wallet into my jeans pocket and set out for one last sightseeing walk, stopping first to buy a few postcards. I wouldn’t waste the money at an Internet café to tell Mom and Dad that I’d failed as Lord Peter Wimsey.
    I found a bench along the flower garden outside the fairy-tale Gothic-spired city hall to write my cards. I still hadn’t finished those letters in my suitcase. The nice thing about postcards is, they’re shorter.
    To Lisa and Kara, I wrote, Hope you kicked ass at the tournament. My quest so far is kicking my ass. On Lisa’s I added, So I went to the ballet as consolation. And guess who I saw? Mr. Darcy. Too bad my name is not Elizabeth! The