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She clutched it to her chest in disbelief, knowing she was actually holding a set of pearls. Real pearls. Something her own mother could have never afforded. She searched his face. “Thank you. This is—” She pressed her lips to his mouth and lingered before saying against him, “I am a butcher girl no more. And I thank you for that.”

He edged away. Taking up her mask, he set it against her face, tying the lace ribbon back into place. “There is no shame in being a butcher girl, you know.”

She rolled her eyes. “There is if you are one. Chickens fear me. I always felt very conscious about that.”

He tsked and tied his own mask on and lingered. He nudged her. “Open it.”

She excitedly unraveled the strings holding the velvet fabric closed and pulled it apart. Pulling out the string of pearls by the tips of her fingers, she raised the entire length of her arm and hand toward the ceiling of the hackney. The string of glistening white pearls continued to unravel out of the small satchel well beyond what she could hold up. Her lips parted in disbelief as she wound the pearls around her hand several times in an attempt to get it all out. It kept rustling and rustling out like a never-ending parade.

The end finally swung out and swayed.

In awe, she draped the heavy pearls over her head, looping it several times around her throat, before letting the rest fall well past her waist. Holy God. She pressed a quaking hand against it, not even wanting to know how much it cost him. “Was it terribly expensive?”

He leaned over and yanked open each curtain to let in more light. “Yes. Terribly.”

She frantically grabbed his face and kissed him. Once. Twice. Thrice. “You are the most amazing man I have ever met! Thank you!”

A gruff laugh escaped him. “Wait until you see the diamonds. They are being cut for you as we speak.” He leaned in closer, until their noses and masks were touching. “I never had a woman defend my honor before.”

The hackney came to a halt, causing their heads to bump.

They winced.

The driver called out, “Forty Rue Saint Martin!”

Gérard glanced toward the limestone building beyond the window. “How do you like your new living quarters? Is it acceptable?”

“I about fainted,” she gushed. “I have a bed the size of a field all to myself. I keep rolling and rolling and never seem to be able to fall off. ’Tis marvelous. And there is so much beautiful furniture all over the place, I keep trying to sit on everything just so I can say I used it.”

He smirked. “Good. If you need anything else, let Naudet know. In about another two weeks or so, you should be starting over at
Théâtre Française.
I am finalizing a few sizable payments to the owner.” He kissed her gloved hand. “I am afraid I must bid you
adieu
.”

Life was so unfair. She searched his masked face. “When will I see you again?”

“Not for some time.”

Her heart dropped. “Why not?”

“The less we associate, the less likely people will suspect anything.”

She softened her voice. “Is that the only reason?”

He touched her cheek, skimming his fingers toward her throat. “If we go any faster, we might ruin this.”

Leaning into that hand, she half-nodded. “Maybe you are right.”

“Forty Rue Saint Martin!”
the driver called in agitation, his boot hitting his seat. “Ey! Out and out already! Is someone going to pay me double for waiting?”

Gérard rolled his eyes. “I swear this revolution is making people rude.” He rose and opened the door, jumping out. He extended a hand.

She stood and grabbed his hand, stepping out of the hackney. Her pearls rustled against her movements, reminding her that she was no longer a butcher girl from Giverny. She was an actress, spy extraordinaire
and
her lover was third cousin to the king.

Clutching the velvet satchel and her reticule, she reluctantly released that large, gloved hand. “Thank you for a lovely night. I really enjoyed dancing with you.”

He inclined his head. “I will wait until you find your way inside.”

She hesitated, knowing she had a whole flat to herself and no one in it. Maybe…? “Are you wanting to come upstairs?” she blurted, trying to be casual about it. “For tea or anything?”

Gérard set his shoulders, no longer meeting her gaze. “No. I have to go.”

She sensed that whatever was happening between them was overwhelming him. It was so darling. One would think they hadn’t even kissed. “I understand.” Digging out the key from her reticule, she turned and hurried to her door. She paused, biting back a smile knowing it was
her
door. Not her father’s or her mother’s or her ten brothers’. Hers.

Unlatching the door, she pushed its weight open, stuffing the key back into her reticule and stepped inside, glancing back at him one last time. “Good night.”

He inclined his head again. “You certainly made it such.”

She smiled and put up a gloved hand.

Turning, he paid the hackney with a few coins, then adjusted his evening coat around himself and strode off into the darkness of the night, his mask still in place.

She leaned out, watching that tall, muscled figure stride down the pavement.

He paused and glanced back. “What?”

She blew him an ardent kiss and used her sultriest voice. “I wish you could stay. I need someone to help me out of my corset, you know.”

He groaned and threw back his head. “None of that. I have to go. I have people waiting and things to do.” He hissed out a breath, swung around and stalked away, disappearing around a corner.

She dreamily set her head against the frame of the doorway, her pearls rustling. She eased out a breath, sensing this was only the beginning of far more than an alliance.

Three months later

Théâtre Française – evening

Thundering applause pulsed around her and mingled with the humming of voices drifting up to the rafters. It made Thérèse breathe in deep in an effort not to…vomit. She fought the rolling nausea that had gripped her all week. The scent of smoking candles that illuminated the expanse of the apron’s stage, along with so many countless perfumed bodies that clung to the stagnant air, made her want to wretch.

Despite that, she did her best to enjoy the moment knowing there was nothing quite like being adored for more than what God slapped on one’s face. Being able to prove her talent to all of Paris was more than she could have ever dreamed.

Her life had become amazing. Surreal. A dream.

Everything had bloomed into being perfect. Too perfect.

Thérèse scanned the clapping crowd who had risen to their feet in the large auditorium and continued to over-smile, regally sweeping her slim arms wide open to acknowledge that she was deeply touched by the unending applause that had lasted much longer than last night’s performance.

Only one thing was missing in the glory of that moment: Gérard.

Her chest tightened at the thought of him.

She hadn’t seen him since they parted three months earlier. It was wretched of him, regardless of whether the Republic or the world was watching. He could have attended a performance. While Naudet, damn him, had turned out to be a burly man with a squint who offered very few words that never went beyond, ‘
He is doing rather well
’ or ‘
There is no other message
’ or ‘
I know not
’ or ‘
May God piss on that
.’

It was anything but helpful.

Curtseying regally to the crowd one last time, she turned and gathering her lace gown and silk petticoats, she swept off stage. The smile she’d held for her audience faded. She set a trembling hand to her stomacher. Something was not right, but she wasn’t quite certain of it yet. Her menses was never regular and usually skipped two to four months at a time.

Which meant…she wouldn’t know for certain for another month.

It was unnerving. She wasn’t ready to have a baby. Not during a revolution.

“There she be, there she be!” Rémy strutted over to her like a rooster, his elbows out and dressed in his latest burgundy satin and velvet ensemble worth three hundred
livre.
The man
always
told everyone what his wardrobe cost given he was so proud of it. “By God, I do believe we made more today on the ticket sales than we have all week. It means I get to keep this here managing position
and
the clothing that goes with it.”

Despite the rolling nausea, she smiled. It was easy enough to do. Rémy always made her smile. He was always so cheerful and happy. And now more than ever. “I still cannot believe this is happening to us. Giverny is no doubt pissing itself right along with Mama and Papa.”

Rémy grinned, displaying crooked teeth that personified him and halted before her. “I
knew
having you in Paris would change the city.” He nudged her. “How about you and I tell that incredible, overpaid chef of yours to make us some of that fancy food again? You know…with all those-those…meats and gravy? Are you up for a late supper?” He patted his large belly. “Collecting money gives a man a big appetite.”

She smirked and patted that oversized belly. “Then I say we feed that appetite so you can keep up with all the collecting. The moment you finish counting the rest of the money and organizing the bills, make your way over to my dressing room. I will ensure I stay late.”

He grabbed her face and rattled it. “A personal blessing is what you are. I knew it ever since you could toddle.” He jumped back and pointed at her in his usual half-squat position that showcased his excitement. “Try not to let your admirers keep you from our supper. I should be done no later than midnight.”

“Midnight it is.” She did a half-squat herself and pointed back. “I will see you and that big belly later.”

Rémy smacked his belly and bustled off with the shake of his coat tails, nodding enthusiastically in greeting to everyone he passed. “Best night yet, I say,” he yelled out. “I went ahead and left champagne in everyone’s basket!”

She tsked. Rémy had a tendency to spoil them and always used his own money to do it.

Jacques and Léon now hurried toward her, their eyes brightening in rehearsed unison. One held out a crystal glass of gingered tea and the other held up a silver tray, which usually sat in her dressing room.

“You were glorious,” Jacques announced with the pert wiggle of his powdered periwig. “That was the most incredible rendition of
Nina
I have seen from you yet.”

“Quite so,” Léon chimed in. “The audience kept you on stage twice as long. By the end of this week, we may have to set out a chair for you and
Nina
to sit on. I never laughed so hard.”

She bit back an exasperated smile, knowing full well these two ambitious blighters were being paid to make her feel glorious. Much like everyone else. “I thank you both for
always
making me believe in my talent.”

Removing her satin gloves, she deposited them onto the tray Léon held, along with the lightweight paste jewelry that was part of her costume. She slid a powdered handkerchief from the tray and dabbed at her throat, face and neck, nudging up the heavy black periwig that weighed on her head.

Barely a month on stage at
Théâtre Française,
and she felt like it had been a year. So much joy, yes, but…so much work. Her makeup and wardrobe alone took three hours.

A breath escaped her as she set the handkerchief back onto the tray. “Thank you, Léon.”

Léon inclined his head and with the puff of his narrow chest, hurried away.

Turning to Jacques, Thérèse primly took her glass of gingered tea. Her chef had it made that very afternoon and had it delivered to the theatre just for her. She paused, realizing that she, Thérèse Angelique Clavette from Giverny, had a chef. And not just a chef, but also servants for each day of the week. Only they all stayed for the entire week, every single week.

Nausea aside, she was so in love with her new life she occasionally did a little wiggle.

When she wasn’t rehearsing or on stage, she went shopping almost every day, and half the time, usually ended up dragging random people off the street who appeared to be in need of good cheer. She very much enjoyed seeing the faces of young and old women with frayed bonnets getting boxes and boxes of new ones. She also enjoyed merrily pushing mothers into toy shops with their children who had all been lingering outside and announcing to them that whatever they wanted was theirs. She loved playing the part of a wealthy godmother to everyone.

She took a dainty swig, reveling in the spicy taste of her tea. She took another dainty swig. And another. She paused and slowly felt the nausea washing itself away. Thank God. “Jacques, you have outdone yourself. Thank you for fetching this. It seems to be the only thing helping given how bilious my stomach feels.”

Jacques paused. Clearing his throat, he leaned in and whispered from behind a gloved hand, “You did not hear it from me, but…all this drinking of gingered tea is creating quite a stir amongst the other actors given you usually drink red wine. They seem to think you are expecting the babe of one of your admirers. Are you?”