The Cinderella Moment (31 page)

Chapter Thirty-Three

Standing by the entrance were two women: one in a stunning white gown with an enormous ruby pendant at her breast and the other a dream in softest pink.

Margot and Clarissa Kane.

Still holding Nick’s hand, Angel moved towards them.

As she crossed the room, she saw Margot speak to Nick’s mother and Georgiana smile and nod, then escort them to the Comtesse’s table.

She found her voice and managed to whisper, “Please, Nick, whatever you hear, please believe that I love you.”

They reached the Comtesse's table just in time to hear her say to Margot, “May I help you?”

If it hadn’t been so heart-stoppingly awful, it would have been funny to see Margot and Clarissa bob a sort of curtsey, but there was nothing comical about Margot’s reply.

“Madame de Tourney, I am Margot Kane, your son Philip’s fiancée, and I am here to expose an imposter.” She pointed at Angel and declared dramatically, “You have been cruelly deceived.”

The Comtesse raised her eyebrows. “Indeed?”

Margot tried again.

“That girl,” she said, jabbing a finger in Angel’s direction, “is not who she says she is.”

The Comtesse looked from Margot’s angry face to Angel’s pale one, but said nothing.

Unable to keep silent, Clarissa cried out, “She’s not your granddaughter. Her real name is Angelique and she’s a cook’s daughter from New York.”

Angel heard the startled whispers pass among the guests. Nick shifted slightly, but he didn’t let go of her hand.

The Comtesse turned to face her. “Is this true? You are not Lily de Tourney? You are not my granddaughter?”

Angel gazed at her helplessly. She saw the certainty fade from the Comtesse’s eyes and her face grow pale and in that moment she would have done anything to avoid saying the words she knew would bring nothing but pain.

“Yes, it’s true. But I can explain—”

“She’s been using you to get into Antoine Vidal’s studio,” declared Clarissa.

At her words, Vidal moved closer to the Comtesse.

“No!” cried Angel. “It’s not what you think.”

“She is a liar and a thief,” cut in Margot. “You cannot believe anything she tells you.”

“I am
not
a thief,” retorted Angel.

The Comtesse turned her penetrating gaze upon Margot. “Can you prove such an extraordinary accusation, Madame?”

Angel stared at Margot. She was certain there was nothing she or Clarissa could do or say to support their claim and once they were discredited Angel could explain to the Comtesse about her mother and the Teen Couture and Lily and the London Academy.

“
I
can prove it.” Clarissa’s voice cut across her thoughts. Startled, Angel looked up to see her smile triumphantly, and for the first time she was assailed by doubt. A moment later her doubt turned to fear as Clarissa stepped forward and pulled a sketchbook from her bag.

“She’s obsessed with the Teen Couture,” proclaimed Clarissa. “We discovered she’d been copying my designs, but it was only yesterday that we learned she’d come to Paris with the intention of getting into Vidal’s and swapping her signed forgeries for my original drawings.”

Angel stared at her in horror. When Clarissa said it like that—with the truth mixed up with the lies—it almost sounded plausible. But there was worse to come.

Clarissa held out the sketchbook to the Comtesse, who took it and opened it. As she turned the pages, Angel’s heart kicked into overdrive. It was one of her own sketchbooks filled with pictures of her Teen Couture garments in all their different stages.

Clarissa had signed every page with a flourish.

With a cry of protest Angel stepped towards the Comtesse. Nick moved with her, his hand still firmly clasping hers. “But that’s mine—” began Angel.

“You would say that, wouldn’t you?” Clarissa interrupted. “That’s what liars do—they tell lies. Just like you’ve been lying about being Lily de Tourney—”

The Comtesse held up her hand. “Enough. There is one way to settle this argument. Antoine, if I might ask you to examine this sketchbook.”

Vidal nodded curtly and took the sketchbook. Angel stood paralyzed as he turned the pages and examined the drawings. After what seemed like an eternity, he looked up.

“Yes, these are the designs stolen from my salon a week ago.” He indicated the signature. “And this is the name of the designer whose drawings they were.” He turned to Clarissa. “You are Mademoiselle Clarissa Kane?”

“I am,” said Clarissa, nodding modestly.

“And you sent an entry to the Teen Couture from New York three weeks ago?”

“That’s right.”

“And this week you received a letter from me asking you to attend the Versailles Ball as a Teen Couture finalist?”

“I did,” replied Clarissa.

Angel gasped.

Vidal spun round. “I knew I had seen you before,” he said. “It came to me as you crossed the room just now. You were that waitress in New York—the one who fell.”

“I was tripped—”

But Vidal was not listening. “I believe Mademoiselle Kane is who she says,” he said. “Because if you, mademoiselle,” he regarded Angel coldly, “were the true designer, then you would have made it known long before now.”

His eyes flicked anxiously to the Comtesse’s face. “The true designer would never have enacted this shameful masquerade as there would be no need for lies or theft.” He turned to the Comtesse. “These designs,” he tapped the sketchbook, “were stolen from my salon last Friday.”

Locking her gaze onto Angel’s, the Comtesse asked icily, “Did you take them?”

Angel stared at her, white-faced. She hadn’t thought of this, but she could see at once how it must look.

She had to explain that she wasn’t a thief, that those were
her
designs, not Clarissa’s and that she’d only lied in order to right a terrible wrong.

“It’s not what you think,” she said, looking desperately round the room. No one moved.

The Comtesse asked again. “
Did
you take the designs from Monsieur Vidal’s salon?”

“Yes!” cried Angel. “Yes, I did.” She looked beseechingly at the Comtesse. “But they were mine—at least—they were
her
drawings, but of
my
designs, Grandmama.”

Angel stopped, aghast, as the familiar word rolled off her tongue and appeared to strike Elena de Tourney a physical blow. “I
…
I’m sorry, Madame,” she amended, wincing at the more formal title. “But if you’d just let me explain. You see, Clarissa’s drawings were—”

The Comtesse cut her off. “You are
not
my granddaughter.” And this time it was not a question.

“No.”

“But you work for my son in New York.”

“My mother does.”

“And your real name is Angelique?”

Pale-faced, Angel nodded. “Though my friends call me Angel,” she whispered.

The Comtesse paid no heed. “And my granddaughter—the real Lily de Tourney—is where?”

Angel hesitated, but there was no point trying to protect Lily now. “She’s at the London Drama Academy,” she said bleakly. “Lily won a place at their summer school. It was the same fortnight as Paris and she wouldn’t give it up.”

“So you thought it would be fun to swap places?” asked the Comtesse in a voice of steel.

“No!” gasped Angel. But the Comtesse was not listening.

“So everything you and I have shared this past fortnight was false.” The Comtesse caught her breath. “You lied to me,” she said in a voice colder than any Angel had ever heard. “You lied to us all.”

“Yes,” whispered Angel. She gazed helplessly around the room. There were Kitty and Giles, Rémy, Sebastian, Marianne and the rest of the gang, Señor Martinez, Lord and Lady Langham, Antoine Vidal and the Comtesse. All of them were looking at her as though seeing her for the first time.

On almost every face she saw hurt or suspicion or hostility. Only in Kitty’s face was there any sign of sympathy.

Angel turned to Nick. He was still beside her, still holding her hand, his skin warm against hers.

She stared up at him pleadingly. Surely he’d believe her? Because—although it seemed like eons—only minutes ago he’d told her he
loved
her and Angel had been certain that he’d meant
her
and not Lily. They had a connection that went beyond names and families—Nick would never believe she was a liar and a thief.

Except that was exactly what she was: she’d lied to him from the beginning and she’d stolen his heart.

At the precise moment that the realization hit her, Nick let go of her hand.

The sense of loss was so great that Angel almost cried out.

She bit her lip and forced herself to turn away from him and meet the Comtesse’s gaze. She wanted to look Elena de Tourney in the face and beg her one last time for the chance to explain. But all she saw was a face grown old, a face filled with doubt, regret and a deep, searing pain.

“I am
so
sorry,” whispered Angel.

Suddenly, she could bear it no longer. “I’m sorry!” she cried. And before anyone could stop her, Angel picked up her skirts and ran.

She ran straight through the hotel to the Crillon’s great revolving door. Blinded by tears, Angel pushed her way into it just as a figure clad in jeans and a T-shirt and carrying a duffel bag entered from the street.

Trapped on the other side of the slowly revolving door, Lily banged urgently on the glass. “Angel! Wait, please, Angel!”

But Angel didn’t hear her as she ran out into the street. All she could focus on was a way to somehow escape from pain and confusion and unhappiness.

The rain had stopped and a cool breeze had blown away the clouds. A waning moon was rising but Angel saw only the open space of the Place de la Concorde and beyond it the bridge over the Seine.

Pulling off her high-heeled shoes and clasping them firmly in one hand, she lifted the beautiful amethyst dress with the other and, with tears streaming down her cheeks, fled across the cobblestones towards the river.

By the time Nick burst through the door, she was out of sight, her running form obscured by the obelisk in the middle of the square.

“Angel!” he called. “Angel!”

But there was no answer.
 

Chapter Thirty-Four

Angel ran blindly, with just one thought in her head: to get away. Away from the hurt and humiliation she’d wreaked on the Comtesse and Nick and everyone she’d come to care about.

She plunged into Paris’s back streets, caring nothing for the hard pavement under her feet. So long as she didn’t have to think about those last terrible moments, she didn’t mind what physical pain she suffered.

But the images of them kept pressing on her mind: Nick with such hurt in his eyes and the Comtesse’s face lined with pain.

If only she’d told them the truth, if only. Angel slowed to a walk and for the umpteenth time pushed the images away and tried to think of what to do.

She should have stayed and insisted the Comtesse hear the truth. Elena de Tourney mightn’t have liked it and she probably wouldn’t have forgiven her, but at least Angel would have exposed Clarissa and Margot for the frauds they were.

Why had she let them get away with such a cruel deception?
Angel wondered.
Why hadn’t she stood firm and answered their accusations with allegations of her own, instead of letting them convince everyone
she
was the thief?

“Because right now I’m no better than them,” whispered Angel. “Clarissa’s a liar and a thief, but I’m a liar and a fraud.”

It didn’t matter that she’d agreed to the masquerade because Clarissa had stolen her designs and Margot had practically taken Simone hostage, because Angel could’ve waited until Maman was well and then told the truth.

It would have meant forgoing her entry into the Teen Couture, but at least she wouldn’t have lost everything that mattered.

Even worse was that she’d repaid the Comtesse’s kindness with deceit. For the past two weeks she’d let Elena de Tourney think she was her granddaughter and, although she might convince her she wasn’t a thief, there was nothing she could say that would make her any less a liar.

Angel angrily dashed away a tear. How could she have been so stupid and selfish, not to have properly
considered
the consequences of her outrageous masquerade?

She’d wanted to stop Clarissa from cheating so much that she’d let herself believe Lily’s blithe assurances that it would all work out. Sure, she’d never meant to hurt anyone, but she’d done it nonetheless.

If only Lily had been willing to put off the London Academy—she could have come to Paris and told everyone about Clarissa—but her acting was everything to her and Angel knew she’d stay in London until she’d fulfilled her dream.

And I totally get that
, thought Angel,
because fashion design means everything to me.

At least it used to.