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.Webster’s side.“Sir!”Her young admirer tugged at his cravat as if it were tied too securely.“Mademoiselle?”“You come here with your scientific experiments, your vacuum balls, and your flameless candles.” She glared in Adam’s direction.“Have you given any credence to the theory of moon madness?”“Why, I…I’ve never considered such a thing.” He coughed.Bronwyn tapped his chest with her fan.“Perhaps you should.I believe there’s a return of the midsummer madness right now.” She smiled at him brilliantly, determined to demonstrate her carefree attitude to anyone who might care.To Adam, who might be watching.But her young admirer seemed horrified at being singled out.He sidled away, and she realized belatedly that all gossip had died on her approach.She had become not the center of attention, but the center of condemnation.But why?What had Rachelle been trying to tell her earlier? That her time here dwindled, that…her true identity had been discovered? She glanced at Adam, at Webster, at the whole buzzing salon.Now she recognized the stares, the false sympathy, the drawing away.So they knew.She nodded.It distressed her less than she’d thought.Had she been impatient to be revealed?Her initial dismay baffled her, followed as it was by her determination to brazen it out.With a breezy smile she called, “Mr.Webster, have you brought me another experiment to view?”He gulped.“Not tonight.”“Then tomorrow night.” She turned to the others.“Lady Mary Montagu has sent word she will visit.Have you come to listen to our brightest wit?”No one answered.They shuffled their feet and poked each other with their elbows, then looked beyond her.She turned to see Carroll Judson, dapper, well made-up, with sparkling eyes that boded ill for someone.She almost welcomed the challenge.“Have you come to listen to our brightest wit, Mr.Judson?”“Not at all.I came to view the wreckage.” He bowed, his hand on his snowy, showy cravat.She didn’t want him to be the one to tell the world.She didn’t want him here at all.But if this devious little man had unmasked her, she couldn’t deny him the pleasure of her public revelation.“Wreckage?” she asked.“The wreckage of Madame Rachelle’s facade.” Gesturing about him, he asked, “Can’t you see it?”Confused, she snapped, “I see nothing.”“But it’s all around you.Her friends have disappeared.Her salon has dissolved.Her masquerade is over.” He lifted a pomander to his nose and sniffed in delicate appreciation.“Her crime is revealed.”His delighted horror scarcely fit her opinion of her own escapade.“I would hardly call this a crime.”He drew himself up, gathering dignity like a cloak.“Perhaps, as her disciple, you approve of parricide.”A tendril of ice touched the back of her neck, trickled down her spine.She didn’t answer him, just stared and waited, held in terrorized suspense.“Haven’t you heard, or are you still in ignorance?”She shut her fan with verve.“What are you suggesting?”“Rachelle had no reason to seek her daughter’s murderer.” He raised his voice so all could hear.He leaned toward her to drive the shock deep.“She is her daughter’s murderer.”A red mist covered her vision.Her nails, newly grown, cut into her palms.From the depths of her memory, she heard her father warning her not to give in to her temper.She recalled how her governess had punished her childish tantrums.She knew she had mastered her wrath on every occasion, but—this seemed to justify an exception.She drew back and slapped his face.The sound echoed like a gunshot through the salon.All eyes turned their way.In the throes of an Irish rage, she gritted, “You spiteful little worm.How dare you come here, partake of Madame’s food, of her wine, of her hospitality, and spread such rumors?”He stepped back, pushed by the gust of her fury.“You worthless toad.Get out, and don’t ever come back.” Her voice lifted like a singer’s in an operatic frenzy.She pointed to the door.“Get out.”Bits of his powder flaked off in the imprint of her hand, and the skin beneath was choleric.His face distorted, he leapt at her.He found his way blocked by Adam, his lifted arm caught in a steel grasp.Soft and low, Adam warned, “You don’t want to hit her.I’d take it ill.”Held in Adam’s grip, Judson gained control of himself with frightening alacrity.He squealed, “I’ll go.”Bronwyn stepped close.“An excellent plan [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]