The Cinderella Moment (12 page)

It took Angel a moment to realize she was looking at a painting—a French trompe-l’oeil picture designed to trick the eye. The garden, wall, vines and pillars were all painted. On either side of the garden was a pair of white double doors, paneled and trimmed in gilt.

Angel was still staring at the amazing painting when the butler stepped forward and said rapidly in French, “Henri will bring your baggage and Marie
… ”
He coughed and a maid stepped through the curtained doorway. “Marie will show you to your room.”

Angel dragged her gaze from the painted garden and tried to think of what Lily would say to a butler. Nothing sprang to mind.

The butler regarded her doubtfully for a moment, before bowing and saying in English, “Forgive me, Mademoiselle Lily, I had assumed you spoke French. But of course it is many years since you were in Paris.”

Angel blinked, but before she could assure him she spoke fluent French, he said, “Marie will take you up to your room.” He leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “It is your old
chambre
. Madame thought you would like it best.”

Angel nodded mutely.

He smiled at her. “You will wish to change your clothes. When you are ready, come downstairs. Madame is expecting you in the drawing room.” He pointed at the doors to the right of the trompe-l’oeil painting and left her.

Marie led Angel up the wide, curving staircase. On the first landing hung a stunning silk tapestry exquisitely embroidered with clusters of gold and purple irises. Beneath it stood a magnificent mother-of-pearl inlaid Chinese cabinet.

On the next landing a beautiful blue-and-white Chinese
cloisonné
vase sat atop an alabaster pedestal. Angel paused. The vase looked almost identical to one she’d often admired at the Metropolitan Museum back home in New York. The design was different but the shape and colors were the same—a real Ming vase on the landing!

Angel felt the butterflies stir in her stomach again. She ran up the last few stairs and followed Marie down a corridor lined with paintings in elaborate gilt frames. They were mostly of aristocratic-looking men and women; many in the powdered wigs and elegant clothing of the seventeenth century. Angel would have liked to stop for a closer look, but Marie was waiting by an open door.

“Your room, Mademoiselle Lily,” she said in English.

Angel stepped inside and froze. Nothing downstairs or in the de Tourney’s New York townhouse had prepared her for this.

Evening light filled the room, illuminating the soft tones of an antique Persian rug and the blue-greens of the silken wallpaper. A huge four-poster bed, hung with matching draperies, stood in the center of the room. It was covered with the most beautiful bedspread Angel had ever seen: gold and crimson birds of paradise flew through a dense satin forest of blue and green trees, the colors so deep and rich that the birds almost looked real.

At the foot of the bed stood an enormous cedar chest and opposite was a marble fireplace. The grate was filled with pinecones and Angel could smell their faint scent. On either side of the marble mantelpiece was a huge armoire painted with scenes of the French countryside. A mahogany dressing table with a matching chair stood in an alcove beside the window and above it an enormous mirror reflected the beautiful room.

But it was the frescoes on the ceiling that took her breath away. A chariot drawn by four winged horses carried Helios across the heavens and all around him the pantheon of Greek gods looked down from sunlit clouds.

Angel could only stare in open-mouthed wonder.

“Your baggage, Mademoiselle Lily.”

Angel came back to earth with a thump. Henri was standing in the doorway, Lily’s suitcases behind him. She stepped aside as he brought the luggage into the room.

“I will unpack,” said Marie, opening the first suitcase. “You will want something fresh to wear.”

“No!” said Angel abruptly. “You’re very kind, but I’d prefer to do it myself.”

Ignoring her shocked face, Angel shepherded Marie out the door and closed it behind her. Leaning back against it, she gazed around the room and found herself trembling. She crossed to the dressing table, dropped into the chair and looked at herself in the mirror—at her hair, unbrushed since the plane and at her travel-worn shirt and pants. Then she looked up at the ceiling again.

“What was I thinking?” whispered Angel. It was all very well to take a stand, but this house was so far out of her league that she couldn’t even begin to comprehend it. Everything in it breathed history and elegance and old money.

But it was more than that.

The room was a perfect harmony of space and light, color and furnishings. It belonged to someone with a keen eye for detail—someone who’d probably see straight through a deception.

“I can’t do this.” Angel stood up. “Forget Clarissa and the Teen Couture,” she told her reflection. “Forget Paris and this whole stupid plan. You’ve got to go downstairs and tell the Comtesse the truth.”
 

Chapter Thirteen

Angel walked slowly across the foyer, trying to think of how to explain herself to the Comtesse de Tourney. She stopped outside the drawing room, took a deep breath and grasped the door handle. Just then someone opened the door from the inside and Angel, still holding the door handle, was pulled into the room.

Inside, the babble of conversation faded as about thirty designer-clad guests, all about her age, turned to stare at her. Then, almost as one, they turned away and looked over to where an impeccably dressed woman stood by the fireplace. The butler let go of the door handle and said, “Mademoiselle Lily de Tourney.”

The conversation slowly swelled as Angel moved towards the aristocratic figure. The room was long and beautiful, with tall French windows opening onto a terrace down one side. Several older couples stood outside enjoying the warm summer evening while groups Angel’s own age sat together on the velvet-covered chairs and sofas that stood in the alcoves between the windows.

Around her people laughed and talked, but all Angel could think of was what she was going to say to Lily’s grandmother. Even from twenty feet away she could see that the Comtesse was not someone to mess with.

Elena de Tourney wasn’t tall, but she didn’t need height to command attention. It wasn’t the elegant chignon of silver hair or the graceful face with its pointed chin and high cheekbones, or even the Chanel suit, which gave her presence. She had that indefinable something—confidence, poise, power—Angel couldn’t say exactly, but she could feel it.

About five feet from the Comtesse she stopped. “I—I had to see you.”

“And you could not wait even to change your clothes. I am flattered.” The Comtesse’s voice was soft and lightly accented, her English perfect. Her piercing blue eyes traveled over Angel’s face, hair and clothes, but if she was displeased by her disheveled appearance she gave no sign.

Around them conversation ebbed and flowed, but Angel knew that everyone was watching to see what the Comtesse de Tourney would say to her scruffy American granddaughter. She tried desperately to think of the right words to explain that she wasn’t the grandchild the Comtesse had waited more than ten years to see. She was just a New York housekeeper’s daughter pretending to be her.

Perhaps if they went somewhere private she could explain. Angel opened her mouth to ask, but the Comtesse spoke first.

“Marcel tells me that you do not speak French. A pity. I had thought that your father would have ensured
… ”
For an instant the Comtesse looked flustered, then she gave a delicate cough and said, “Still, it does not matter. You will find that many of our young people speak English.” She gestured towards her guests. “And perhaps while you are here some French will return to you.” She smiled. “I am sorry I was not at the airport to meet you, but your plane was delayed and I had to be here to greet my guests.”

“Yes, I—” Angel began.

“I had hoped you would be at my side when they arrived, but it can’t be helped.” She considered Angel for a moment, before adding softly, “Naturally, I am delighted to find you so eager to see me, but,” she eyed the groups of well-dressed teenagers, “I believe I can wait a little longer to become re-acquainted with my dear granddaughter.”

She looked pointedly at Angel’s crumpled shirt and pants, leaned forward and whispered, “You see, my dear Lily, this is Paris and we do not wear casual clothes to dinner.”

Angel flushed. She knew she looked awful and that every one of the designer-clad guests thought so too, but she didn’t care. Not when she needed to tell the Comtesse the truth. She lifted her chin. “I’m sorry, Madame, but I must speak with you.”

“And you shall,” said the Comtesse kindly, “as soon as you have changed.”

She beckoned to the butler. “Marcel, please ensure Marie helps Mademoiselle Lily dress for dinner.” She held up a finger to silence Angel’s protest. “We will wait for you.”

Upstairs, Angel found Marie hanging Lily’s clothes in the
armoire
. The maid looked apologetic. “I’m sorry, Mademoiselle Lily, but Marcel insisted.”

“It’s okay, Marie. I understand.”

“I will help you dress.”

“No, I can manage.” Ignoring the maid’s protests, Angel pushed her gently from the room and opened the closet with a sigh.

Confessing was going to be harder than she’d thought.

***

Twenty minutes later she re-entered the drawing room. As she’d expected there was another lull in the conversation as the guests took in her appearance.

Angel tossed back her hair and squared her shoulders. She knew she looked awful because how else could she look in a dress that was the wrong shade of blue, the wrong size, shape, length and cut? Lily’s clothes were not her style at all.

Angel scanned the room and found the Comtesse surrounded by a group of chattering girls. As she moved towards them Angel couldn’t help wondering why her drawing room was full of high-school students. Maybe they were part of some charity? Though they didn’t look like orphans—not in those clothes. Maybe foreign-exchange students? Though everyone was speaking French. Perhaps a youth group?

A waitress appeared in front of her holding a tray of canapés. Angel hesitated; she hadn’t eaten for hours and was starving. The savouries looked delicious—perhaps a mouthful of food might give her courage.

Heaven knows I need it, she thought, looking across at the Comtesse. How was she going to get her alone so she could confess?

She picked up a wafer-thin slice of toast covered in a thick layer of pâté and popped it into her mouth. It was so delicious she grabbed two more before the waitress moved away.

Angel had just swallowed one when a burst of laughter from a nearby group of girls caught her attention. A striking redhead, wearing a breathtaking mint-green and white Elie Saab dress with three-quarter sleeves and a high neck, commanded the group’s attention and it was obvious that, like the Comtesse and her staff, she and the others had concluded that Angel spoke no French.

Angel pretended not to hear as the redhead said, “Can she
really
be the Comtesse’s granddaughter when she has no style or eye for color? Of course, she
is
American, which must be why she has no taste.”

Several of the group laughed and a brown-haired girl said with a snigger, “Perhaps it’s hillbilly chic?”

“Yes, she probably bought it at Walmart,” added the redhead, smirking.

Angel sighed. Apparently the evil diva type wasn’t confined to America. Well, she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of letting them know she’d understood. Let them think she was an uncultured American who couldn’t speak a word of French. What did she care?

But, despite her determination to remain aloof, it made Angel seethe. Only a stupid French girl would be so arrogant, she thought crossly, conveniently forgetting her own heritage. How dare they look down their snooty French noses at America!

Angel stopped herself. Forget them, she thought. Eat your pâté, get a grip on yourself and go and tell the Comtesse you’re an imposter.

She swung round and collided with the person behind her. Caught off-balance, Angel grabbed at the body in front of her. Her hands connected with a hard, masculine chest and she felt the squish of pâté against superfine wool. Pushing away, she stared in dismay at the mess of rich brown paste coating one perfectly cut charcoal-grey lapel.

“Oh!” gasped Angel, gazing at the stain. “I am
so
sorry.” She dabbed at the lapel with her napkin.

A male hand, well-shaped and tanned, closed over her fingers. “Probably best if I do it.”

Angel looked up and inhaled sharply.

Smiling down at her was the boy from the airport. She pulled her hand free from his grasp just as a voice behind her said, “Thank you, Nicky. Perhaps you would be so kind as to escort my granddaughter into dinner.”