The Beautiful Ones - Silvia Moreno-Garcia Page 0,115
she is,” Valérie said, unable to contain herself any longer. “If there was any doubt, it has been erased. She has run off with Hector Auvray.”
Luc Lémy looked like he was about to hurl his glass at the wall, while Camille and Madelena clutched each other’s hands.
“It is late. We do not want to cause a scene, knocking on someone’s door at this hour,” Gaétan said, composing himself, ever tactful. “Come morning, we must head to Auvray’s home and see if she has indeed taken shelter in his abode.”
“Hector is my friend, and I can stop by his home tomorrow,” Étienne offered. “It may be best this way—it could be embarrassing if all of us burst in and Antonina is not there at all. For all we know, she might be halfway to Montipouret by now.”
“Yes, undoubtedly,” Gaétan muttered. “Let me show you to your rooms, gentlemen. Valérie, can you accompany my aunt and my cousin to their rooms?”
Valérie obeyed, courtesy making her muscles move, though she wished nothing more than to go to bed at once, her nerves frayed, her bones tense enough, they might split in two. A few minutes later, Gaétan joined her in their room.
“What shall we do tomorrow?” she asked as soon as he placed a hand on the covers.
Gaétan sounded resigned rather than upset. “If it turns out she is indeed there, I’m sure Étienne will discretely bring them to us and we’ll have to make quick arrangements at the courthouse for a wedding.”
“You don’t mean to marry her to Hector Auvray?”
“What else do you expect me to do at this point?” he replied.
“Punish her! Our name, Gaétan,” Valérie said, desperate. “Do you think nothing of our name? What will people say when she is suddenly wed to Hector Auvray after we said she was engaged to Luc Lémy? You think no one will piece it together? That the servants will not talk?”
“I expect there might be gossip, even if I do my best to mute it,” he said. “That should be enough punishment.”
“You will have me walk around Loisail, people murmuring I am related to a common whore?”
“You will mind your mouth, Valérie,” he said, raising his voice. “I am tired and so are you. Save any words for the morning, and make sure they are more measured.”
Valérie lay back, her body feeling as if it were encased in iron. If she’d had the means, she would have stabbed the girl in the heart a thousand times. She’d thrice wronged Valérie: the business venture was spoiled, they’d be the laughingstock of the city, and Antonina would marry Hector.
She was stealing everything from Valérie, even the ground beneath her feet.
It will not go unpunished, she thought, furious. If Gaétan expected to reward that monster with a quiet courthouse wedding to Hector Auvray, he was wrong.
Once Gaétan snored away, Valérie grabbed her robe and went in search of Luc Lémy.
At the first knock, he opened the door, obviously as awake as she was. “What do you want?” he asked, his manners forgotten. His breath was heavy with alcohol and the scent of tobacco.
“I want to know if you are bold enough to finish what you started,” she replied.
“I don’t understand.”
“Do you desire that hotel of yours? It is within your grasp. We told everyone Antonina was sick, and there is no reason why we cannot keep telling that tale, then have you marry her as quickly as we can. I’m sure you’ll profit even more. Gaétan will give you all the money you may want, both to placate you and in a gesture of gratitude.”
There was no doubt in her mind this would be the case. Gaétan was soft, weak. A man with more mettle might have dragged Antonina out of Hector’s house by her hair and beat her bloody before disowning her. But dear Gaétan, he could not even do this right. He could not even muster sufficient outrage.
Luc could, infused with the bravado of youth. She saw the fire in his eyes, that naked hatred swimming there. He was a ready ax, and all Valérie had to do was swing it.
“Even if I thought this a good plan, I doubt Auvray is going to happily allow me to wed her,” Luc said.
“He can’t wed her without her mother’s consent. She is not yet twenty-one. The law is clear on this point.”
“Consent that she is sure to grant. It is but a trifle, a signature on a piece of paper.”