To Sketch a Sphinx - Rebecca Connolly Page 0,23

the young ones in the meantime?”

“O-of course,” Hal stammered, still as locked in her position as he was.

“Ici, mes enfants,” de Rouvroy instructed, gesturing up.

Five little ones popped to their feet, the youngest unable to be seen above the level of the table. Her siblings helped her to stand on a chair, and she grinned at now being so visible to the rest.

“First is Sophie,” the baron informed them, the tallest girl with the darkest hair curtseying prettily at her introduction. “And beside her is Aimée. Our son is Paul, and then is Clara, and Marie.”

The youngest did not so much curtsey as jump on the chair upon which she stood.

There was something to smile about in that.

De Rouvroy gestured again, this time for them to sit, and they did so without complaint or dramatics, though they did giggle as before.

“Oh, damn, did we miss the introductions?” drawled a decent imitation of an English accent from behind them.

John and Hal turned as one, parting briefly as they did so.

A dark-haired man with a startling likeness to the baron stood there with a pretty girl of perhaps sixteen, fair where her brother was dark, though the resemblance was unmistakable.

“Monsieur Pratt, Madame Pratt, may I present my son and my daughter? René, Agathe, this is Monsieur Pratt and our cousin Henrietta. Her maman was Marguerite, daughter of my uncle Claude.” De Rouvroy looked at Hal with fond indulgence, even as the couples greeted each other with the deference politeness required.

“Enchantée, cousine,” René said with a smile not quite as warm as his father’s, though certainly warmer than polite.

“Merci,” Hal murmured, looking a bit uncomfortable, which was not surprising after the day they’d had.

Mademoiselle de Rouvroy barely smiled at all as she looked at them, and only slipped her arm from her brother’s and moved to the table, snapping off some command in French to her younger siblings, who did not seem the least bit perturbed at her tone.

Perhaps they were accustomed to an ill-tempered older sister.

Odd, though, for such a warm and congenial man to have a daughter as such. There was no accounting for personality, opinion, or willfulness, though. John’s own brother was willful and impudent, while no one would ever accuse John of being so.

“You must forgive my sister, monsieur,” René said as he stepped closer, his smile turning apologetic. “She does not take well to strangers, and I fear she is out of temper with our father at present.”

“Not at all,” John assured him as they moved to the table. “We are intruding upon your family home and are entirely at the mercy of your family’s generosity and graciousness. Nothing to forgive, I can assure you.”

René nodded in receipt of the statement. “Merci, monsieur. So good of you to say.”

Then, nodding at Hal, he left them and moved to sit beside his youngest sister, whose name John had already forgotten, and was rather amiable with her given the discrepancy in their ages.

John moved to seat Hal just to the right of her cousin at the head of the table, assisting her with her chair, as any good husband would, then sitting, shockingly, beside her.

Husbands and wives rarely sat beside each other in polite company in England, but it was clear that these French relations of Hal’s considered this an informal family dinner, despite not truly knowing each other at all.

This would take some getting used to.

He forced a smile as he sat beside Hal and looked up the table at their host, who nodded, then bowed his head and offered a brief prayer in French, hardly giving John time enough to lower his head in deference before the thing was done.

Hal giggled very softly and turned it into a cough, reaching for her water as she glanced at John, the mirth still in her eyes.

If this was how their time here would be, he doubted either of them would come out of it unscathed. If they managed to get anything accomplished on their mission at all, it would be a miracle.

As they began to serve up the meal, chatter commenced around the table. Hal was very nearly interrogated as to her life in England, and anything that could be said about her mother seemed music to de Rouvroy’s ears. Either he truly adored his cousin, or he was an actor of great skill, and John was struggling to tell the difference.

Yet another sign of his fatigue.

No one paid any particular attention to John, which he was quite grateful for.