A/N: Sorry for the wait. I'm afraid postgrad is taking up more of my time than expected. But I haven't abandoned the story!

Chapter 8:

Christine De Chagny stood on a pretty Venetian balcony, overlooking the Grand Canal. She shivered involuntarily as a gust of wind hit her, and wrapped her shawl tighter around herself. It was, she thought, an unfortunate time of year for a honeymoon. Raoul had taken the palazzo at her request. He had thought they would have been better off in a hotel, but Christine found she could not stomach the bustle of other guests around them, the noise and the music.

She could hear him moving around in the room behind her – his valet was helping him adjust his cravat for the customary evening walk the young count and countess took every evening. Any moment now, he would come and talk her back into the room – he did not like for her to stand out in the cold. Raoul had been largely brought up by nursemaids, sisters and aunts, all of them prone to fuss and over-react. Christine could see traces of this in her husband's behaviour.

It was their last night in Venice: they were to set out for France in the morning and Christine was sorry to have to leave, but it was inevitable. Raoul had family estates to attend. He had perceived her reluctance the night before, and in a moment of fancy had offered up any number of destinations to which they could travel next, estates be damned. But that had been too much like running and Christine suspected that once they started running, they might never stop, so she had thanked him, and kissed him, and called her maid to help her pack.

There were friends in Paris, after all, and her husband's family, and Mama Valerius. Christine felt somewhat guilty at having left the woman for so long, when she had been like a mother to her. Her own mother had died when Christine had been too young to remember much of her besides golden hair and a scent of raspberries, and even that might have been nothing more than her imagination. Christine had learned the dangers of imagination a little too well.

Perhaps, she decided, France would not be so bad. They would go straight to Chagny, and stay there, without setting foot in the Paris town house. The idea of having to be a countess was almost as alarming as living her life in the shadow of the Garnier. Christine tried not to think about that. She did not permit her mind to dwell on Erik. She did not like to imagine she had been responsible for anyone's death, however indirectly, and she did not like to think of what would have become of her had she stayed. She felt guilty for this, too – Erik had loved her in his own way, and a part of her had loved him. His voice had been a comfort to her on many a lonely night.

"Don't fret, my dear," her husband's voice said next to her as he joined her on the balcony. "The country won't be at all dull. My sisters have promised to visit, and my cousin, who is certain to adore you! And there will be Trouville in the spring, with the sea and the beach – it is very fashionable."

That was alarming in itself, Christine thought. She had never been very fashionable by the standards of the opera, and she did not know how to be fashionable in Raoul's world either. Nor witty or well-bread. She was certain that she would never keep straight the names of all the notables flocking around the parties and she was sure to embarrass herself as soon as she was called upon to speak.

She turned to look at him leaning against the railing, immaculately dressed as always. He offered her his arm gallantly. "Will we take our stroll now?"

With an answering smile, she placed her gloved hand on his arm. Raoul, for all his occasional boyishness, was the epitome of gentleness. Perhaps France would not be so very unbearable after all.

OOO

It was only their second glass of wine and Hero was beginning to wonder how Andrew and his cohorts managed any pretence at secrecy at all. They certainly didn't seem to be trying just then. They were having lunch at a fashionable little place located in a back alley and frequented, if the current crowd was anything to go by, by an odd mixture of artistes and Paris's upper crust. It was exactly the sort of place where an unchaperoned young lady could comfortably partake of a meal with a group of young men without any raised eyebrows. Lady Dalrymple would have said that even knowing of such an establishment would assure a young lady utter infamy. Hero's friends talked and laughed as loudly as any of the other giddy revellers. Hero had worn her most ostentatiously fashionable hat for the occasion, trimmed with a scrap of lace and no less than three plumes, dyed a bright blue. It was the sort of hat that actresses favoured, and it had received a number admiring glances since her arrival.

Sir Charles Flynn, a baronet of excessive charm, had taken care to be seated just across from Hero, so that he could make a proper job of staring at her languidly across the table. "Hero, my dove, I understand you are to join us on our little excursion?" He was a sandy-haired young man with a wide, often smiling, mouth.

"I wouldn't have it any other way, Charles. Though I'm certain you already know that," she countered, with a smile of her own.

"Well, if Hero is to be of any assistance in our latest endeavour, then she should be educated concerning the plan," drawled Sir Dominic de Lascy, whose foppish apparel could easily rival Andrew's.

"You have the right of it, Lascy!" agreed the Hon. Mr Torin Gilchrist, "To business, then. It seems, Hero, that de Chance will force our hand to move earlier than expected." He paused dramatically and adjusted his cravat.

Hero watched him with a raised eyebrow. Torin had a very healthy sense of drama.

"A dam- dashed nuisance he's been," Sir Charles threw in, with a guilty look at Hero which made her raise both eyebrows at him.

"You've never watched your language on my account before, Charles. It would be ludicrous to start now," she told him.

Gilchrist cleared his throat pointedly and she relented.

"Oh, very well, Torin. I'm suitably intrigued. Please continue – what mischief has de Chance been up to now?"

"A contact of Barbezac's in the de Chance residence here in Paris seemed to suggest that the Comte does not mean to remain in town much longer. It seems something has come up and he is wanted directly to London as soon as possible."

Hero considered these words, nodding thoughtfully. "I see. Then we are to move before he leaves Paris. But when?"

Andrew looked particularly pleased as he answered her question. "Ah, and here is the beauty of it! I am surprised you have not heard, situated as you are at the National Opera, but the scoundrel means to host a winter masquerade ball in two weeks' time."

At the full implication of Andrew's words, Hero exchanged devious smiles with the young baron. "Really? How convenient! And very tasteful, of course – masquerades are very much the fashion, you know."

"The Comte de Chance is nothing if not fashionable," contributed Alister Barret, Lord Worthington, a viscount and the oldest member of the little group.

"And he is also nothing if not calculating. What is the ball really about?" Hero asked, taking a sip from her little coffee cup.

"How cynical you have grown, Miss Winterwood!" exclaimed Flynn admiringly, before lowering his voice again. "As it happens, the masquerade is in honour of a Comte de Chagny: some young aristocrat who has recently inherited his brother's position as head of the de Chagny family. Very influential and very wealthy – they own vast lands all over France. It seems de Chagny has just returned from his honeymoon, or is expected back presently, and I suppose de Chance means to please the young countess with his masquerade."

"But what does he stand to gain from de Chagny?"

"De Chagny is young, and much more flexible in his outlook than his older brother had been. I understand our friend means to win him over into a business partnership. You know de Chance has taken a step to meddling in trade?"

"Trade? Oh dear. And he thinks this new count is flexible enough to throw his lot into trade, as well? Even though he is already wealthy, or so you say." Hero could not help the note of doubt that had entered her voice.

"The young countess was some sort of actress, I hear. He certainly sounds to be of the new breed of Parisian nobility."

Hero inclined her head at that, still thinking over what she had been told. The count's name sounded familiar, and she wondered where she might have heard it before.

"Of course, we have reason to believe that the masquerade is also an excuse to show off his newly repaired chateau just outside Paris. He purchased it at an exorbitant price from some unfortunate fellow who'd lost all on the horses," added Lascy. His statement was met with a round of chuckles.

"If I know de Chance, he'll be offering guided tours," said Hero wryly.

"And knowing him is certainly an advantage – I doubt he's changed his ways at all." Andrew's voice was suddenly grave. "It's a reason to exercise caution. He's a peacock sure enough, but a clever, capable peacock. Not to mention excessively fond of intrigue.

"Ah, that arrow is aimed at me, I imagine," said Hero. "Let me assure you once again, Andrew, that I am not at all likely to succumb to any attempt at seduction de Chance is likely to make. I find myself entirely immune to his particular brand of charm. And given the small fortune we tricked from under his nose the last time we met, I'd say he's not likely to feel at all amorous towards me."

Worthington did his best to stifle a chuckle at this, and earned a disapproving look from Barbezac, which he promptly ignored.

"Indeed. Well, be that as it may, the plan is to obtain three invitations, which shouldn't be too difficult to do at a price, and infiltrate his little party. As everyone will be in costume he is not likely to recognise us. Gilchrist will drive us and then wait near the estate in the brougham, with the other carriages. Lascy will find an excuse to make his way out into the gardens within the first hour, and I shall quietly make my way upstairs, in search of the study, where I am told de Chance keeps his strongbox." Andrew glanced around briefly, to make sure they were following him, before launching back into his plan. "I will then signal the correct window and return to inform Hero of the layout. Hero will excuse herself to the powder room, find the study, unlock the strongbox and toss the ring down to Lascy. Then you will both return to the ballroom and we will stay for at least an hour."

The others, no doubt having heard the plan many times, nodded absently.

"It seems sound enough. And in the event that things don't go as intended, it leaves us some opportunity for manoeuvring our way out," Hero said.

"I must say that I am pleased you have all come to acknowledge my superior driving, at last" declared Gilchrist brightly.

"I would think, given that you will be driving a brougham, they have done quite the opposite, my dear Torin," laughed Hero. "But take comfort, I don't think curricles are at all the thing for winter nights."

The conversation moved on to less weighty matters, and they spent a very happy few hours exchanging news and gossip about mutual friends back home. When Hero decided that she had best be heading back to the Garnier, it was already half three and it would soon be getting dark.

"Well, it was lovely to see you again, but I'm afraid I had better return now," Hero said, rising from the table. The gentlemen rose to say their farewells and promise to visit her at the opera house soon. Andrew offered to drive Hero to the opera in his berlin, which she happily accepted.

"I shall bring you a rose, my dear Hero! It will be a compliment to your beauty," declared Flynn theatrically.

"Then I pray you bring me a tulip, Charles, for I find myself in the mood for tulips," Hero teased. "Goodbye."

They put on their cloaks and left the little restaurant. Andrew led the way to his hired carriage, while detailing to Hero all the merits of the vehicle.

"…I might even purchase one like it for myself in London!"

"You might, but you wouldn't drive it," Hero pointed out, amused. "It is very big, and not very daring. You'd still drive your curricle, or perhaps your barouche, and remark that you mean to take the brougham out the next time. Then perhaps you would give it to your mother."

"Mother would like it…" Andrew mused, and Hero grinned.

"Hero! Hero, please wait for us!"

Surprised to hear Hero's name called out in the street, the couple turned in the direction of the voices. Suzanne came hurrying towards them, accompanied by Meg and Jammes, who had worn a fashionable, if slightly off-season, cloak and appeared to be shivering. Meg, whose cheeks were pink from the cold, and whose eyes were bright with the effort of the brisk walk, looked startlingly pretty, and Hero noticed Andrew's eyes lingering on her face.

"We thought it was you, Hero! But what are you doing here? Good afternoon, monsieur." Suzanne's attention was fixed entirely on the young Englishman.

Smoothly switching to French, Andrew returned the greeting.

"Hello," said Hero, "We are just come from luncheon. Were you shopping? This is a friend of mine from home, Andrew, the Baron de Castelot-Barbezac. I think you glimpsed him at the Opera. Andrew, meet Mlles Suzanne Bonet, Marguerite Giry and Cecile Jammes. They dance in the corps de ballet at the Garnier."

"A pleasure," said Andrew politely, with a dazzling smile.

"You remembered my name!" exclaimed Jammes in delight, drawing a look of surprise from Andrew. "Hardly anyone does, you know."

"Why ever not?" the Englishman asked, charmed by the ballerinas.

"At the Opera, everyone always calls me Jammes, and some do not even realise it is not my Christian name," laughed the ballerina. "Meg will know what I mean."

Andrew's curious eyes went to the dark-haired ballerina, who smiled and explained, "I'm always little Meg, or little Giry: often even to people my own age or younger. It comes of growing up at the Academie de Ballet at the Opera."

"How curious!" Andrew was thoroughly diverted.

"I suppose nicknames are very much a school thing. I've never met a school boy who went without," said Hero.

"Oh, yes. Whatever your name at school might be, it's certainly better than being without one," agreed the Englishman. "But you are shivering, and here I am, chattering away. Do forgive me!"

"Oh, no, it's just Jammes. We told her not to wear the green cloak. It is much too cold still," Suzanne sniffed.

"It is a very nice cloak, Jammes," Hero complimented.

"We'd only come out to look at bonnets, and it shouldn't have taken so long, only Suzanne couldn't seem to make up her mind. But now we are headed back – Madame Dubois will give us a terrible scold if Jammes catches cold. She's to dance in the front row," added Meg, looking very much like she dreaded having to endure another of the ballet mistress's scolds.

"Then permit me to drive you!" Andrew offered gallantly, his smile beaming with particular brightness when he looked at Meg.

"Oh, we could not impose," Suzanne began.

"Nonsense!" announced Hero with cheerful briskness, "Andrew was about to drive me anyway, and I'm sure he'd be only too happy if you were to come also. After all, he spoke with me at luncheon and must be longing for a change of company!"

"It would be my pleasure!" laughed Andrew, knowing when he was being teased.

"Well then, that's settled. And I won't even badger Andrew to let me drive, so that he can show you how well he controls a pair!"

A footman came forward to help the ladies aboard, before taking up his place behind the carriage, and they were off. It was a very merry drive, with the ballet rats chatty with relief at not having to walk much farther in the cold and Andrew at his most charming. Hero noticed that he even took care not to drive as recklessly as he usually did.

When they arrived at the Garnier it had already grown dark and a light snow had begun to fall.

"Well, I do hope that this won't be our only meeting," said Andrew as he drew to a halt outside the opera house.

"What my dear friend is trying to say," said Hero, her eyes dancing with mischief, "is that he means to come to see you at the National Opera."

"And, indeed, he must!" exclaimed Jammes, "Why, he might even come and see Rigoletto when it opens! There is a wonderful bit of ballet in the first act."

"That is, if monsieur le baron even likes opera!" said Meg, smiling up at him.

"Ah, but I do. Very much. And I shall be honoured to visit with Hero's friends. But you had better be going inside before the snow picks up!" he said, observing that Jammes was just staring to shiver again.

"Well, good bye, Andrew. I daresay I shall see you soon!" said Hero. With a bow at the ladies, the young man climbed back up into his carriage and drove away, waving at them one last time.

"Now, I hope that you are quite satisfied that Andrew is no suitor of mine," Hero laughingly told the other girls as they made their way back to their dormitories, to put on dry clothes.

It was Meg who replied, sweeping into the entrance hall. "Oh, quite satisfied."