The Adventurer by Jaclyn Reding Read Free Book Online Page B

another chamber, where a table had been set with porcelain and fine sparkling crystal. Candles burned from chandeliers and tall silver candle stands. A team of footmen stood against the far wall, waiting to serve. The table filled quickly as chairs were spoken for. Being a stranger to the scene, Isabella had thought to simply find herself any seat that might be left. She was more than a little surprised when she was directed instead to the seat next to the marquise and across from the king.
    “Bonsoir, mademoiselle.”
    The gentleman with whom the king had been speaking earlier appeared at her other side.
    As he bowed to her, Isabella saw he was a man of advancing years, in his sixties, she guessed, of a medium height, a slender, graceful figure, and a captivating smile. His eyes, however, were his most stunning feature. They were dark and compelling as he took her hand and pressed a kiss to it.
    “Bonsoir, monsieur ... ?”
    “Oh, do forgive me,” Madame de Pompadour quickly broke in. “We missed you earlier, monsieur, when you were chatting with the king. Mademoiselle Drayton, allow me to introduce to you our good friend le Comte de St. Germain. Monsieur le comte, this is Lady Isabella Drayton of Northumbria in England. She is the daughter of the king’s good friend, the Duke of Sudeleigh.”
    “Ah, Lady Isabella Drayton,” he repeated, and she noticed then his voice carried a slight accent. It was one she couldn’t readily identify. “I do not recall having seen you about the palace before tonight. Have you been at Versailles very long?”
    “Lady Isabella is only visiting us for the evening, Comte,” answered the marquise for her. “She leaves for Scotland on the morrow.”
    “Scotland?” St. Germain bowed his head.
“Enchantez, mademoiselle.
Your hasty departure, however, is certainly France’s loss.”
    Something about the way he looked at her made Isabella nervous, though not in a frightening way. It seemed almost as if just by looking at her, touching her hand, the comte could uncover her most cherished secrets.
    St. Germain lowered into his chair and the marquise signaled the footmen to begin serving.
    Isabella noticed that while everybody else received generous portions of roast fowl, buttered
haricots,
and
cuissot de chevreuil,
the comte’s supper plate was left conspicuously empty. He was given only a small pot of tea that when he poured looked a peculiar greenish yellow in color and gave of an unfamiliar aroma, like exotic spices.
    “You are not eating supper, monsieur le comte?”
    “Non,
I do not partake of wine or meat, mademoiselle. I find it muddles my thoughts. I will have my supper later in my own apartments. For now, I take tea made from a mixture of herbs that I discovered while traveling in the east. Would you care to try it?”
    He poured a splash of the stuff into her cup even before she could offer a response.
    Knowing it would be rude of her to refuse, Isabella took up her cup. The scent of the tea struck her, intense and earthy. She took a tentative sip.
    “It is tasty,” she said. “Not bitter, but—” she hesitated, “—familiar somehow. I can’t quite think of what it reminds me of.”
    Madame de Pompadour agreed. “I said the very same thing, mademoiselle. It is wondrously soothing when I am suffering from an upset stomach. I have begged Monsieur to tell me what it is, but despite my pleas, he has refused to reveal it.” She slanted the comte a coy glance. “Just as he has refused to reveal the place and date of his birth. He is a most elusive man, our comte. Some say he is even
ageless.”
    The marquise lowered her voice then, ducking her head closer to Isabella. “You see, I have it from the Countess de Gergy, who was ambassadress at Vienna some fifty years ago, that when she first met le Comte de St. Germain, even then he appeared exactly the same as he does now.”
    St. Germain gave a small chuckle. “Ah, madame, the good countess is too kind.”
    The