L'Ange de la Mort (The Art of Revolution #1)

Chapter Twenty- 2. March. 1789



Lizabeth

It takes every ounce of Lizabeth’s strength for her to stop gawking at herself in the looking glass.

A porcelain bird the size of her fist rests in her white curls, its feathers painted mint and gold, with emeralds in the place of eyes. Her face has been powdered the color of a pristine petticoat, with two circles of rouge on each cheek and blue lines drawn down her neck to emphasize her veins. Under her right eye sits a single beauty patch in the shape of a heart.  

The face and hair are shocking enough, but her dress is something Lizabeth would never dream of owning back in England. It’s a gown of chartreuse satin, embroidered with clusters of golden flowers, each with a pearl sewn in the center. And her panniers are so wide, sitting at any time throughout the night is out of the question. 

She’s seen dresses of this caliber many times before, but they were always meant for Jane to wear to balls while Lizabeth stayed locked away in her room. The dress may be intended to make her look like she belongs, but it only transforms her into what she really is—an imposter.

“I, for one, cannot tell you how pleased I am you’ve decided to stop looking so English,” Marguerite says, admiring her own reflection. At first glance, Lizabeth thought the vibrant blue and green swirls decorating Marguerite’s midnight blue stomacher were made of a special multicolored thread. It wasn’t until she got close enough to smell her rose and honey perfume, that Lizabeth realized the swirls were hundreds of tiny beetle wings.

Lizabeth busies herself by adjusting a drooping string of pearls in her hair. “What if I make an embarrassment of myself tonight? I may look the part, but—”

Marguerite smacks her hand away. “You really do drive me mad sometimes. It’s as if you haven’t given a single thought to how expensive your dress is.” She lets out a wistful sigh. “It must be wonderful to be the daughter of an earl.”

Lizabeth downcasts her eyes. There is no way she will be able to blend in tonight. Not even with her dress. She’s never been to a formal ball before and hasn’t the slightest clue what is expected of her. She is sure to ruin it all somehow. Gabriel will see through her in an instant. As will everyone else. They’ll point and laugh at her in the middle of the dance floor. She’ll become a joke. She’ll be ridiculed for the rest of her time in Versailles. She’ll— 

“Liza?” Marguerite asks. “You’ll be all right. You look lovely.” She pins a fallen curl behind Lizabeth’s ear. “There. Parfait!”

Lizabeth glances up, meeting the comforting smile playing across Marguerite’s red lips, and a wave of shame crashes through her. Though she had first approached Marguerite solely to get information out of her, the girl had been ready and willing to welcome Lizabeth to court. She took Lizabeth under her wing, brushing off the judging stares like they were nothing and answering every unkind jab with a biting remark of her own. 

And now, the closer the two get, the guiltier Lizabeth becomes. Not only for lying about her upbringing and her true purpose in France, but also for the twinge of affection in her chest whenever Marguerite is near—a twinge that makes Lizabeth believe perhaps their relationship has become less a shallow way to gather information, and something far more akin to friendship.

The door to Lizabeth’s apartments is thrown open, and the two girls whip their heads to where Sophie stands in the doorway, wearing a dress the color of fresh caramel. Her brown eyes sparkle, and the blush in her cheeks hints she’s already helped herself to a few glasses of wine.