The Cinderella Moment Page 22

  Which was probably why he’d made her such an irresistible offer.

  How hard it must have been for Maman to accept it.

  To accept a home and a job and a salary from the man she believed had betrayed her. Angel couldn’t even begin to imagine what it must have cost her.

  But she’d done it for Yves and for Angel.

  If only she’d told me, thought Angel. It hurt her a little that Simone had never told her about Philip. Especially after Papa had gone. But perhaps it had been too hard. Philip had broken her mother's heart and to speak of the past or share her pain was not something Simone would ever do.

  She’d married Papa and they’d had Angel and she’d chosen to look forward, not back. And she’d been happy with Yves—Angel was sure of it.

  Her childhood memories were of a golden vineyard where Papa and Maman would hold her hands and swing her up to where the clusters of plump purple grapes hung on the vines. Sometimes Papa would pick a grape and put it in her mouth; Angel could still remember the sharp sweetness of the juice as it burst across her tongue.

  And then the tractor had slipped its gears and everything had changed.

  Maman had loved Papa so much that when she'd learned of the surgeon in America who might help him she’d sold everything and moved them to New York. She'd believed the surgery would heal his broken body and, when the first operation hadn’t worked, she’d gone on believing right through the second and the third, until Papa had said “enough.” He’d known the money was almost gone and he’d hated seeing Maman endlessly struggling to try and restore what they’d lost.

  Simone had refused to return to France. She'd been convinced that somewhere in America there was someone who could help Papa and she'd gone on working and believing that almost to the end.

  It was Papa who’d urged Simone to accept Philip’s job offer. Had he known? Angel wondered suddenly. Had Papa known that Philip de Tourney was his wife’s first great love? Angel didn’t think so, and even if he had, there was no doubting Simone’s commitment to him and only him.

  Philip must have known it too. Simone was married, for better or worse, and so he’d never told her about finding her letter five years too late.

  Because it had been too late. For both of them.

  And now? wondered Angel as she brushed out her hair. Would it help if her mother knew the truth? It might make her happy to know that Philip had not betrayed her. It would almost be worth the risk to see Simone truly happy again.

  Perhaps when she got back to New York, she'd tell her mother everything. Angel sighed. Maybe the truth would be the best thing for everyone.

  She picked up her evening bag. It was time to leave for the Crillon.

  ***

  Angel lifted her skirts and stepped from the Bentley. It was raining lightly and Henri held the umbrella high as she shook out her amethyst ruffles before joining the Comtesse under the hotel archway.

  The Hotel de Crillon was a gracious grey stone building facing the Place de la Concorde and Angel paused for a moment to admire the view across the square: the cobblestones glistening in the rain, the great obelisk pointing skywards and all around it the beautiful city of Paris.

  “Come along, Lily,” said the Comtesse.

  As they moved through the hotel’s opulent foyer, staff and guests alike stopped to stare at them: Angel, the epitome of youth and loveliness, and Elena de Tourney, looking like an empress in a high-necked emerald-green silk evening gown exquisitely embroidered with myriad tiny glass beads that winked and flashed green fire.

  They joined the receiving line where Nick and his parents were greeting their guests and Angel’s pulse quickened.

  Nick was standing beside his father and Angel could see that it was from Lord Langham that Nick had inherited his broad shoulders, curly dark hair and engaging smile. Next to her husband, Nick’s mother, Georgiana, looked tiny. She had a heavy rope of thick chestnut hair and her son’s sparkling brown eyes and she smiled in delight when she saw Angel.

  “Lily!” Lady Langham took her hand. “How lovely to see you at last. Nicholas has told us so much about you. How is darling Philip? Can it truly be eleven years since we were in touch? And here you are looking so grown-up.” Her eyes danced. “We are going to have a wonderful talk later, so Nicholas is not to monopolize you all night.”

  Speechless, Angel nodded and moved down the receiving line to where Nick stood waiting.

  He took her hand and said softly, “You look beautiful.”

  “And you look handsome,” she replied, admiring his superbly cut black dinner suit.

  “Thanks, I trust you noticed my tie?” He touched the elegant bow tie around his neck.

  Angel stared. “But isn’t that …?”

  “Yes, exactly the same color as your dress. I asked Godmother to have it made especially.”

  “It’s gorgeous.”

  He grinned. “I was worried it might end up lime-green or orange with stripes or something equally hideous.”

  “You obviously don’t think much of my taste in clothes,” retorted Angel.

  “Well, you never can be sure,” Nick joked.

  Angel looked around the crowded room. “I think everyone looks gorgeous.”

  “Not as gorgeous as you.” He drew her towards him. “Let’s dance.”

  “Shouldn’t you finish receiving your guests?” she asked anxiously, looking at his parents.

  “I think it’s okay,” he replied, catching his mother’s eye. She smiled and gave a tiny nod. “We have the all clear,” said Nick triumphantly and swept Angel onto the dance floor.

  It was a wonderful party. Angel moved through it as if in a dream and one that she was in no hurry to wake up from. Nick was in high spirits and, though mindful of his duties as host, seemed to want to spend every possible moment with her.

  Everyone was there—Kitty and Giles and the rest of the summer season gang—all eager to celebrate Nick’s birthday in style.

  “You certainly know how to throw a party,” she said, as they danced.

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”

  “It’s heavenly,” she replied.

  “Well, that’s appropriate because you look like an angel.”

  Angel’s smile faded. “Looks can be deceiving, you know.”

  Nick shook his head. “Not in your case—you’re beautiful on the inside and on the outside.” He groaned at himself. “It sounds so soppy when I say it out loud, but it’s true.” He pulled her closer. “I can’t explain it, Lily, but I feel like I’ve known you all my life—and I don’t mean because our families are friends, I mean that I feel like I really know you—as though you were part of me.”

  “If only that were true.” Angel gazed up at him, her blue eyes sombre. “But there are so many things you don’t know about me.” She hesitated. “Things that if you did know, they would probably make you change your mind about me.”

  “Secrets, Lily?” said Nick, smiling. “I don’t think there’s anything you could say that would make me think badly of you.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “Well, I can’t imagine that you’ve murdered anyone or robbed a bank or revealed government secrets—and I might even forgive you that last one.”

  She stared at him, her forehead wrinkled with uncertainty. Could she really tell him the truth: that she wasn’t Lily de Tourney or even someone who belonged in his world? Would Nick still care for her if she told him that? Would he look at her with those melting brown eyes and hold her close if he knew she was a cook’s daughter?

  Angel wanted to believe he would.

  It suddenly occurred to her that she was far more like her mother than she thought and maybe that should be a warning, because Simone had believed that Philip de Tourney would love her against all the odds and look how their love affair had ended.

  She was aware of Nick watching her, obviously puzzled by her silence and wanting her to tell him whatever it was that was troubling her. Then it seemed to Ange
l as though he could bear it no longer. He gently lifted her face to his, bent down and kissed her.

  It was sweet and perfect and it filled Angel with breathless pleasure. As his lips left hers, Nick whispered, “I love you.”

  A tidal wave of joy swept over her and she stared up at him in wonder. He loved her. Angel could hardly believe it was real. She hugged the words to herself and knew she had to tell him the truth. Now, before another minute passed.

  “I love you, too, Nick,” she said. Freeing herself from his embrace, she stepped back and took his hand. “But there’s something I have to tell you.”

  She led him towards the Crillon’s courtyard, but as she stepped through the doorway, Nick suddenly halted.

  Angel turned, her gaze following Nick’s, and her heart stopped beating.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Standing by the entrance were two women: one in a stunning white gown with an enormous ruby pendant at her breast and the other a dream in softest pink.

  Margot and Clarissa Kane.

  Still holding Nick’s hand, Angel moved towards them.

  As she crossed the room, she saw Margot speak to Nick’s mother and Georgiana smile and nod, then escort them to the Comtesse’s table.

  She found her voice and managed to whisper, “Please, Nick, whatever you hear, please believe that I love you.”

  They reached the Comtesse's table just in time to hear her say to Margot, “May I help you?”

  If it hadn’t been so heart-stoppingly awful, it would have been funny to see Margot and Clarissa bob a sort of curtsey, but there was nothing comical about Margot’s reply.

  “Madame de Tourney, I am Margot Kane, your son Philip’s fiancée, and I am here to expose an imposter.” She pointed at Angel and declared dramatically, “You have been cruelly deceived.”

  The Comtesse raised her eyebrows. “Indeed?”

  Margot tried again.

  “That girl,” she said, jabbing a finger in Angel’s direction, “is not who she says she is.”

  The Comtesse looked from Margot’s angry face to Angel’s pale one, but said nothing.

  Unable to keep silent, Clarissa cried out, “She’s not your granddaughter. Her real name is Angelique and she’s a cook’s daughter from New York.”

  Angel heard the startled whispers pass among the guests. Nick shifted slightly, but he didn’t let go of her hand.

  The Comtesse turned to face her. “Is this true? You are not Lily de Tourney? You are not my granddaughter?”

  Angel gazed at her helplessly. She saw the certainty fade from the Comtesse’s eyes and her face grow pale and in that moment she would have done anything to avoid saying the words she knew would bring nothing but pain.

  “Yes, it’s true. But I can explain—”

  “She’s been using you to get into Antoine Vidal’s studio,” declared Clarissa.

  At her words, Vidal moved closer to the Comtesse.

  “No!” cried Angel. “It’s not what you think.”

  “She is a liar and a thief,” cut in Margot. “You cannot believe anything she tells you.”

  “I am not a thief,” retorted Angel.

  The Comtesse turned her penetrating gaze upon Margot. “Can you prove such an extraordinary accusation, Madame?”

  Angel stared at Margot. She was certain there was nothing she or Clarissa could do or say to support their claim and once they were discredited Angel could explain to the Comtesse about her mother and the Teen Couture and Lily and the London Academy.

  “I can prove it.” Clarissa’s voice cut across her thoughts. Startled, Angel looked up to see her smile triumphantly, and for the first time she was assailed by doubt. A moment later her doubt turned to fear as Clarissa stepped forward and pulled a sketchbook from her bag.

  “She’s obsessed with the Teen Couture,” proclaimed Clarissa. “We discovered she’d been copying my designs, but it was only yesterday that we learned she’d come to Paris with the intention of getting into Vidal’s and swapping her signed forgeries for my original drawings.”

  Angel stared at her in horror. When Clarissa said it like that—with the truth mixed up with the lies—it almost sounded plausible. But there was worse to come.

  Clarissa held out the sketchbook to the Comtesse, who took it and opened it. As she turned the pages, Angel’s heart kicked into overdrive. It was one of her own sketchbooks filled with pictures of her Teen Couture garments in all their different stages.

  Clarissa had signed every page with a flourish.

  With a cry of protest Angel stepped towards the Comtesse. Nick moved with her, his hand still firmly clasping hers. “But that’s mine—” began Angel.

  “You would say that, wouldn’t you?” Clarissa interrupted. “That’s what liars do—they tell lies. Just like you’ve been lying about being Lily de Tourney—”

  The Comtesse held up her hand. “Enough. There is one way to settle this argument. Antoine, if I might ask you to examine this sketchbook.”

  Vidal nodded curtly and took the sketchbook. Angel stood paralyzed as he turned the pages and examined the drawings. After what seemed like an eternity, he looked up.

  “Yes, these are the designs stolen from my salon a week ago.” He indicated the signature. “And this is the name of the designer whose drawings they were.” He turned to Clarissa. “You are Mademoiselle Clarissa Kane?”

  “I am,” said Clarissa, nodding modestly.

  “And you sent an entry to the Teen Couture from New York three weeks ago?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And this week you received a letter from me asking you to attend the Versailles Ball as a Teen Couture finalist?”

  “I did,” replied Clarissa.

  Angel gasped.

  Vidal spun round. “I knew I had seen you before,” he said. “It came to me as you crossed the room just now. You were that waitress in New York—the one who fell.”

  “I was tripped—”

  But Vidal was not listening. “I believe Mademoiselle Kane is who she says,” he said. “Because if you, mademoiselle,” he regarded Angel coldly, “were the true designer, then you would have made it known long before now.”

  His eyes flicked anxiously to the Comtesse’s face. “The true designer would never have enacted this shameful masquerade as there would be no need for lies or theft.” He turned to the Comtesse. “These designs,” he tapped the sketchbook, “were stolen from my salon last Friday.”

  Locking her gaze onto Angel’s, the Comtesse asked icily, “Did you take them?”

  Angel stared at her, white-faced. She hadn’t thought of this, but she could see at once how it must look.

  She had to explain that she wasn’t a thief, that those were her designs, not Clarissa’s and that she’d only lied in order to right a terrible wrong.

  “It’s not what you think,” she said, looking desperately round the room. No one moved.

  The Comtesse asked again. “Did you take the designs from Monsieur Vidal’s salon?”

  “Yes!” cried Angel. “Yes, I did.” She looked beseechingly at the Comtesse. “But they were mine—at least—they were her drawings, but of my designs, Grandmama.”

  Angel stopped, aghast, as the familiar word rolled off her tongue and appeared to strike Elena de Tourney a physical blow. “I … I’m sorry, Madame,” she amended, wincing at the more formal title. “But if you’d just let me explain. You see, Clarissa’s drawings were—”

  The Comtesse cut her off. “You are not my granddaughter.” And this time it was not a question.

  “No.”

  “But you work for my son in New York.”

  “My mother does.”

  “And your real name is Angelique?”

  Pale-faced, Angel nodded. “Though my friends call me Angel,” she whispered.

  The Comtesse paid no heed. “And my granddaughter—the real Lily de Tourney—is where?”

  Angel hesitated, but there was no point trying to protect Lily now. “She’s at
the London Drama Academy,” she said bleakly. “Lily won a place at their summer school. It was the same fortnight as Paris and she wouldn’t give it up.”

  “So you thought it would be fun to swap places?” asked the Comtesse in a voice of steel.

  “No!” gasped Angel. But the Comtesse was not listening.

  “So everything you and I have shared this past fortnight was false.” The Comtesse caught her breath. “You lied to me,” she said in a voice colder than any Angel had ever heard. “You lied to us all.”

  “Yes,” whispered Angel. She gazed helplessly around the room. There were Kitty and Giles, Rémy, Sebastian, Marianne and the rest of the gang, Señor Martinez, Lord and Lady Langham, Antoine Vidal and the Comtesse. All of them were looking at her as though seeing her for the first time.

  On almost every face she saw hurt or suspicion or hostility. Only in Kitty’s face was there any sign of sympathy.

  Angel turned to Nick. He was still beside her, still holding her hand, his skin warm against hers.

  She stared up at him pleadingly. Surely he’d believe her? Because—although it seemed like eons—only minutes ago he’d told her he loved her and Angel had been certain that he’d meant her and not Lily. They had a connection that went beyond names and families—Nick would never believe she was a liar and a thief.

  Except that was exactly what she was: she’d lied to him from the beginning and she’d stolen his heart.

  At the precise moment that the realization hit her, Nick let go of her hand.

  The sense of loss was so great that Angel almost cried out.

  She bit her lip and forced herself to turn away from him and meet the Comtesse’s gaze. She wanted to look Elena de Tourney in the face and beg her one last time for the chance to explain. But all she saw was a face grown old, a face filled with doubt, regret and a deep, searing pain.