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“Lestrieux... It is not an unfamiliar name, though I have never met him. Damien Lestrade?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“I know that years ago he was a very influential figure,” he says, moving behind the bureau. “He had direct dealings with Duke Durant and other nobles. For what reason?”
“He sent me an invitation.”
“For what occasion?”
“A private performance in his castle.”
“Will you go?”
“I don’t know... I must reflect on it.”
He leans slightly toward me.
“Do you want me to look for further information on him? I can ask my father.”
“No,” I reply immediately, shaking my head slightly. “He is a duke, I will likely have to go regardless.”
He knits his brow slightly, displeased with my response.
“You must not perform what you do not desire, even if it is that woman who asks it of you.”
He has never said it openly, but he has no sympathy for my mother.
I run a hand over my cheek, my skin retains the warmth of the Madeira just consumed.
“And then,” I add, “there is also the Christmas performance at the Durants’...”
“A solo?”
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, fingers intertwining behind my back for an instant.
“No,” I reply, “it will be a three-part performance. Myself, Mademoiselle Duprés, Mr. Lirael... and as support, a background painting by René Saint-Clair.”
Nathaniel lets his gaze fall on the objects on the sofa, then lifts his eyes slightly toward me.
“Only the name of Mademoiselle Duprés is known to me...” he pauses, his eyes fixed on mine, “and yours, obviously.”
“They are all artists of great talent.”
Nathaniel nods barely.
“I do not doubt it...”
His gaze goes beyond the window.
“Is something wrong?”
“I am concerned about Isobel.”
I sit on the other side of the bureau.
“Why?”
“She is quite infatuated with that Vasiliev Ashford.”
