Éléonore mumbled, “Yes, luck.” She tilted her head in confusion. “For Prince George, you say?”

Scarlet nodded, shaking her curls in her exuberance, and leaned forward. “France is a delight. A delight, I tell you.” She checked the tops of her fingernails, holding her hands out in front of her to examine them. “But your fashion, my dear.” She indicated the dress Éléonore wore. “Where are your beautiful gowns? Your glorious head pieces, your bonnets and slippers!” She gestured wildly over Éléonore’s body, demonstrating her disappointment. “I had such dear hopes of starting a new trend when I returned to England, but no.” Her pout enlarged, and she cast her eyes to the floor. Looking back up into Éléonore’s face with the light of a dreadful realization, she asked, “Did you lock up all your lovely finery when you imprisoned dear Marie Antoinette?”

Scarlet sat back in her seat and fanned her face in horror at the thought. Her expression turned contemplative. Then she leaned forward again. “Your dress, for example. I am sure it is not your best. You are in a carriage pursuit, after all, but it highlights your worst features.” She scrutinized Éléonore’s face. “And your hair. Have you no lady’s maid?”

Éléonore seemed to snap out of her surprise-filled daze and said, “I care not for your opinion on my manner of dress—”

“Oh, but you should, my dear, you should. I am, after all, somewhat of an expert. People seek me out for this kind of advice.” Leaning in conspiratorially, Scarlet said, “Your influence will last only as long as your beauty. Surely you understand that.” She eyed her with exaggerated closeness. “And might I say, just between us, you are letting some things slip—sagging a bit, maybe? A tighter corset, perhaps? They have a new design that pulls you in just so.” With her hands encircling her own tiny waist to demonstrate, she watched Éléonore’s face drain of color. “Well, no matter. I am sure you are the cream—a veritable diamond, my dear. How could you not be, Maximilien’s personal assistant, yes?”

Éléonore Duplay clenched her fists, knuckles turning white. “Lady Cavendish, you were seen with a traitor to France only moments ago inside this carriage.”

“A traitor to France? Where? Here?” Scarlet looked around innocently, picking up a blanket to glance underneath. “As you can see, there is no one here but me. And glad I am that you came for a visit too. It has been rather dull.”

“Where is Matteo Durand?”

Scarlet threw her hands up to her mouth. “Matteo Durand? The Matteo Durand? Newly discovered prince legitime of France? Why, Éléonore, he is all the rage in London. All the talk. What lady wouldn’t give anything for just the sight of him. Is he as handsome as they say?” Scarlet began fanning herself exuberantly.